Fearless
The Finn Factor, Book 7
R.G. Alexander
Fearless
Copyright 2017 R.G. Alexander
Editing by D.S. Editing
Formatting by IRONHORSE Formatting
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Thanks for Reading!
Other Books by R.G. Alexander
About R.G. Alexander
Chapter One
“Dude, do not throw up in this car.”
“If you’d stop talking about it, I might stop thinking about it,” Rory grumbled at the back of the driver’s bowl-shaped haircut, wishing for the millionth time he’d accepted his cousin Stephen’s invitation to join some of the family for pizza instead of meeting his friend Rig at a bar.
Precocious twin toddlers and nosy personal questions aside—free food had its charm. But no. He’d made a bad decision culminating in this unfriendly ride home via an Uber loser.
How had he sunk so low? Here he was, a grown-ass man who could drive anything and knew each backstreet, shortcut and traffic light in town—as any self-respecting ambulance jockey should—yet he was currently at the mercy of some paranoid stranger whose dashboard sported more than one animated bobble head, all of them nodding manically as if to say, “You’re right to worry, this guy’s nuts.”
He should have called a damn taxi instead of letting Rig use the app, but at least Little Lord Phobic-of-Bodily-Fluids was taking Rory’s mind off the fucktastic news he’d gotten tonight.
“I didn’t plan it, Rory.”
He didn’t plan on his heart breaking, either. Shit happens.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he fumbled for it with fingers that felt clumsy and awkward. Maybe it was Rig texting to tell him his confession had been pure mind-fuckery. A prank between old friends. A lie so ridiculous it sounded like the truth.
But he wasn’t that lucky.
Everything okay?
Resentment and relief flooded him simultaneously when he saw the familiar name pop up on his screen. David Mills. What were the odds? Rory wondered if his ears were ringing after being discussed all night.
It was too much to hope that he’d just been on his mind.
He sighed, automatically adding regret to his mixed bag of emotions-starting-with-R. Regret was like Jell-O when it came to David lately. There was always room for more.
Was everything okay? No. Everything was the opposite of okay. To put it in terms even geek-boy David could understand, the planet of Okay was in a different solar system now, and they might not see it again in their lifetime.
It might have something to do with the fact that while Rory had been reevaluating his life and trying to be a better man, his two best friends—his wingmen—had gone flying without him. Together.
Together.
So no. Not okay.
He replied before he could stop himself, trying to keep it light. Sure. Great. Why wouldn’t it be?
David was already responding. I heard you drank the club dry. Worried, man. Remember? Senior Prom is Poison?
“A man gets his stomach pumped one time and he never lives it down,” Rory muttered, pressing his head back against the seat.
Rig must have dialed David as soon as he’d tossed Rory into this Lysol-dowsed clown car. Did he tell him why he’d been drinking? Did he have any idea what Rig had been admitting to? Had they planned it like that?
Were they officially together?
No. David would have told him something like that to his face. Believing anything else would break him.
His phone buzzed again. Still there, Roar?
His throat went dry at the nickname David had given him the first time he’d seen Rory dressed in his mascot gear. “Hold that Tiger. See Rory Roar!” It brought back memories of laughter, itchy costumes and unrequited adoration. He blamed his blurry vision on the alcohol as he swiped at his phone.
I’ll never get prom drunk again, but this came close. BTW Rig gossips like an Italian grandmother and he took my keys. Don’t listen to anything he says.
He snorted at David’s quick response. I’ll tell his Nonna you said that.
Shit. Nonna Gina loved him, but the last thing he needed was to get on her bad side. The woman who lived in the decked-out mother-in-law loft above Rig’s garage kept Rory well fed between Finn family dinners, and up to date on everything going on in the world of fictional vampires.
That sassy little fireplug loved her some Netflix with a side of fang. They had that in common.
Italian grandmothers are sexy. Tell her I said THAT. FYI, my Uber guy is a Belieber with a Minion fetish. AND NOW HE KNOWS WHERE I LIVE. If I disappear tonight avenge me.
There. He sounded like his old self, right? Fun Rory. Unflappable and charming, even when impaired. Fun Rory never took anything seriously, especially sex. ‘Live and let’s fuck’ was his personal motto. Fun Rory would never be found choking down the desire to throw a temper tantrum for the record books just because David and Rig had some fun of their own.
Jealousy sucked balls.
And so did Rig.
David sent him an emoji with a raised eyebrow. Maybe you should have let Rig take you home.
Did he honestly believe that Rory would let Rig take him home and tuck him in tonight? As if he didn’t care about a little blowy between friends?
Maybe he did. Rory had worked for years to cultivate his image, so why shouldn’t David see what everyone else did? He might as well play the slutty part he’d been cast in.
Hard up but no good options @ Tango’s. I might have groped his spicy sausage and don’t want to step on experimenting toes. You’re welcome.
He waited in the tense silence for a response to his passive aggressive accusation. Each second felt like a lifetime. When it finally came it was more unsettling than Rig’s confession.
Text me again when you’ve escaped the minion.
That was it? No denial? No dirty comment about Rig’s sausage? No explanation?
Rory wanted to shrug it off and go back to staring blankly out the window, but this whole night had been…un-shrug-offable. Was that even a word?
Tango’s had been his first mistake. He hadn’t been to that meat market for months, but no one would know it fro
m the looks he’d gotten when he walked in. The men who weren’t sidling up to suggest a bathroom quickie were shooting less-than-subtle mind bullets in his direction.
To be fair, he was pretty sure he deserved most of the glares. Say ninety percent. He had a long history of gluttonous behavior on his resume. The rest of the eyeball violence was just preemptive. Like his presence alone would somehow stop them from getting laid, just because Tango’s had a plaque on the wall with his face on it. One that said Most Satisfying Customer.
He used to be so proud of that damn thing, but tonight it felt like a bad joke at his expense. He wasn’t doing any satisfying lately, and he didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
Rory was on a cleanse.
Knowing that, he should have suggested the family pub where everybody knew him and rarely hit on him. Should have, but didn’t. Mistake or not, going to Finn’s these days was an entirely different type of torture.
Tantalus. The name swam through the soupy fog of bad liquor his brain had become. He vaguely remembered helping his partner Walter’s wife with a term paper on some Greek who had to spend eternity staring at the things he most wanted and being unable to touch them. That summed it up pretty damn well. It definitely described what Finn’s had become for him in the last few months.
His cousin Seamus—the guy everyone in the family thought was either asexual or a committed heterosexual prude—had snagged a lusty Turkish gazillionaire on his Ireland vacation. A sexy slab of accented beef that’d followed him home and proceeded to spoil the entire family rotten with gifts and attention. Especially Seamus. The single father who’d spent his life taking care of other people was practically incandescent with gay happiness every time Rory saw him.
Yet another “straight” man jumping the fence for love and anal. It was all so beautiful and life affirming that it gave him a headache.
The last few years had been the stuff of nightmares for the confirmed bachelors of the family. Rory in particular, but he’d seen womanizer Wyatt flinch more than once. In essence, the Finn Agains were increasing and the number of single Finns was dropping at an alarming rate.
All four cousins as well as his brother Brady had found their significant others. Life was a constant stream of proposals, gay weddings and babies and Rory couldn’t wrap his head around it. Hell, even Noah had a tiny new Finn on board—everyone but Seamus and Solomon were still in shock about that one.
Love was in the air, but though he still had four single brothers left, logic wasn’t really the theme of this pity party.
As usual, the theme is your dick. Because the world needs to stop if you aren’t getting any, right? Drama queen.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t getting any. It was that someone else was getting something he wanted. There was a difference. “So shut up.”
“What?” his driver asked, startled.
“Not talking to you and not throwing up. As you were, Justin.”
“My name isn’t— Whatever, dude.”
He was feeling a little queasy, but he’d be damned if he mentioned it now. He just wanted to get home, go to sleep and forget about his failed attempt at embracing the drunk Irish stereotype.
Rory never went to bars to get drunk. Drunk sex was bad sex as a rule and if he wasn’t going to the club to hook up then what was the fucking point? Tonight, however, the bartender had kept putting shots in front of him, and after the news he’d kept knocking them back without asking what they were.
Another bad decision.
Never fuck your bartender. At least, not if you don’t plan on remembering his name or calling him back after he leaves ten messages begging for more cock. It was clearly a recipe for death by alcohol poisoning.
And never, under any circumstances, start drinking after your closest friend and occasional fuck buddy tells you it’s time to “talk.”
He wasn’t in good shape. A few years ago he’d been fun to be around, enjoying the hell out of his life and giving zero fucks about the future. Sex had been a game he never lost and things had been simple. Easy.
Easier. At least, he’d been better at accepting the things he couldn’t change and used to hiding his feelings behind his usual masks of I-don’t-give-a-shit and sex appeal. But he hadn’t been able to for a while now and people were starting to notice.
In reality, he was just another asshole drowning in a sea of envy. He should be thankful for all the recent good fortune his family was being showered with. God clearly loved their batch of Irish, because he was passing out happy endings left and right. Rory didn’t expect it to extend to him. Fathers didn’t like him as a general rule.
He snorted as the lights of the city streamed by. In a roundabout way, his father was the reason for his current predicament. If good old Sol the Elder hadn’t been such an overbearing asswipe at his cousin’s wedding, this past year wouldn’t have gone to shit in a leaky bucket, and the conversation with Rig might never have happened.
“He won’t like me springing it on you like this, but I needed you to hear it from me.”
That stung more than he’d been expecting it to. Rig despised lying, so his behavior was no surprise, but David used to tell Rory everything. He’d been his confidant. His best friend.
But that was all BC. Before Christmas. Back then, he and David spoke or texted multiple times a day—when they weren’t hanging out at a diner or sprawled on one or the other’s couch watching TV and shooting the shit. As Rory’s hetero life partner—the term Essie Mills always used to describe her brother’s relationship with him—David was one of the few people who knew that his apathy was an act. That Rory was, in reality, a hot mess. Rig knew it too, though neither knew the reasons why. He could never hide his emotions from either of them, and he’d never wanted to… BC.
He knew things were different now, he just hadn’t acknowledged how different until tonight. None of them were on the same page anymore. Hell, at this point he wasn’t sure they were reading the same book.
He did a hell of a lot more than read with Rig, didn’t he?
Every time Rory thought about it he felt an ache in his heart and a twinge in his traitorous dick. He adjusted the Benedick Arnold in question and swore. He really was a twisted masochistic fuck. Hence the abstinence. His cock needed to be on lockdown. It didn’t have his best interests at heart.
Your dick can’t be trusted, your friends can’t be trusted... Maybe it’s because you say things like hence. Or it could be the fact that you think your wang is out to get you. Maybe it has to do with you enforcing that off-limits rule with Rig for all these years. You made David a challenge. You know how hard it is for Rig to resist a challenge.
“Shut. Up.”
“You’re tripping, aren’t you? Is it Meth? Molly? I knew you were going to hurl.” The boy twitched nervously behind the wheel and Rory wondered if he’d taken anything this evening. Especially when he continued babbling. “I have a bad gag reflex, I swear, someone chokes on a chip and I’m one breath away from spewing chunks. And then there’s the smell. It takes forever to get the smell out of my car. My dad once— Thank you, Great Spaghetti Monster. We’re here.”
“You should stop waiting around outside nightclubs with that weak stomach of yours, kid. Pick up fares at the library. Hurling hardly ever happens.” He chuckled at his alliteration while the man blushed, then he stared at the sprawling home in front of them. “Um, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t my apartment. My apartment isn’t even the size of this driveway.”
Uber Fail.
Or maybe it was Life Fail.
Arguing about vomit in a strange driveway was not where he expected to end up in the grand scheme of things. A few years from thirty with a good job and a good education—he saved lives for a living damn it—and Rory still slept in the same cheap hole in the wall he’d rented on his eighteenth birthday. He didn’t even own a real coffee table. A bunch of milk crates artistically pressed together didn’t count.
With everyone in his family deciding
to go the adult route recently—except for his oldest brother, who was having a midlife crisis—it occurred to him that he might have officially reached the age when sexy player with his own pad morphed into dead-end loser with no life.
And fuck this tween for throwing that in his face along with everything else. “Take me home, Justin. Now.”
“This is the address you gave me.”
“Is not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m not paying for your broken GPS.”
“Look, I don’t have time for—”
“Don’t make me throw up in your car.”
“Dude.” That one word expressed so much horror that he almost apologized.
A hard knock on the glass startled them both into silence. Rory groaned, realizing for the first time where he was. “Shit.”
Trick Dunham smiled tightly as he took in Rory’s sprawled form in the backseat. “You’re not looking so hot tonight, pretty boy. Is the end nigh? Did someone finally turn you down?”
“You wish,” Rory muttered inanely, wondering if those bobble heads had sucked out a few brain cells in payment. How the hell had he ended up at Jennifer Finn’s house of ménage?
Trick opened the door and tossed a wad of cash at the driver before slipping an arm under Rory’s shoulders. He had on a wrinkled t-shirt and boxers, and his feet were bare. “What I wish is that I was still sleeping soundly after a late night of exhausting my insatiable woman. Or that I’d woken up to the feel of big, hard professor cock against my back instead of to Jen’s anxious texting because her distraught cousin needed a place to crash.”
Rory shook his heavy head, feeling fuzzy. “I didn’t text her and I’m not distraught. I’m pretty sure I’m not traught either. I mean how you can you be dis-something that doesn’t sound like a real word? You ask your smart professor’s cock while I take my driver back to my place. I’m sober enough to give him some pointers.” He pointed to his throat and waggled his eyebrows. “Gag reflex issues.”
The driver in question apparently heard him, because the next minute he took off down the street, tires squealing while Rory pushed ineffectually at Trick’s chest. “Shit, that kid is fast like a freak. And lay off the steroids, Detective. I can walk on my own.”
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