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

  How did I get on their mailing list with this address? All of Quinton Silver’s mail goes to a PO Box in Dallas. One my brother has checked every few weeks. If there’s anything important, he packages it up and sends it to me here, but he always uses my company’s name. Never mine.

  I wish I could call Connor. Or...anyone. But my brother never answers his phone. He claims all I have to do is text him and he’ll get back to me the moment he’s free, but I don’t want to bother him for something so…minor.

  So I send him an email, then call Rodeo Vibe Apparel and ask them to remove me from their mailing list immediately.

  After that, I give up on work for the day, stretch out in my massage chair with Clementine curled up next to me, and pop in my earbuds. My therapist keeps suggesting meditation, and though I feel like a failure at it, I try at least once a week.

  As the peaceful music surrounds me and the heat starts to loosen my tight muscles, I will myself to relax.

  You’re safe. You have a kick-ass security system with cameras everywhere, and Alec’s two thousand miles away.

  I wish I believed my own self-talk. Because I don’t know how else Rodeo Vibe would have gotten my address. But why now? And more importantly...what is my psychopathic ex going to do next?

  An hour later, I’m only slightly calmer, but at least my pain level is back to normal, so I spend the rest of the work day perfecting Zen Oasis. Fixing the last remaining bugs requires me to actually play the game, and that alone helps tamp down my anxiety.

  Until the doorbell rings a little after six. Is the Universe just fucking with me? Or does she just have a sick sense of humor?

  Pulling out my phone, I check the video feed, and my entire body flushes with heat.

  Graham. Standing on my porch with a paper bag in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other. I’m mesmerized when he takes a lick, and my pants get a little tighter. No. A lot tighter. I shouldn’t answer. He’s a distraction. And if Alec is after me again, anything that stops me from focusing on my own safety is a huge risk.

  But when he stares directly at the camera and smiles, any hope of ignoring him vanishes. So I tap the intercom button.

  “What—” my voice isn’t doing me any favors, so I clear my throat and try again. “What are you doing here?”

  He takes another lick from the cone and shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. But there’s this place up the street, Sue’s Scoops? Most days, there’s a line out the door and around the corner. But they have an app, and you can order ahead.” He lifts the cone slightly. “Thin Mint Chip. It’s basically crushed up Girl Scout cookies with dark chocolate chips. I brought you some.”

  By this time, I’m at the front door, and my heart’s pounding. Too fast and too hard. I don’t do this. Don’t talk to people face to face. Don’t willingly invite anyone inside.

  Resting my forehead against the wood, I pause, eyes on the screen in my hand.

  It’s just ice cream.

  After you told him to run away.

  He came back. With ice cream.

  “Quinton?” Uncertainty pinches Graham’s brows, creating this sexy little furrow. “There are two pints in here. I’ll leave them on the porch.”

  Do something!

  My inner voice, the one that warned me every fucking day to get away from Alec? It isn’t telling me to run and hide now. It’s screaming at me to do the exact opposite. Because this guy seems nice. And I could use...nice. Even if it’s just for five minutes.

  Graham sets the bag down, and I punch the button for the intercom. “Wait.”

  My hands shake as I flip the locks, and I take a couple of deep breaths so he won’t see how panicked I truly am.

  Just keep it together for a few minutes. Long enough to thank him. And to apologize for being suck a dick over email. Then you can go back to being...pathetic.

  Words fail me with him so close. He’s bigger than I thought. Wearing a black t-shirt stretched across a broad chest, ink peeking out from the sleeve to wind down his right arm. From what I can see, he’s completely ripped. Like almost body-builder ripped.

  Dude must get killer tips at the bar.

  And then he takes another lick from that fucking ice cream cone. “Sorry,” he says with a sheepish grin, and his cheeks flush. “Should have eaten faster.”

  “It’s...you’re...I mean...shit.” I’m leaning against the door frame like it’s the only thing keeping me upright—and it probably is.

  “Want a bite?” He’s still grinning as he offers me the cone. Whatever my face does in response must be horrible because Graham’s smile falters. “More for me, then. These are for you.” He offers me the bag, but I almost fall over taking a step forward.

  And then his hand cups my elbow, his fingers warm and strong. “Whoa. You okay?”

  “Fine. This is my normal.” I should pull away, but fuck. I haven’t been touched—outside of my PT and doctors—in over a year, and this guy even smells good. Like bay rum. But his gaze is full of questions, and I don’t have any idea how much I can—or should—tell him. “Bad fall a little over a year ago. Couldn’t walk for more than three months.”

  “Fuck, dude. That’s why the groceries...?”

  Yeah, let’s go with that. Admitting to agoraphobia isn’t exactly sexy.

  “One of the reasons.”

  Pull away, Q. Before you do something you regret. Like invite him in.

  I can’t seem to move from the spot or do anything to dislodge his hand from my arm, and if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want to. Fuck it.

  “Do you, uh...want to come in? I should put the ice cream in the freezer.”

  Say no. Please say no.

  Having him in my space is dangerous. But if I make him stand out on the porch any longer, he’s going to keep licking that cone, and my heart is going to keep racing and...

  “If it’s okay. Or point me towards your kitchen and I can take care of the ice cream.”

  “I’m not an invalid.” The words escape sharper than I intend, and Graham drops his hand. Shit. I cringe and blow out a breath. “Sorry. Reflex. The kitchen’s straight back.”

  One advantage to letting him in? I get to watch his ass as he strides down the hall. As soon as he disappears, I shut the door and limp over to the couch.

  Graham calls out, “Want a bowl?”

  “Pretty sure you have at least two bites left in that cone. Or was that a limited-time offer?”

  What the hell am I doing? Flirting?

  His laugh carries, and dammit. I want to hear it again. “Fair enough.”

  I track every one of his steps back to the couch, and he stops in front of me, the cone held at the perfect angle for me to take a bite. This has to be one of the hottest things a guy’s ever done, and as I taste the soft mint, I’m so turned on, it’s actively painful.

  “You can finish it, if you want.” His voice is huskier now, deeper, and he’s still standing there, but now there’s a very distinctive bulge under his board.

  Shit. I can’t keep leading the guy on when there’s no way I can legitimately start anything with him. “No. I’m good, thanks.” Sitting back, I straighten my shoulders and try to regain a measure of composure while he polishes off the last two bites.

  And then Clementine jumps into my lap, her tiny paws landing right on my not-so-limp dick. Hissing out a breath, I try not to let Graham see just how much pain I’m in—or why.

  “Who’s this?” he asks, crouching down to give the kitten a scritch behind her ears. The little traitor starts to purr, but all I can see is how close his hand is to my junk. How strong his fingers are. How gentle he’s being with my kitten.

  “Clementine. She’s a little needy.”

  “She’s certainly little.” He stares from me to the cat and back again. “And cute.”

  I don’t have a response. Not an appropriate one anyway. All the things running through my head? Variations of “you should go” and “I can’t do this” and “she’s cute, but you’re br
eathtaking.”

  Fuck. I want him to go almost as much as I want him to stay, and from the look on his face, he’s just as confused as I am.

  After another minute, he stands and shoves his hands into his pockets with a frown. “Well, I guess that’s it, then,” he says. “Have a good night, Quinton. I’ll see you around. Maybe.” He turns, and by this point, I don’t know which end is up.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, grunting as I stand so we’re mostly eye to eye. I have a couple of inches on him, though where I’m wiry and thin, he’s the exact opposite. Solid. Strong. Safe.

  He shakes his head, then runs a hand through his short, dark brown hair. “You don’t owe me an apology. Or…anything. I ran by the ice cream shop earlier and I couldn’t stop thinking about your email messages. I know what it’s like to have your friends disappear on you. And I guess I wanted to tell you that.”

  Something flickers in his blue eyes. Darkness, pain, regret? I don’t know him well enough to be sure. I want to, though.

  “It was a dick move searching you out from your receipt. If someone had done that to me, I’d have freaked the fuck out. I didn’t apologize well enough for it yesterday, and I should have.”

  “Why’d you do it?” Graham holds my gaze, and the intensity burning in his eyes unnerves me. And makes me want more. I don’t think there’s a dishonest bone in his body. He carries himself with pride. Honor, even. Shoulders back, legs slightly spread, hands still in his pockets.

  “I don’t know.” His lips press together, and I rush to continue. “What I said about friends—and people in general—that’s my life. Has been for a while now. And, what you did? Helping me? Coming back? It made me realize how fucked up that is.”

  “So what do you want? Because the vibe you’re giving off is more than just ‘let’s be friends.’”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The finality of the words is like a physical weight punching me in the gut, and I think Graham senses it too. “Wanting? Anything? That’s a risk I can’t take.”

  Graham’s so close I feel the warmth radiating from his chest. “Risks are what make life worth living.” Strong fingers cup the back of my head, his other hand molds to my hip, and then those firm lips are kissing me. Gently. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t try to take it deeper.

  A moan vibrates in my chest, and I wrap my arms around him. I can tell myself it’s because I don’t want to fall, but that’s a lie. He’s strong and solid and steady, but there’s pain deep inside him too. Maybe he’s as broken as I am.

  If so, kissing him is a terrible idea. But do I stop? Hell, no.

  Graham

  Warning bells go off in my head, louder every second we stay locked together. But the noise Quinton makes, desperate and raw, and the solid pressure against my hip war with the fear I saw in his eyes the moment before I touched him.

  I don’t know a damn thing about his injuries, and if I let this go any further, I could hurt him, so I ease back just enough to meet his gaze.

  And there’s that look again. The one that says he wants to run. “I shouldn’t have done that,” I manage.

  “Why not?” His arms fall from my waist, and he shuffles back a step or two, enough so he can brace a hand on the couch where the kitten is staring up at him, her tiny paws kneading the cushions like she’s desperate to make him feel better.

  “Because you’re terrified right now. I’m good at reading people, Quinton. And even if I weren’t? Clementine certainly is. And I won’t kiss a guy who’s scared of me. At least not a second time.”

  He flinches like I just slapped him, and fuck. If I didn’t feel guilty enough already…

  “I’m not scared of you,” he says quietly. “I’m scared of everything else. I don’t talk to people. I never invite anyone inside. But for some reason not only did I do both with you, I kissed you back.” He shakes his head like he can’t figure me—or himself—out.

  Honesty, at least. I know when people lie to me. Got pretty damn good at knowing after Ry, West, and Inara started teaching me the signs. Eye movements. Fidgeting. Slight changes in speech patterns. In tone of voice. In a person’s sweat. Their respiration rate.

  “So where do we go from here?” I can’t just walk away. Not until I get some clarity. Or Quinton asks me to go.

  “Well, I think we can probably skip the whole ‘So, you’re gay?’ discussion.”

  I laugh, but it's a nervous laugh. One that does nothing to actually break the tension between us. “Good point. Though you could be bi. Not that it matters to me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you’re still scared.” I reach for him, and proving my point, he stiffens the instant my fingers brush his cheek. “If you don’t even want me to touch you, this isn’t going to work.”

  He lowers his gaze, and mine follows, landing on the rather obvious bulge in his loose pants. “Didn’t think you were blind.”

  This time, I can’t manage to do anything but ball my hands into fists and shove them into my pockets. “Fucking and touching are two different things. And while I’ve done the former more than once the past few years, that’s not why I came here today. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we met. Not because I want a casual fuck, but because for some reason, you’re the first person in a really long time I want to touch. To know. I’ll take things as slow as you want, but you’ve got to give me something, Quinton. Talk to me.”

  He scrubs his hands over his face, and it’s so obvious he’s been hurt. Badly. By someone he trusted. If I could, I’d find the asshole and…well, probably do something I’d regret later.

  “Slow.” The word is barely audible, strained, and the plea in his voice? I’m not sure I can resist it. “I can try…slow.”

  He meets my gaze, and all those emotions I saw a moment ago are still there, but behind them, I think I see a glimmer of hope.

  “I have to be at work in two hours. Shift at the Unicorn tonight. Let me give you my phone number, okay? Texting is slow. We can start there. Maybe work our way up to coffee.”

  He nods and passes me his phone. Once I add my number, I press the device back into his palm and let my hand linger on his for a long moment. “Text me so I have your number too?”

  When he sends me an ice cream cone emoji, I chuckle and save the number. “You signed your email Q. Do you prefer that to Quinton? Or Quint?”

  All of a sudden, he shuts down. Like a switch. Like someone slammed a lid, trapping all his emotions, everything that makes him a person, deep inside.

  “Not Quint,” he whispers. “Anything but Quint. Fuck. This…was a mistake. You should go. I’m a bad bet. Always have been, always will be. I'm sorry, Graham.”

  Quinton scoops up the kitten, holding her to his chest, and limps awkwardly to the door. He fumbles for the locks, only to realize they were all open, then mutters under his breath, “How could I have been so stupid?”

  “Stupid? Q, Quinton, tell me what’s wrong.” I don’t raise my voice. He’s scared enough as it is.

  “I can’t. Please. Go.”

  Every protective instinct in me rears to life at the pain in his voice, but if I say anything, do anything but leave, I’ll lose him forever. Hell, from the look in his eyes, I already have.

  He shuts the door so quickly, it almost hits me in the ass, and I know I should walk away and never look back. But I can’t.

  “Q?” I press my palm to the door, hoping he can still hear me. “You know how to find me. Whatever I did wrong...fuck.” There’s nothing I can say to chase the abject terror from his eyes. “Just know I’m sorry.”

  My heart aches as I walk away from the closest thing to a romantic connection I’ve had with another man in years. I’m almost two blocks away when my eyes start to burn and a lump forms in my throat.

  It’s better this way. Ry and Dax want to expand Hidden Agenda, and that means a larger team. I don’t need any more complications in my life. Especially one who’s too scared to talk to me.

&n
bsp; Then why, with every step I take, is my inner voice telling me I’m full of shit?

  Chapter Nine

  Quinton

  “You know how to find me.”

  Sharp pain zings up my left leg, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Dammit, Manny.”

  “Scale of one to ten? How bad is it today?” my physical therapist asks. Despite the concern in his voice, he doesn’t stop digging his knuckles into my hamstring. The man’s a sadist. Of course, that’s what I pay him for.

  “Seven,” I grunt. “It’s been a good couple of days. Are you trying to ruin my streak?”

  “I’m trying to maintain it, Mr. Silver.” Pressing even harder, he waits until I yelp, then eases off a bit. “You know the only way to keep making progress is through hard work.”

  “Sadist.”

  “I prefer the term ‘dedicated.’”

  Shit. I said that out loud? I’m off my game. Unsurprising as I’ve been thinking about Graham nonstop for three days. I tried to text him. A dozen times or more. But I deleted every single one.

  Despite replaying that kiss on a loop. In the shower. While jerking off.

  “Sorry.” I turn my head to catch his eye. “I know you’re just doing your job.”

  “A job you pay me handsomely for.” His dark hair falls over his forehead, and he studies me. “So what’s got you so wound up?”

  “Work.”

  “Yeah, right.” He grabs a towel and wipes his hands. “You’re done, kid. No more torture for today. Bonus, you get a break for the next two weeks. I’m taking a seminar on advanced kinesiology out in Atlanta, so I’ll miss our next session. Don’t suppose you’d let me send Carl?”

  Panic crawls up my spine, and I roll over on his portable massage table, then struggle to sit up. “No. Only you.” The idea of anyone else in my safe space terrifies me, even though I’ve known Manny for months now. “I can’t—”