Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Page 9

  Resetting the system, I force a deep breath. It was just a false alarm. A glitch.

  And then it goes off again. I’ve been watching the video the whole time. Nothing’s moved outside. It’s not even windy. Maybe the batteries need to be replaced? I just changed them a month ago, but that’s the only explanation that doesn’t leave me panicked.

  This is the best system money can buy. Emerald City Security has contracts all over the country, and Connor’s used them for his job more than once—not that he’ll tell me exactly how or why. But I vetted them thoroughly.

  It has to be the batteries. I hate to get on the step stool and try to balance when I’m so shaky the world feels like it’s vibrating, but I can do this.

  Ten minutes later, batteries in my pocket, I check the cameras one last time. Courage is hard to come by—especially after reading Alec’s message—but what choice do I have?

  The alley’s deserted, only a low hum of crowd noise from the Pike/Pine corridor a few blocks away. It’s not much after 8:00 p.m., and the real parties won’t get started until close to midnight.

  The security door sensor is up high—on the top inside corner of the metal monstrosity, and I brace myself on the wall as I take one step, then another onto the step stool.

  The doctors warned me that reaching over my head and arching my spine would be difficult for the rest of my life, but so far, I think I’m okay. Until I pull off the thin, plastic cover that hides the sensor battery. An electric shock zings down my arm, and a brackish dust burns my eyes. The first cough makes my equilibrium go to shit, and I miss the first step, landing hard on my weaker left leg.

  The concrete rushes up to meet my ass, and my back spasms hard enough to draw a strained cry from my throat. I’m reduced to crawling back inside, and as soon as I slam the door and flip the only lock I can reach from the ground, I give up any semblance of pride and drop my head into my hands.

  I’m a helpless, bumbling, invalid. And now, I’m so terrified, I don’t know if I can get up, let alone go back out there to try again.

  It’s just a battery. What man can’t change a damn battery? The alarm goes off for a third time, setting my nerves on edge. I don’t know anyone in Seattle besides Manny and my housekeeper. Manny’s in Atlanta, and I can’t call my housekeeper this late.

  “You know how to find me.”

  Graham’s voice tears through my memories, and fuck. I’ve ached for a reason to text him all week, but this? How helpless, weak, and pathetic will he think I am? It doesn’t matter. Because he’s the only option I have left.

  I fucked up with him on an epic scale, and there’s no way I can fix it in a text. So I settle for something simple.

  I need help. Can you come over? It won’t take long. Ten minutes.

  For all I know, he’s working tonight and won’t get off until the bars close. Or he’s already asleep. But with the alarm blaring every five or six minutes, I only have two choices.

  Turn the whole system off and watch the cameras all fucking night or leave it on, and enter my security code every time it goes off.

  After I disable the sensors, I drag myself to the living room and lie down on the couch, phone in hand. If Graham does show up, hopefully I’ll be able to make it to the front door.

  I’d kill for a cup of coffee, but every time I move, my back protests, so I try to relax and stare at the night vision images. Nothing moves for ten minutes until one of the neighborhood cats ambles by, and then it’s all quiet again.

  Time ticks by in endless minutes that stretch out forever. Fifteen. Twenty. Graham’s not coming. He’s not even going to text me back. Clementine has settled at my feet, and she’s kneading like her life depends on it.

  Sitting up takes me a full five minutes, but I only locked one of the deadbolts on the back door. Even with the bars on the first floor windows, the security doors, and the cameras, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Desperately and completely alone.

  If I start some coffee, maybe I can give the batteries another go.

  The doorbell rings before I can steel myself for the pain of standing, and I drop my phone. Then, forgetting just how fucked up I am, I try to reach for it and almost fall off the couch.

  But at least I snag the hunk of glass and metal so I can check the camera.

  He came. The sight of Graham, tense, shoulders hiked up, hands balled into fists, makes my breath catch in my throat, even as his name flies to my lips.

  “Q? I’m here. Let me in.”

  Even his voice is strained. Determination and raw need override my shaking muscles until I can flip all four locks and open the door.

  His hand on my arm is like a lifeline, warm and gentle, yet so strong, I know he’d never let me fall. “What is it?”

  I should tell him. But the only words I can force out?

  “You came.”

  His brows draw together. “Of course I came. I’m not a complete asshole. I was working. Had to get the manager to cover the rest of my shift. I should have texted you back, but as soon as I found him, I handed him my tip jar and...ran.”

  He ran. I want to cry. Or throw my arms around him and tell him how long it’s been since anyone...cared. But that part of me died back in Dallas, and I can’t do anything but stare at this gorgeous, kind man who should have blocked me from ever contacting him again.

  “Q? Talk to me.”

  Words fail me, but I collapse against him, my arms winding around his waist, and he holds me. Just…holds me.

  “Whatever it is…we can fix it. I’ll fix it. If you let me.” His fingers thread through my hair, and for a moment, I feel safe. Protected. Not afraid. And I wish I could stay in his arms forever.

  Graham

  Q’s shaking, and I don’t understand why.

  I need help.

  In the twenty-three minutes between seeing his message and knocking on his door, I went through a hundred worst-case scenarios. He’d hurt himself somehow. Or he’d been attacked. A break-in. A fall. Tripping over his cat.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” I say as I loosen my hold so I can meet his gaze.

  He winces, pain etching deep lines at the corners of his mouth. “My alarm system…” Defeat mars his tone, and it makes my heart hurt. “The sensor on the back door…something’s wrong with it. I tried to replace the battery, but…” He stares down at his feet. “I fell, and I can’t…I can’t fix it by myself.”

  “That’s the problem? That’s it?” From his flinch, I’ve said exactly the wrong thing. “Fuck. Q, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  The distance between us is even greater now than it was an hour ago, and he tries to shake me off, but he’s so obviously in pain, I stay close as he shuffles into the kitchen. The position lets me study his uneven gait. And appreciate his ass. Q’s left leg is weaker than his right, and his foot drags a bit.

  Digging into his pocket, he comes up with a handful of batteries, then nods towards the counter where a small sensor sits next to a folded set of instructions. “If the batteries don’t fix the problem, that’s a brand new sensor. The wires are color coded.”

  His fingers brush mine, but before I can even try to hold on, he jerks his hand away, his shoulders hunched.

  Fuck. All I want to do is be close to him. To tell him it’ll all be okay. But he’s so worked up, he’s shaking. “Do you have a stool?”

  “I…left it outside. When I touched the old one, it shocked me. That’s when I…when I fell.” Staring down at his phone in his hands, he fiddles with the screen. “I can reboot the system once the new sensor’s in place.”

  From the brief glance I caught, I think his system is the same one Cam designed for business-grade personal security. But the sensor he gave me is definitely not part of her system. A former army bomb disposal specialist and West’s wife, she’s a computer genius, but unlike Wren, who does most of her work on the dark web, Cam’s job is completely above board and out in the open.

  Q’s about to come out of his skin, so I save the quest
ions for later. “I’ll take care of it. Sit down. Please. Do you need help?”

  “No.” His voice is no more than a whisper, and he limps back into the living room and sinks into his computer chair.

  The step stool is right next to the door, and once I climb up, I can see the frayed wires sticking out of the back of the tiny sensor. They’re covered by a fine layer of dust, and I frown.

  This is why I carry a multi-tool everywhere I go. The pilers are shielded, and when I pull the sensor off the door and it lands in my palm, I hiss out a sharp breath. It’s hot to the touch. Something is definitely wrong with it.

  I duck back into the house for the replacement. “I don’t trust this old sensor. Give me another minute or two.” In the bright kitchen lights, I pause for a second to examine the wires. One is frayed, the yellow insulation almost melted away. Could be insect damage or an electrical fault, but working for Hidden Agenda has taught me to be suspicious of everything.

  Installing the replacement only takes two minutes, and I make sure all three deadbolts are locked before I head into the living room and crouch next to Q’s chair. “Try rebooting. That sensor was definitely worn out. Your batteries were practically smoking.”

  His muscles tense even more. “Smoking? That’s not right. It’s not even a year old…”

  “Probably just some bug eating away at the insulation.” I try to keep my voice light, because he’s about five seconds away from losing his shit. His brown eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his chest stutters as he tries to click the button to reboot the system.

  Draping my fingers over his, I guide the mouse where it needs to be. “Deep breath, Q. You’re okay.”

  “N-no. I mean… Yes. I’m fine. Just need to lie down. Assuming this works.”

  “I won’t leave until everything’s fixed. I promise. I’m good at this shit. You’re using a modified Emerald City Security system, right?” Now that I’m staring at the admin screen, I don’t have to ask, but I also know he’s spooked, big time, and I’m not ready to explain what I really do for a living.

  He turns, his brow furrowed and his voice equal parts desperate and hopeful. “You know about this stuff? How?”

  “The owner’s a friend.” It’s close enough to the truth. Cam’s family, through West, and we’ve worked together enough to call each other friends, despite her discomfort with people in general. If she could hide behind her computer all day, every day, I think she would.

  “Oh.” Q’s cheeks and the back of his neck take on a reddish tinge, and he watches the screen. The system comes back online without any faults, and it’s like all the tension melts from his body at once. “I…” He shakes his head and then scrubs his hands over his face. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

  “Technically, you didn’t call me.” It’s supposed to be a joke, a way to ease the mood and maybe get him to loosen up. But it has the opposite effect, and he forces his back straight, pushing the chair away from the desk—and away from me.

  “Fine. I don’t have anyone to call. Happy now?” Lurching to his feet, he steadies himself with one hand on the wall while he points to the front door. “Thanks for your help. I’ll try not to need it again.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Q.” A pen and notepad lie next to his mouse, and I write down a second phone number along with a five-digit code. Holding up my cell phone, I meet his gaze. “There are two SIM cards in here. The first...that’s the number I gave you last week. The number you texted tonight. I was at the bar, and I couldn’t just walk out until I had someone to cover for me. But the second SIM? The number I just wrote down?” I jab the paper for emphasis. “Anyone who calls it needs to enter this code when the exchange picks up. You do that, and no matter where I am—no matter what I’m doing—I’ll answer immediately. You always have someone to call.”

  I should go. Walk out of his life and never look back. But I’ve already decided that’s not going to happen. He’s scared. Long-term fear and distrust. Someone hurt him in his past, and I know what that feels like.

  Stopping right in front of him, I keep my arms at my sides, trying to appear as non-threatening as I can. It’s no use. I’m two inches shorter than he is, but probably outweigh him by fifty pounds of muscle. When I started at Hidden Agenda, I couldn’t do half the shit I can now—physically. But between West’s Krav Maga training and Ryker’s insane drills, I’ve bulked up a lot, and Q shies away from my gaze.

  “I’m not the enemy here,” I say softly. “You asked for my help first—with the groceries, remember?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.” The words escape on a whisper, and there’s that shame again, creeping up his neck, flushing his cheeks, causing him to stare down at the floor. At a pair of black Keds with orange laces peeking out from under the loose gray fleece pants. “I needed…”

  “Meds. I get it.” Fishing the plastic box out of my pocket, I show it to him. “Clonazepam, Hydroxyzine, and Xanax. You think you cornered the market on anxiety disorders or something?”

  Finally, he meets my gaze, his brows pinched, confusion churning in his eyes. “You can’t need those. You’re…built.”

  “Built?” Now it’s my turn to fight embarrassment. I’m strong, sure. But built? No. Ryker’s built. Me? I’m just a kid from rural Michigan with a really good workout plan. And then I realize what I’m wearing. A tight black tank with the Unicorn Bar’s logo and a pair of cargo pants. I don’t feel like a badass, but I probably look like one at the moment. Assuming one can look like a badass with a pink sparkling unicorn in the center of their chest.

  I offer him my hand. “Can we sit down and…I don’t know. Start over?”

  “Why?”

  The question tears me up inside. He seriously has no idea why I want to get to know him. “Because you’re brave as fuck, Q, and that’s about the sexiest quality a guy can have in my book. Because when I kissed you, you kissed me back, and I haven’t forgotten what that felt like. Do I need to keep going? I can.”

  “I’m not brave,” he says with a shake of his head. “Why would you say that?”

  This question, I understand. “Because I’m pretty sure you don’t ever leave your house. You told me you didn’t have anyone to call, so obviously you don’t have friends in town. And yet you stopped me last week, in the middle of the night on an empty street. A guy you don’t know, who’s…to use your word…built…and asked for help. And then you did it again tonight. If that’s not brave, I don’t know what is.”

  My words sink in, slowly at first, but I can tell when they land hard. Q stands up a little straighter, still staring at my offered hand. And then he grabs on, his fingers cool and not entirely steady. “Okay. We can start over.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Graham

  For several long moments, we stand in silence, Q holding my hand, looking like he’s about to fall over.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “Don’t you have to go back to work?”

  Is the hope in his voice because he wants me to go or wants me to stay? Either way, I need to keep things light. Casual. Friendly. Q’s had enough of the serious and heavy for one night. “Nope.” I try for a smile that’s more friendly than sexy. “My manager’s covering the rest of my shift. It’s only another hour or two anyway.”

  The relief on his face—it’s both beautiful and heartbreaking. Leading me to the couch, he sinks down with a groan, and I’m close enough that his scent—fresh laundry soap, sandalwood, and something soft—washes over me. It’s like coming home. Comforting in a way I didn’t know I wanted.

  He needs me. More importantly, he wants me. I can see it, even though he’s trying to be strong.

  Rubbing my palms over my thighs, I make a decision. If I expect Q to trust me, I need to trust him as well. Ryker’s going to kill me when he finds out, but until he rips me into a dozen pieces and buries them somewhere no one will ever find them, I’ll be honest with this man next to me.

  “I have to tell you something,” I s
ay, staring at the darkened television across from the couch. “My last name isn’t Tempelton.”

  His entire body goes rigid, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

  I turn and reach for his hands. “Hear me out? Please? You’re the first guy in years I want to get to know—really know. And I won’t start this off—start over—with anything other than the truth.”

  He doesn’t respond, but he hasn’t pulled away either. There’s suspicion in his eyes, and it’s not until he jerks a small nod that I relax a little.

  “When I left the Coast Guard, I didn’t know what the hell to do with my life. Then I heard about this former Special Forces badass who was looking for someone to join his team. Someone young, someone with no attachments, someone who didn’t mind taking risks.”

  “His team? What kind of team?” Q asks, still tense.

  “Well, it’s not a dance troupe.” I chuckle, but it sounds forced. Hell, it is. How do you tell someone you’re a mercenary for hire? That you kill people. Deal with the worst of humanity? And that you have no plans of stopping or giving up this life for anything? “K&R.”

  He narrows his gaze. “What’s K&R?”

  “Kidnap and ransom.” His eyes widen, and I rush to continue. “No. No. We don’t do the kidnapping! We save people who get themselves in trouble. All over the world. That’s my job, Q. And why I use a fake name online. Because what we do is dangerous and highly illegal.”

  I shouldn’t be telling him any of this. But one thing I learned working with Ryker? How to read people. Quinton is a good guy. An honest guy. He’s scared, and he’s hiding a fuckton behind the walls around his heart. But I think he wants the same thing I do. Something real.

  His pupils dilate, and his breath catches in his throat. “You…no. Nobody does that. No one but people on TV. In the movies. Real people don’t do shit like that.“ By the time he finishes, his voice is hoarse and he’s shaking.

  Pulling him closer, I wrap my arm around his shoulders. “Q, listen to me. You’re not in any danger. Not from me, and not because of me. Breathe, okay? In and out.” He’s close to falling over the edge into a full blown panic attack, and if I had to guess, it’s not his first of the day.