Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Page 4

  “Connor, shut up.” I flip through the paperwork and scrawl my signature next to Randall’s little Post-it flags. It takes me several seconds to muster enough strength to press my hands to the table and push myself up. “It doesn’t matter what happens to Alec. You made sure he’ll never find me.”

  Randall opens his briefcase and removes a second stack of papers. “Which brings me to the next order of business. Name change paperwork. Sign everywhere that’s marked and as soon as I get to the courthouse in the morning, you’ll officially be Quinton Silver, not Quinton Davis.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Connor rests his hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You shouldn’t have to give up your name.”

  “It’s safer,” I whisper. “When I get out of here, I want to go somewhere he’ll never find me. San Francisco. Seattle. Los Angeles. Start over. Help me do that. Please, Connor.”

  My brother wraps an arm around me, careful not to tip me off balance. “Whatever you need, Quinton. I wasn’t there for you after the accident. I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  Chapter Four

  Present Day

  Graham

  A cold breeze stirs the fallen leaves as I run hill repeats on Phinney Ridge in the dark of early morning. Why did I agree to this again?

  Because you finally beat Inara on the climbing wall, and she was pissed.

  The former Army Ranger sniper—and one of the team at Hidden Agenda K&R—challenged me to this torture. I owed her after the celebratory dance I did when I reached the ground.

  Fog wraps around me, tinged with the scent of seawater, and when I turn the corner, the visibility drops to no more than fifty feet. It’s disorienting, and a chunk of uneven sidewalk trips me up.

  I hit the ground, scraping my palms, and my right knee lands in something…oh, fuck. Dog shit. The stench is overwhelming, and suddenly, I’m not in Seattle anymore. I’m trapped in an alley in San Francisco, four guys taking turns beating the crap out of me.

  I can’t move. Can’t breathe. All I can hear are their taunts and slurs. Wrapping my arms around my head, I curl into a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible.

  “Graham?”

  Inara’s voice cuts through my memories, and I jerk up to my hands and knees. “Here.” My voice isn’t steady. Neither are my legs, but I struggle to my feet as she jogs up to me.

  “You okay?” Her nose wrinkles as she stops short. “What the fuck is that God-awful smell?”

  “Some asshole not picking up after his dog. Take my name off the climbing wall leaderboard if you want, but I’m done.” My hands burn, and I yank off my running cap and swipe it over the mess on my knee, then toss the ruined black fleece into the garbage can.

  Inara’s fingers wrap around my forearm, and I can’t stop my whole body from going rigid. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Other than being covered in dog shit.” I haven’t told anyone at Hidden Agenda what happened to me eight years ago. Ryker—our team leader—probably knows. His background checks are so deep, I’m sure he even found out about that time in seventh grade I got detention for kissing another boy. The police report from the attack would be public record. But Inara? West? Ripper? Ry wouldn’t tell them without telling me first.

  She snorts. “Sure. Because I don’t have any experience with men keeping secrets. I swear, you’re as bad as Ry. Just with a better sense of humor.”

  Shaking off her hold, I take a step back. “Fine. You’re right. It’s not the dog shit. But it’s not something I want to talk about either.”

  “Suit yourself.” Inara swipes at her brow and pulls a bottle of water from her running belt. After a swig, she runs a hand through her hair and narrows her eyes at me. “You know we’re family, right?”

  The words sting. So does her tone. “It was a long time ago. I’m solid.”

  “You better be. This happens on mission, you could put us all at risk.”

  “I’ve been with Hidden Agenda almost three years. You don’t trust me by now?” I keep my voice low. This neighborhood is a mix of apartments and condos on top of businesses, and the last thing I need is to wake the neighbors.

  “I trust you with my life, Graham. That’s the point. Family doesn’t keep secrets. Not with what we do out there.” Passing me the bottle, she pulls off her bandana and tosses that to me as well. “Clean yourself up before you get back in your car. Otherwise you’ll be smelling that shit for a week.”

  She gives me a look that could melt a glacier, but there’s warmth in her tone. Concern.

  “Thanks. Give me some time?” As much as I don’t want to admit my shame to anyone, I can’t keep secrets from the team. From my family. And now that Inara knows this particular one can turn me into a shaking ball of fear in the middle of a Seattle sidewalk, she’s right to press me on it.

  Turning on her heel to head back down the hill, she stops, then looks back at me. “When you’re ready, you know we’ll listen. All of us. Any of us. It’s when you keep everything shoved down so deep it can’t escape that you’re in trouble. Because it will. Every time. In the worst way possible.” With one last meaningful glance, she finally takes off. “See you at tomorrow’s workout, ” she calls over her shoulder.

  By the time I make it to my red Smart Car, my hands are actively throbbing. I must have missed a spot cleaning off my leg—even with the water bottle and bandana—because the smell’s so bad, the only way I can make it back to my condo without throwing up is to roll all the windows down. In thirty degree weather.

  An hour later, I pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and crawl into bed. Logically, I know my extra-long shower where I rubbed my knee raw took care of the stench. But the one in my memories? That one’s back, stronger than ever. It was all over me. My hands, my knees, in my ear. Mixed with blood and drying cum. All because a group of men decided I wasn’t fit to call myself a member of the United States Coast Guard because I kissed a guy outside a bar on New Year’s Eve. I didn’t find out until a few months later that the four of them had been eyeing me for a couple of hours after I politely—but very firmly—told one of their female friends I batted for the other team. Seeing that kiss I shared with the bouncer? That set them off all over again, and they followed me to that alley to beat the shit out of me and “teach me a lesson.”

  I can’t get warm, so I curl into a ball and bury my face in my pillow. Most days, I don’t think about the attack anymore. Which makes the times I do pack even more of a punch.

  Where I am now in my life? Everyone accepts me. Hell, Ryker, my boss at Hidden Agenda, a K&R firm he started after he left the Special Forces, didn’t even blink when I told him I was gay.

  Seattle’s a great place for just about any lifestyle, and I’ve dated from time to time. Found a couple of guys where things lasted long enough to get to the fucking stage, and I’m good as long as no one asks me to bottom.

  But when the memories come, there’s not much I can do besides take my anxiety meds and hide away from the world. And wonder if I’ll ever feel something other than broken.

  Chapter Five

  Graham

  Friday nights behind the bar at the Unicorn always leave my ears ringing. But when I’m not training or on mission, this gig is a good diversion. And if there’s a party going on, I can make a solid five hundred in tips for a single night’s work.

  A little slice of normal in my world that’s anything but. No one at the bar knows my history. My damage.

  Plus, no one tries to kill me. Usually. There was that one bar fight last year… My shoulder still aches from time to time—especially when it rains.

  A little after 2:00 a.m., the streets in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle are bustling. Tourists, local revelers, a handful of drunks… No one sleeps along the Pike/Pine corridor, the blocks full of bars, restaurants, and music venues are packed to the gills all weekend long.

  After almost eight hours slinging drinks, all I want is a little peace and quiet, so I du
ck down a side street to avoid the crowds hanging out at Nectar Lounge. Weaving in and out of the throngs of people? I’m too tired for that, and Ry wants me at the warehouse at nine tomorrow. Or…today.

  Two blocks off the main drag, it’s almost quiet, and I pass by a darkened row of townhomes. An empty parking lot across the street is fenced off with construction signs announcing plans for a multi-story condo complex.

  One of the reasons I love Seattle? A five minute walk can bring me from the heart of the city to a neighborhood that’s almost suburbia. Deserted, all the residents either out partying or asleep. No traffic. No incessant bass beat. No sirens—for the moment. It’s so peaceful, the rasp of a lock is louder than I expect. Tensing, I spin to face the center townhome, fists raised, ready to fight.

  “Wait,” a soft, male voice says from the darkness of the doorway. “Please…stop. I need help.”

  I stagger back. Memories I can’t handle—not tonight, maybe not ever—try to push their way to the surface. Another dark space. My own plea for help—one that fell on uncaring ears. “Call 911 if it’s an emergency, dude.”

  “It’s not. To them.” Desperation floods his tone, taking a hammer to the box I keep my emotions in. “There’s a bag. In the yard. I can’t get it.”

  Narrowing my gaze, I scan the little fenced-in area. Flat stones with unkempt grass between them form a haphazard path to the front porch where two short steps are covered by a thick piece of plywood to form a ramp.

  The contents of a green canvas grocery bag spill out onto the stones. A carton of ice cream with the lid smashed, mint chip melting everywhere, a box of cereal, a tube of shaving cream...

  “It’s three feet from your door, man. You expect me to believe you can’t reach it?”

  “No.” A hint of resignation mixes with shame. “But, I can’t.” After a pause, he sighs. “Please. This isn’t a trick or a prank.” My eyes have adjusted so I can make out his shadow in the small crack of the doorway. “I’ll lock up. Four separate locks. You should be able to hear each one. I swear—on my life—you’re not in any danger from me. I won’t hurt you. I couldn’t…even if I wanted to. Just pick up the bag, set it on the porch, and go.”

  The door closes, followed by four distinct thunks.

  Well, fuck. He sounds so sincere—and desperate—that I can’t walk away.

  “We help people. Anyone who can’t help themselves. You understand me? We never leave a man behind.” Ryker’s words play on a loop in my head. The ones he said the day he hired me.

  Opening the gate, I move slowly, scanning the yard for any threats. No trees. No shrubs. Nothing but dry grass and weeds. And inside, a man who needs help.

  Down on one knee, I survey the grocery devastation. It’s worse than I thought. A carton of eggs spilled open, four of them cracked and broken, two whole, but resting in mint chip goo. A pint of milk is warm to the touch, as is the block of cheddar cheese.

  How long was this bag sitting here, anyway? Rescuing the unbroken eggs, I return them to the carton, tucking it in next to the shaving cream. But that move displaces a box of mac and cheese, and underneath?

  The red and white prescription bag screams at me, the label too big not to read. Clonazepam. The same little yellow pills I keep in a plastic container in my back pocket. My panic attacks don’t come often anymore, but when they do, they’re more intense than ever.

  Quickly, I shove the pills under a package of warm steak. It would have been easy to read the guy’s name, but I’ve invaded his privacy enough, and if he’s out of his meds...I’m not going to keep them from him for another second.

  The porch is as unadorned as the yard. Except for a single sign at eye level.

  Leave all packages directly in front of the door, ring the bell, and walk away. Occupant will not answer and cannot sign for anything.

  Setting the bag down, I eye the video-enabled doorbell, then push the button. A chime sounds inside, and I turn, ready to walk away, when I hear an audible click.

  “Thank you,” the pained, soft voice says through the speaker. “I called the store earlier, but they wouldn’t—”

  “Do you need me to replace any of this stuff?” I ask. “You’re down to eight eggs, your meat is probably spoiled, and I’m pretty sure your bread is…shit. I was going to say toast, but that’s taking a bad pun way too far.”

  His laugh isn’t relaxed, but some of his distress eases. “No. I’ll…I’ll get by. The guy who delivers on Saturdays isn’t as much of a dick.”

  “This happens on the regular? Fuck, dude. You need to talk to a manager or something. You shouldn’t have to pay to replace everything.”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to it. Thank you. Really. Uh…?”

  “Graham.” Pausing, hoping to get his name, I stare at the solid wood door, the single, barred window. But there’s only silence, so I shove one hand into my pocket and head down the ramp. I’m almost out of earshot when the locks thunk, one at a time, and the door opens slowly.

  Silhouetted in a faint light, he’s a little taller than I am. Maybe six-foot-two? Short, dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard. “Quinton,” he says, then grunts as he bends down slowly to pick up the bag. “I’m Quinton.”

  There’s a vulnerability to him, despite the broad chest and the well-muscled arms. His jeans are loose around his legs, and he moves carefully, taking two steps back so the glow from the interior light falls across his face.

  He’s drop dead gorgeous. Except for the fear so evident in his eyes.

  “You’re welcome. Quinton. Good night.”

  With a single nod, and maybe a half-smile, he shuts the door, and though I should go home, I turn on my heel and head in the opposite direction. The night manager at the grocery store is going to get an earful.

  Quinton

  As soon as I shuffle back into my kitchen, I paw through the bag for my meds. My anxiety has been on overdrive all day, and my hands are shaking.

  Clementine, the little orange kitten I found half-starved to death on my front porch a month ago, curls around my ankles and squeaks, begging for a treat. I pop open the jar I keep on the counter and drop a small handful for her. The little thing curled up in my lap all afternoon, purring, and I think she’s the only reason I didn’t end up having a full-blown panic attack.

  Over a pint of ice cream.

  One year ago today, my brother saved my life. Rescued me from my ex who had me convinced I’d never walk again. Who was doing everything he could to keep me dependent on him, drugging me with a cocktail of meds that kept my thoughts so muddled, I couldn’t see what he was doing to me.

  Alec hated ice cream. When we started dating, he told me how bad it was for me. Lectured me for an hour about the horrors of dairy milk, of sugar, about how I should stick to popsicles. I wanted to make him happy. So, I gave up my favorite comfort food. For him. After that, it was coffee. Mexican food. Cookies. Beer.

  Then my friends. My ability to walk. And finally, my freedom.

  Today, all I wanted was a pint of mint chip and my damn pills. Instead, I have a mess to clean up. The crackers are destroyed, my bread practically mush after sitting in melted ice cream all afternoon, and everything perishable is spoiled. Almost three quarters of the order needs to go right in the dumpster. Outside. Where each step feels like climbing a mountain and I’m lucky if I don’t hyperventilate until I pass out.

  It takes me an hour to deal with the mess, and once I have the trash bagged up, I spend a good ten minutes watching the back door security camera. I shouldn’t be so paranoid. I haven’t heard a peep from Alec since Connor threatened to beat the shit out of him if he ever came near me again.

  But between the agoraphobia I can’t kick and the pain that plagues my every step, going outside—even though the dumpster is all of five feet away—is scarier than jumping out of a plane. Without a parachute.

  At least it’s flat. And well lit. I flip the three deadbolts, check the camera one more time, and then shuffle into the alley, my heart pou
nding. By the time I’m back inside, I feel like I just ran a marathon.

  My left leg is starting to tingle, a sign I need to lie down, so I head for the motorized lift chair I had installed to carry me up to the second floor. If today were one of my good days, I could manage the stairs on my own. But after spending the past few hours with my entire body tense and shaking, there’s no way I’ll take the risk.

  I lower myself into the chair, and Clementine jumps into my lap. Before I can flip the switch, my doorbell rings.

  Pulling out my phone, I activate the camera.

  It’s Graham…standing on my porch with a grocery bag in his hand. What the…?

  After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “Quinton? Um, you don’t have to answer. But I know what it’s like when all you want is ice cream.” He hangs the bag on the door knob, smiles nervously, and then turns on his heel so precisely before he walks away, I think he must have been in the military.

  Even if I had to crawl back to the door, I’d do it for a pint of mint chip. My left leg is dragging behind me by the time I flip the locks, and Graham is long gone. But the ice cream is still frozen, and he even got the same brand I ordered.

  Who does that?

  No one in my world.

  I shouldn’t risk this. Hell, he’s a complete stranger. For all I know, he could have dropped off a pint of poison. Injected the carton with PCP or nicotine or drain cleaner. But something in his eyes earlier…I think he’s a good guy. Even if I swore after getting away from Alec that I’d never trust my own judgement again.

  Carefully spooning half a pint into a bowl, I smooth out the bag and prepare to stuff it in with all the other bags in the cabinet when the receipt falls out.

  With his name on it.

  Graham Tempelton.

  He doesn’t look like a Tempelton. He needs a tougher name. Grittier. And I should leave it the hell alone. But I’m not sure anyone’s ever been this kind to me for no reason at all, and I wish I would’ve been fast enough to thank him.