Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Read online

  I’m so excited, I email him to share the good news. I doubt he’ll respond anytime soon. His job—whatever it is—often takes him “off the grid” for days. His words, not mine. It’s got to be something with the government, but he’ll never tell me.

  Focusing on anything when I’m this excited is damn near impossible, and as perceptive as Clementine is, I need connection. Someone to share this moment with me.

  As if the universe can hear my thoughts, my phone buzzes with a text from Graham.

  Busy night. Was so late getting back from Ellensburg, I’ll have to unpack all the MREs tomorrow. After running drills for three hours. It’ll be a miracle if I’m still standing for my next shift. Just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you, and I can’t wait to see you on Tuesday.

  He signs the message with a heart emoji. I can’t not reply.

  “Need to celebrate on Tuesday. Zen Oasis, the app I’ve been working on for three years is already live and it’s selling! Alec tried to take that from me too. Kept me from working on it, told me it’d never be successful. But he was wrong, and I need to keep telling myself he was wrong about a lot of things.”

  My phone buzzes with a response in under five minutes.

  “Holy shit, Q. That’s amazing. I just downloaded it. I can’t play around with it at work unless the crowds magically disappear, but you can bet your ass I’ll check it out when I get off.”

  All my excitement evaporates in a heartbeat—replaced by anxiety. Graham’s important to me. More important than I realized until just now. And if he pays attention to everything I put into Zen Oasis, he’ll see how my mind works—and maybe, how truly fucked up I am. Oh, God. What if this was a huge mistake?

  But then he sends me another message. With a photo.

  “Can’t wait to congratulate you properly.”

  I almost choke when I see the picture. Taken from chest height, it shows his Unicorn tank top molded to his sculpted abs and a bulge clearly visible under his tight, black pants.

  “Did you just send me a clothed dick pic?”

  His reply is only six words, but it still sends a fair bit of blood straight to my cock. “Best I could do. For now.”

  I don’t understand why he wants me. Or how the hell he was still single when we met. But with every text, every touch, every moment of understanding he shows me, I think maybe I’ve found one of the good ones. And maybe I’ll be strong enough to eventually tell him everything.

  I’m halfway through a website proposal for a new client the next afternoon when my doorbell rings.

  Huh. The grocery delivery guy is actually on time today. Watching the video feed until he’s back on the sidewalk, I flip the locks and step outside. Fully outside. I don’t even think about it because in one of those bags? Ingredients for my favorite dessert. Double chocolate cake. It’s one of the few things I can cook, and Alec hated chocolate.

  The idea of making it for Graham—for the two of us—distracted me from my overwhelming fear of going outside, and I squint up at the sun. I made it three steps yesterday. Maybe today, I can take four.

  One at a time. I don’t want Clementine to get out, so I shut the door behind me, another leap of faith, and shuffle towards the ramp. I’m not fast. I never will be. Today’s a solid five on the pain scale. But I’m steady. And when my feet are firmly on the ramp, I pull out my phone and take a picture of them.

  My shoes are pristine. Black Converse that have never seen dirt—or concrete—and for the first time, I think maybe I should order some Scotchgard in case I ever make it all the way to the street.

  Texting Graham before I go back inside, I send him the photo.

  “At this rate, it’ll be months before I can meet your friends. But...know that I want to.”

  I don’t expect him to respond right away. He said as much when he texted me “Good Morning” a little after nine. But just knowing that I took this step—and did it on my own—leaves me smiling all the way back into the house and into the kitchen with the groceries.

  Dark chocolate, powdered sugar, butter...I’m practically salivating. I’m not sure how my back will handle standing at the counter long enough to not only bake a cake, but also mix up a batch of frosting, but I’m going to try.

  Distracted, I don’t look at the six-pack until it’s clear of the bag. And then the cardboard carrier slips from my grasp. At least one bottle shatters, and the scent...it makes me sick.

  “No, no, no.” I have to clean it up. Get the stench of the sweet rhubarb and pear cider out of my kitchen. Oh, God. It’s on my shoes. The black Converse aren’t pristine any more, and they never will be again.

  Clementine mrrps as she pads towards the kitchen, and I shout, “Get back! Stay out of here!”

  Yelling at my sweet, innocent kitten only makes me feel worse, and she bolts up the stairs. She’s never done a single thing wrong. Doesn’t even scratch the couch. But...the cider. It was Alec’s favorite. His only vice. At least according to him. Well, that and popsicles. Raspberry popsicles. I paw through the bags, and fuck. There they are.

  Alec did this. Despite the overwhelming smell and the nausea crawling up my throat, I have to know how these got in the bag. My hand shakes as I dial the store’s number, and I hang up and try three more times before I can navigate their fucking multiple choice menu to connect with their home delivery department.

  “Can I help you?” a pleasant female voice asks.

  “I...uh. The delivery for Silver Star Technologies? There’s s-something wr-wrong with it. Two things I didn’t order.” My voice cracks, and I’m shaking, leaning against the counter, staring down at the bottles of cider littering the floor.

  “Can I have the order number?” All business now, the woman taps on a keyboard as I read her the ten-digit code. “Okay, there it is. Looks like two items: a six-pack of cider and a box of raspberry popsicles were added twenty minutes ago. The request came by email from a ‘Quinton Silver.’”

  Graham

  The music pumping through the speakers mounted high on the walls at Hidden Agenda helps keep me focused. Restocking the MREs is everyone’s least favorite task, and this month, I drew the short straw. Twice. That drive to Ellensburg is boring as fuck.

  Every time I stop moving, I see Q’s face as he stood on his front porch yesterday morning. Equal parts triumph and terror. The third box done, I pull out my phone.

  “I hope you’re having a better day than I am. Are we still on for tomorrow? I could cook you dinner?”

  The little dots at the bottom of the screen dance for so long, I worry he’s about to shut down on me, so I rush to add, “At your place.”

  He stops typing for a few seconds, and I hold my breath. If I fucked up somehow, I’ll kick myself into next week.

  “Okay.”

  That’s it? One word? Now I know something’s off. West and Inara are working out, and Ry’s with Wren, who’s having so much morning sickness she needed IV fluids the previous night. Raelynn should be here in an hour, but Inara’s handling her training today—getting her up to speed on Royce’s GPS tracking app.

  As soon as I’m outside and it’s quiet, I call Q. It takes him four rings to answer, and when he does, his voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I ask. “If tomorrow’s too soon for you, I can wait. Whatever you need.”

  He’s quiet for several seconds. “It’s not you.”

  “Then what?” I wish I could see his face, but I have a feeling he’d say no to FaceTime.

  “Bad anxiety day. Really, Graham, I’m fine. Just a mix-up with the groceries again. I’m handling it. I’ll...I’ll text you later, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll be working, but I’ll have my phone on me. If you need anything—”

  He’s gone before I finish the sentence, and fuck. This is more than a bad anxiety day. This is serious PTSD shit. I know the signs. I’ve lived them.

  The only problem? We’re so new, I don’t know how much I can—o
r should—push. Too much, and I’ll overstep. He’ll shut down on me. Possibly for good. Too little, and he suffers alone.

  Back inside, West and Inara are sparring, and I head into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I should see if Ripper’s around. And if he’ll talk to me. There are days he still goes dark—even on Ry. But he’s so much better than he used to be. Even jokes around once in a while. And he might have more experience than anyone else with Q’s brand of trauma. As well as mine.

  In the boxing ring, West flips Inara onto her back and jabs his fist within half an inch of her windpipe. “You’re distracted,” he says. “Everything okay?”

  “Royce had three seizures last night,” she says as West offers her a hand to help her up. “He doesn’t want to up his meds.”

  “He’s not driving, right?”

  Inara snorts. “Hell, no. That’s what Lyft is for. It’s just hard watching him struggle to form words when I know switching up his meds would help.”

  The SEAL tosses her a towel and rubs a second over the back of his neck. “You work with the most stubborn man on the entire planet. And you’re surprised when Royce acts like a typical guy?”

  “No. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.” Inara ducks out of the ring. “He’s been working so hard with Cam and Wren on the new surveillance equipment, he hasn’t taken a night off in weeks.”

  “They’re almost done, aren’t they?” I ask. Only one box left to unpack. The fancy beef stew variety with the brownies West always saves for Cam.

  “Thank God,” West says. “After this overnight training, Cam and I are taking a few days up in Snoqualmie. You and Royce should get away.” He glances over at me. “You too. Take your guy somewhere.”

  The look on my face must reveal a hell of a lot more than I think it should, because West narrows his eyes. “Trouble in paradise already?”

  “No.” I set the mug down and tug on a few short strands of hair. “He doesn’t leave his house.”

  “At all?” West joins me in the kitchen and cracks open a bottle of water. “Agoraphobia?”

  “Something like that. He had a crazy ex who did a number on him. Tried to control everything he did, cut him off from his friends—Q said the guy didn’t feel emotions. That everything—the gaslighting, the abuse, and whatever he’s not telling me about yet—was all a game to this asshole.”

  “Antisocial Personality Disorder? Or just a complete sociopath?” When I nod, West frowns, and his eyes unfocus for a breath. “I knew a guy—Anton something or other. He washed out of BUD/S because he literally gave zero fucks about any of us. SEALs are a team. You don’t get your trident by leaving a man behind. That asshole almost killed three of us in training and never felt an ounce of remorse. He couldn’t. If your guy—Q?”

  “Quinton.”

  “If his ex is like Anton, Quinton’s probably lucky he got out with a shred of sanity.”

  Fuck. I need to do a hell of a lot of reading. Draining the rest of my coffee, I rinse out the mug and brace my hands on the sink. “I just called him, and he’s off. Whatever triggered him was bad. And we’re so new, I’m not sure if I should beg off work and go check on him or let him deal with it on his own.”

  “What does your gut say?” West asks.

  “It says I need to finish stocking that last case of MREs. Because otherwise, I’m going directly to his place to make him talk to me, and I think that would just make things worse. I’ll text him before I clock in at the Unicorn and decide then.”

  West claps a hand on my shoulder and jerks his head towards the door. “Get out of here. Go see him or at least take an hour or two and get your head on straight. I’ll finish the MREs. But every brownie you get on our training mission? You save for Cam.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Graham

  Get my head on straight? West’s intentions were spot on, but there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to sort out all these emotions battling for dominance in the three hours before I’m due at the bar.

  So I park myself on my couch with my laptop.

  What makes a person a sociopath?

  Scrolling through dozens of search results, I read everything that seems reputable. Then I move on to the other term Q and West used.

  What is Antisocial Personality Disorder?

  “People with antisocial personality disorder play mind games to control the people around them, often feeling no remorse at all for their actions. To many, they can appear charismatic and charming, which makes it easier for them to draw their victims into their trap.”

  Q survived someone like this? And he’s healed enough to trust me? That alone is a fucking miracle.

  My watch alarm reminds me I have to get ready for my shift, but I bookmark half a dozen links to read on my downtime—assuming it’s a quiet night. Mondays usually are, though.

  I don’t have any more clarity on how to proceed with Q, but as I pull on a light jacket and head down the stairs, I know one thing for certain. His trust is a gift, and I need to make sure he knows how much I cherish it—and him.

  And that means telling him what happened to me eight years ago.

  Quinton

  Even after mopping the floors, washing my clothes and shoes, and lighting a candle, the disgusting stench of cider lingers in my kitchen.

  I had to ask for the grocery store manager to get them to forward me the email that came in adding the cider and popsicles to my order, and after a little electronic detective work, I was able to confirm that the message was sent from an IP address in Texas, not Seattle.

  It’s possible Alec learned how to spoof his location, but while he’s incredibly smart and cunning, he wouldn’t hide if he were in town. And if he’d left that hotel room, my brother would have called.

  It’s well after midnight, but I can’t sleep. My back aches, my left leg is numb, and I couldn’t keep down the cereal I had for dinner. So I’m lying in my massage chair with the heat turned up to maximum and Clementine curled on my lap, purring.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you, sweetie,” I whisper. Pulling out my phone, I stare at the last text I sent Graham a little before ten.

  “I’m sorry. I still want to see you tomorrow. Maybe dinner and a movie in bed?”

  He hasn’t responded.

  I should go upstairs. Lie down, even if I’m just staring at the ceiling all night long. Hell, I should have done that hours ago. Instead, I’ve stalked Alec’s social media pages off and on, told my latest client that I needed another day for his proposal, and checked my security system a hundred times.

  Why would he come after me now? It has to be the app. I renamed it after I escaped him, but he saw most of the designs when we were together, and it wouldn’t be hard for him to set up a Google alert for new anti-anxiety apps.

  Is this all about money? He’s probably one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, but he can’t hold down a job for long. After a few months, those around him figure out he’s an emotional black hole, and he gets himself fired.

  He needs someone to bankroll his life of takeout, online shopping, and gaming. My therapist told me that sociopaths, narcissists, and those with true antisocial personality disorder always have an eye on their next victim in case their current victim wises up to their lies.

  During the months we spent together, he’d often tell me about other people in his life who’d wronged him. How he’d been betrayed time and time again.

  “My last serious relationship ended when I forgot to send flowers for his birthday,” he tells me on one of our first dates. “My dad had just died, and I flew to Utah for the funeral. James couldn’t get the time off of work, so I went alone. But when I got back, he screamed at me for hours. How could I forget his special day? Why didn’t I care about him?” Alec shakes his head, tears shining in his eyes. “He didn’t care that I was hurting too.”

  Those stories—and he had a hundred of them—were designed to trap me. He prayed on my empathy, my anxiety, my desperate need to find my place in this
world, twisting and turning all of my fears against me.

  I know he moved in with another guy not long after I left the rehab center, but his social media went suspiciously quiet. Even now, all I can see from an anonymous web browser are random memes and the occasional picture of downtown Dallas.

  My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. Graham.

  “I’m two blocks away with a pint of mint chip and an order of deep fried Oreos from the bar. If you’re still up, can I see you?”

  I shouldn’t reply. There’s no way I’m good company. But I shut him out so completely after the grocery delivery, and I need to make that right.

  Which is why five minutes later, he’s standing in front of me, minus his usual confidence. And holding a bag that’s easily half grease stains.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Not really.” If I want something real with Graham, I can’t keep hiding from him. It might destroy me to tell him everything, but maybe tonight it’ll be enough for me to let him know I want to. “I was a jerk earlier. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I understand what it’s like when the anxiety hits you so hard you can’t even breathe. I won’t judge you for that.”

  “Everything about me is broken! I hate it when people say they understand what I’m going through, because they don’t!” Even as I say the words, I know I’m being more of an ass than I was this afternoon, but I can’t stop myself.

  Graham’s lips flatten, his shoulders curving inward slightly. “I didn’t leave the Coast Guard because I wanted to,” he says, his voice low, with an edge that warns me this isn’t a good story. “On New Year’s, four guys jumped me outside a nightclub. What they did…” He swallows hard and stares down at his black boots. “There was a police report, and once that got out? Everyone I served with knew I was gay. There were complaints before I even got out of the hospital. A medical discharge was the best option. I spent months reliving that night every time I closed my eyes. The nightmares still come for me when I get low.”