by Ann Grech
In Safe Arms
Ann Grech
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Books by Ann Grech
More LGBT Romance From Hot Tree Publishing
Acknowledgments
About the Publisher
Blurb
When a damaged man stumbles on a second chance, it’s all too easy to turn and run. It takes a determined photographer to convince him risk is worth it all.
People deserve a second chance, right? How about a third or fourth?
But what if I can’t even admit to myself who I am? I was truthful once before. I came out to one other person, and he left me broken and scarred. He destroyed the boy I was. I don’t even use the same name anymore; I go by Trent now. But I survived the streets. I got lucky and I made something of myself. I’m happy, sort of.
It’s Angelo who lights up my life. He’s my world. My rock and my family. He’s always there for me. But I keep hurting him. I say stupid things, and I always keep him at a distance. Still, he knows me better than anyone.
And I want him. But I can’t let myself go there. Not again.
I’ve lived in denial for so long and it’s killing me. In my weakest moments, I reach for Angelo and when he slips into my arms, I can breathe. He’s my solace. Selflessly, he’s there and he never expects anything in return. No judgment, not even an explanation. Having him in my arms is everything, and it’s getting harder to push him away. I’m not sure I want to anymore.
He doesn’t date, but he deserves to be loved. Cherished. Then he drops a bombshell—he’s found The One. I wish he’d fallen for me. I need that second chance to tell him. I need to risk it all because in his arms, I’m safe. I’m me.
In Safe Arms © 2019 by Ann Grech
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
In Safe Arms is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.
www.hottreepublishing.com
Editing: Hot Tree Editing
Cover Designer: Soxsational Cover Art
Formatting: Justine Littleton
E-book ISBN: 978-1-925853-71-1
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-925853-72-8
I had the privilege of teaching you a few years ago. You shared your story. This isn’t a retelling, but know that your strength inspired Trent’s story. Thank you, BB. This one’s for you.
1
Keir / Trent
“Yes, yes! He’s over the line! Parata scores his second try of the night,” the excited commentator called through the television. Its volume was set to blaring, but it couldn’t compete with the cheering my godfather and I were letting loose. On my feet, fisted hands up in the air, I celebrated our side scoring. Elation filled me and I whooped excitedly. We can do it. We can win. Parata’s six points left me riding a high. It’d been a nail biter of a game, the score going down to the wire. Five more minutes left before the final buzzer. It was enough time for the other side to score if they got a move on, but we were going to win. I could feel it. Nothing could go wrong.
Our goal kicker lined up, and I held my breath. He was standing dead center. All he had to do was kick straight and another two points would be added to our team’s score. Could we extend our lead to four points? I knew we could. We had this. Come on. His powerful legs worked in a practiced motion, and I watched enraptured as every muscle flexed and contracted. Our kicker’s legs were F. I. N. E. But I couldn’t be distracted by that; it was the match-winning point. His boot connected with a thwap and the ball sailed into the air. As if it were in slow motion, I watched the ball travel on a high arc toward its destination. With every millisecond that passed, it neared the posts. It was straight. It was true. It was perfect.
“Conversion,” yelled the commentator as my breath came out in a jubilant shout.
Punching the air, I yelled, “Heck, yeah.” I was careful with the language I used around my parents and godfather. They’d clipped me across the back of the head enough times that I naturally curbed my swearing around them. My godfather, Ryan, and I high-fived each other, and we each took a swig from our bottles of beer. It was the first one he’d ever given me, but I’d drunk it before at parties and with mates. I cringed as the yeasty flavor hit my tongue and knew I wouldn’t be able to stomach the rest unless I chugged it. I may not have liked the taste, but I wasn’t going to say no to beer. What sixteen- nearly seventeen-year-old would? Friday night football was our thing. Our tradition had always been popcorn and soda, so his offering me beer was like saying “welcome to manhood.”
The cheerleaders came out onto the field and shook their booties, kicking their legs up high and waving their pom-poms around to celebrate the score. “Now that’s a sight to see, isn’t it?” Ryan leered as he watched the girls like a dog eyeing a bone. It was so typically him—always blunt and mostly inappropriate—but he was a good guy. He was my father’s best friend and a second dad to me. He’d helped raise me. He was the guy I could always count on to fix things when shit was going wrong. He’d help take me to practice or to games and come collect me when Mom or Dad were late. He fed me when money was tight at home and stopped the bullies at school in their tracks—walking through the schoolyard with a giant truck wrench would do that.
I followed Ryan into the kitchen to dump our empty bottles in the bin, the glass clinking against the others Ryan had drunk as I let it go, while Ryan grabbed another for him and a soda for me. I was relieved, but he must have mistaken my look as disappointment when he passed me the bottle. “One’s enough, bro. You’ve already got a buzz going.”
“Yeah, I do.” I gave him a small smile and turned to glance at the television again. More cheerleaders—they were most teenaged boys’ dream, but not me. I was keeping a secret. I looked away and cracked open my can of soda, slipping it into a neoprene cooler. It was a nice design—Chris Hemsworth dressed as Thor.
“What’s goin’ on, Keir? You not interested in them?” Ryan pointed his bottle to the television, and I knew I’d been busted. I was usually better at hiding my disinterest. I would stare mindlessly at the beautiful women so my mates and my bro’d up dad and godfather wouldn’t figure out my secret.
The high I was riding from my team scoring jarred to a screeching halt. My pulse leaped, and my heart beat hard against my rib cage. Thud. Thud. I should tell him. I wanted to. I hated keeping a secret, but I was scared. How would he react? How would Dad? I’d heard them insult people like me before, but it was just because they didn’t know. I was sure they’d change, that they’d realize how wrong they were t
o judge. After all, that’s what we learned in church every weekend, wasn’t it? Don’t judge? Our church was pretty progressive—at least it wasn’t one of those fire and brimstone places were the priest shouted about how evil “the gays” were—so I knew it’d all be okay. I just needed to figure out how to break the news to my dad, to ease him into the idea that his boy was gay.
“Keir?” he prompted again, this time using his “dad” voice. Tonight was the night. I steeled my nerves and took a deep breath. I was going to tell him. Squaring my shoulders and looking across to him, I shrugged.
“The cheerleaders, ah… they, ah….” Shit, this was harder than I expected. My palms sweated and my knees went weak. I leaned against the linoleum counter and wiped my hands down my sweats. The too-warm room had me fanning my flushed skin with my football jersey.
“Yeah, man, I feel you.” Ryan grinned at me like we had a private joke going on and happily turned back to the television. “One night alone with two or three of those beauties and I could die a happy man.”
“I’m gay,” I blurted out and sucked in a breath as Ryan stilled, not looking at me. Nerves clawed through me and the verbal diarrhea kept coming, my mouth ignoring my brain’s attempt at giving my godfather a second to absorb the news. “I… I don’t like the cheerleaders. I like boys. Men.” I was on a roll and I couldn’t stop. Now that I’d said the words, the rest of them just kept flowing, as if a dam had been breached. First a trickle, then a tsunami. “There’s this one boy at school, he’s cute. I don’t think he’s like me, but when I imagine kissing someone, I think about him. Men, not women….” I turned to the television and trailed off.
The fist grasping my jersey in a vise grip startled me, the pull to turn me toward Ryan had me off-balance. There was something in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. He looked calm, but the apparent façade couldn’t hide the boiling rage behind it. Nerves spiked in me, crawling up my throat until I couldn’t swallow. Furiously, I blinked back the tears that I was powerless to stop. All the while he held me there, staring at me. Not saying a word, not moving a muscle.
I sucked in a breath, my movement seeming to unlock something in him. His eyes flashed and the rage in them had me recoiling, but it was his words and the ice-cold tone behind them that put the fear of God in me. “What did you just say, Keir?”
“Nothing,” I backtracked. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”
“No, you were pretty adamant a minute ago. Repeat it. Tell me what you just said to my face. Now.” His hard, angry tone and his clipped voice had me swallowing hard, trying to beat back my anxiety. I was tall, already six foot. My years of rugby training had sculpted my body so my shoulders were broad and my legs thick. But I was still a kid in front of this man. Totally outmatched by him. He was a truck mechanic, his grip stronger than anyone’s I’d ever met. As he held me there, I saw the façade of calm he’d shown me a moment ago crumbling. His nostrils flared as he breathed, daring me to disobey him.
“I’m gay,” I whispered, this time my voice timid.
His hands shook, but they sometimes did that when he’d only had a few. It was as if his body was desperate for that fix of liquor. His grip hardened. I was afraid. Of him. Of what he’d do. Of what I’d just told him. I tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let me. Holding me there, he loomed over me, his stale breath making me want to gag. “You’re not a faggot,” he seethed.
I saw his hand coming, it was like watching a car accident in slow motion—I couldn’t turn away. Couldn’t move. I stood there frozen as his clenched fist connected with my face and pain exploded in my head. Everything went hazy—my mind swimming through soup. My body sagged against the countertop and I struggled to stay upright. I knew I needed to, but the darkness beckoned. I wish it had captured me, drowned me to never wake again. The last thing I wanted to remember was the blind rage that Ryan spat at me when he shouted, “No boy of mine is a good for nothin’ faggot.” The truth was, I remembered everything. Every painful detail of him pulling down my sweats and pushing me down over the counter. Every nanosecond of my world being torn apart and my body being violated by a man I thought I could trust while he spewed his venom at me.
I stumbled through the door and closed it as quietly as I could. I had no idea what time it was, but it was late. There were no lights on in any of the houses I’d passed, and even the barking dogs were fast asleep. I wasn’t sure if I’d blacked out or not, but I didn’t remember getting tossed down the front steps of Ryan’s house. When I’d woken up, my head throbbed like a bitch and every muscle in my body ached. I was cold, my shivering so bad that my teeth were chattering. I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes. I was sticky, from what I wasn’t sure but at least some of it was my own blood—my nose? My eyebrow? There were other places I couldn’t think about that were sticky too. My skin crawled. I wanted nothing more than to scrub myself down with a steel brush, to remove every particle, every cell of his off me. I shuddered.
I was dirty. Exposed. Weak.
After I’d woken, I had to get out of there. I had to leave before I vomited all over his front lawn, and there was no way I’d let him see how much he’d destroyed by doing that. So I’d crawled along the path to the brick letterbox and used it to pull myself upright. The world spun around me and I’d breathed through my swollen nose, groaning from the pain. Stepping away tentatively, I’d stumbled down the street. I fell, grazing my hands and knees on the pebbled drives and the tarmac roads. It was hard to keep upright but the fences helped. The streetlights had hurt my eyes. I’d shied away from them.
I was numb. Distant. Far away.
The walls supported my weight as I stumbled through the house to the bathroom. Leaving the light off, I closed and locked the door, propping the washing basket behind it—as if that would stop anyone getting in there. I looked in the mirror, but it was dark enough that I couldn’t see myself. Thank God. I reached behind the curtain and turned the hot water on, not even bothering with the cold. My socks were wet. Did they get wet when I toed my shoes off outside? I didn’t know why, but it seemed important in that moment. I needed to figure it out, to know exactly what had happened to get them that way. I dropped one in my fumbling and reached down to pick it up. A piercing pain sliced through my head, fireworks lighting up behind my eyelids. The throb behind my eyes pounded. My head swam, the pain so visceral that my stomach heaved. My knees hit the floor, and I reached for the lid on the toilet. I retched into the bowl, over and over until I was spent, purging myself of everything I’d eaten. If only I could do the same to my memories. To my body.
Steam filled the room and its warmth cocooned me. I peeled my clothes off, leaving them wherever they fell before crawling in under the spray. I sat there, curled on the floor as the scalding hot jets flowed over me. But I was still cold. Still shivering. The tears came then. I couldn’t help them. I didn’t want to cry. I hated myself for doing it. It was weak. I was weak. Why didn’t I fight him off? Why didn’t I yell and scream and kick? Why didn’t I use the knife we’d used to cut the popcorn bag open—the same one that sat on the counter—to cut off his dick? Why did I let him do it? I just stood there. I froze. Panicked. He was right, I’d hated those moments he was inside me. I’m not gay. I couldn’t be. I hated the thought that anyone would ever be inside me again. I’d never let anyone do that to me. Never. I hated myself. I hated him. I hated what I had been. But I wasn’t gay, not really. I’d just thought I was. But I wasn’t. I was delusional thinking that. Clueless. I hate myself. But I’d been wrong. I was straight. Anger bubbled up inside me, overflowing and drowning out the sorrow. Covering the pain like lava flowing over the ground, hardening to solid rock.
Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I scrubbed my bruised body, washing away the old me. Washing away the gay me. Washing away the stupid teenager that I had been. I held my head up and let the hot water cascade down over my hair. Still it didn’t warm me. The water tasted of copper—my blood. I washed my hair, furiously scrubbing at it like
I’d done to the rest of me.
The water cooled, its tepid drops making the chill set in deeper. I turned the faucet off and pulled back the curtain, stepping out and drying myself. The sun had started to rise, its rays piercing the black night to light up the room. I saw myself then. The drop of blood trickling down my forehead with the rivulets of water in my hair. My swollen eye. My split lip. I could see fingerprints too, from where that bastard had gripped my neck as he came at me from behind. Choked me while he held me in place.
Rifling through the cupboard, I found some Band-Aids and stuck them on my forehead before scrubbing dry my hair. Why was every strand on my head hurting? Had he pulled them? I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember, either.
Wrapping the towel around my waist, I looked at my clothes spread around me. Mom would kick my ass if I left them on the floor, but I didn’t have the energy to find a bag and bin them. Hell would freeze over before I stepped into any of those clothes again. I’d burn them, together with anything else he touched. Maybe I should throw myself into a pit of fire too. Would it cleanse me if I did? Would I always feel dirty? Would I be me again if I didn’t have this body anymore?
I took a breath, steeling myself for the world outside my little locked room. The house was quiet. Mom and Dad’s door was still closed. The peace surrounding me was superficial. Any ripple on the surface would reveal the rip that would drag me under and drown me.
