Swann's Revenge

by Shira Anthony

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Sneak Peek

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  By Shira Anthony

  Coming in March 2018

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Swann’s Revenge

  By Shira Anthony

  Can a swan make peace with his ugly duckling past?

  Chubby geek Jimmy Zebulon’s heart broke the day his high school crush, Danny Parker, looked on as his teammates tormented Jimmy. Fifteen years later, Jimmy is long gone, and from his ashes has risen Graham Swann, a movie-star-handsome law firm owner. Graham thinks Jimmy and his past are long forgotten—until attorney Dan Parker shows up for his first day of work.

  Getting injured playing college ball was the best thing that ever happened to Dan. It turned his future in a better direction and allowed him to emerge from the closet that trapped him.

  Graham wants to believe his childhood dream can come true, but he can’t bring himself to tell Dan who he really is—and their pasts might ruin any chance for a happily ever after….

  Graham turned and set his bottle on the table. “All right.” A muscle in his cheek jumped, but otherwise his expression remained utterly controlled. He put a single hand on the back of the chair. “I’m less than impressed with your inability make it to the office in a timely manner. On your first day, no less.”

  “My apologies. You have every right to expect me to arrive on time. It won’t happen again.” At least he hoped it wouldn’t.

  “Your personal life is your own,” Graham continued, undaunted. “But I’ve no doubt you’ll discover that your New York lifestyle will cause you problems here.”

  “No doubt.” Dan strangled a sigh. Did Graham think he partied all night? Probably. But the truth was none of Graham’s business. He’d dealt with far worse in his life than this sort of judgment, and he’d long since given up his guilt at not living up to others’ expectations.

  “Are we clear?”

  For all the dreamers who love a happy ending. Thank you for reading my own heart’s desire.

  Prologue

  Fifteen Years Ago

  “HEY, Jimmy!” Carl shouted from the line of trombones a few yards away. “The PS2 I ordered finally came. Wanna check it out?”

  Van, one of the football players who was sitting on the sidelines, sniggered and parroted, “Wanna check out my dick, Jimmy? It’s really sweet.”

  Jimmy’s cheeks heated. He pulled a few nearly pristine Kleenexes out of his jeans pocket, wiped his nose, and pretended not to have heard.

  “Fuck you, Vanny Fanny,” Carl shot back.

  A few other players laughed.

  “Kiss my hot ass, Thurston.” Van stuck his butt out and rubbed it with his hand while he smacked his lips. “You and Zebby should pay for the pleasure.”

  Jimmy hated it when they called him that, but he’d gotten used to it. At close to three hundred pounds and over six feet tall, Carl was big enough that he could probably beat the shit out of most of them. But Jimmy was barely five foot six. He knew better than to talk back to the football players. “Zebulon!” Mr. Peterson, the marching band director, shouted. “What do you think you’re doin’? You’re supposed to be with the others at the twenty-yard line.”

  Jimmy hadn’t even realized the rest of the french horn players had marched away. He ignored the laughter this generated from the football players and scurried over to the rest of the section. He wished he could sink into the muddy grass and disappear.

  “You comin’ over?” Carl asked as they headed back to the band room about an hour later.

  “Sure.” He’d finish his homework at Carl’s. “I’ll need to call my—”

  “Can’t believe the way you caught that last pass,” Gerry was telling Danny as he and a few other players walked past the band toward the locker room.

  “Thanks.” Danny’s smile appeared forced. Crooked as it was, it was even cuter. Danny looked like a normal guy when he smiled like that. A little awkward, a little uncomfortable. Just a guy. Not the most popular kid in the school.

  Jimmy fingered the dog-eared paper in his pocket like a talisman. He was still surprised Carl wanted to be his friend after he’d come out to him the week before.

  “Of course you like him,” Carl told him when Jimmy had managed to squeak out that he had a crush on Danny. “The entire school does. That doesn’t make you gay. Besides, you know how they are. If they catch you looking at them during band practice…”

  He hadn’t argued with Carl, but he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Danny, who stood in the middle of the group. Jimmy glanced at his reflection in a nearby window and prayed the tinted Clearasil his mom had bought him wasn’t totally obvious. She’d pretty much insisted he use it. He hoped the stuff covered the worst of his acne.

  As Danny walked by, he smiled at Jimmy. His expression seemed brighter, more genuine than before. At least Jimmy thought it was. “Hey, Jimmy. Mr. Crowley said you might lend me your notes from last Friday’s calculus class.”

  “He… He did?” Jimmy glanced at Carl, who shook his head.

  “We had this TV thing,” Danny explained. “I had to miss class and—”

  “You don’t wanna be hanging with Zebby here, do ya?” the kid to Danny’s left—Mark Cowell—asked Danny.

  “Well, I—”

  “Zebby,” Gerry said as he leaned in so his face was inches from Jimmy’s, “run along now. Danny don’t want nothin’ to do with queers.”

  “Gerry, I really—” Danny began.

  “Run along, Zebby,” Mark said. “Or should we call ya Debby instead?” He laughed and pushed Jimmy in the chest. Jimmy stumbled backward, tripped over someone’s shoe, and landed in a puddle. The players—all but Danny—snorted and laughed.

  “Hey,” Carl asked. “You okay?”

  Jimmy rubbed the mud off the bell of his instrument. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Aren’t they cute together?” Mark said in a girlishly high voice. “Makes you wanna puke, doesn’t it?”

  Tears spilled over Jimmy’s cheeks. Bad enough the entire football team—and Danny, of course—had seen him fall on his ass. Now they saw him cry. He wanted to die. He wanted to disappear.

  “Aww, look, Danny,” Van continued. “Zebby’s cryin’. Aren’t you, Zebby? Would you like a tissue to blow your nose in?” He tossed a filthy towel at Jimmy, who batted it away.

  “Van, I really don’t—”

  “Fucking assholes,” Carl hissed.

  Jimmy knew Carl wanted to help, but he felt even more pathetic, more helpless than ever, that he needed help to begin with. The tears came faster now. He d
idn’t want Danny to see him like this, with his runny nose and puffy eyes. But for just a moment, their eyes met. He’d expected scorn, but Jimmy saw something else in Danny’s blue eyes. Pity? Sympathy?

  Why would he care? Jimmy was exactly what Van and the other guys thought he was: a fag, a homo, a queer. The kind of guy who’d never be popular.

  More laughter from the players. “Let’s get out of here,” Carl said and pulled Jimmy toward the entrance to the band room.

  “Love the look, Zebby,” Van said and pointed at Jimmy’s filthy jeans. “Looks like some dog did his business all over your sorry ass. But then guys like you like to eat shit, don’t they?”

  His throat tightened. He felt like he was being strangled. He wheezed and coughed as the tears continued to burn tracks on his face. He fumbled around for his inhaler, panic rising when he realized he’d left it in his instrument case.

  “Jimmy. It’s okay. Just breathe.” Carl put something into his hand. It took Jimmy a minute to realize it was his missing inhaler. He gasped and spluttered before he managed to get his lips around it and squeezed. He was already starting to feel light-headed. Another minute and he’d pass out.

  Finally the medicine kicked in. He gulped in air as Carl patted him nervously on his back. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded, unable to speak through the heavy weight of his shame. He followed Carl through the door and toward the band room. Chants of “Zebby, Zebby, Zebby” echoed down the hallway.

  Jimmy shoved his hand in his pocket. Just touching the diary entry he’d written months before would make him feel better; it didn’t matter that he’d long since memorized every line he’d written.

  The paper was gone.

  “You okay?” Carl asked again.

  “Did you see a piece of paper?” His heart pounded in his ears. He felt dizzy. Sick.

  “Paper? Nah.” Carl frowned. “Homework?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Gotta find it.” He set his instrument on the closest desk and charged back outside, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

  The sun had already set over the football field as Jimmy got to his knees to look under the bleachers and next to the fence, where the grass hadn’t been trimmed. He’d poured his heart out. He’d said all the things he could never say to Danny, or even to Carl. Tears stung his eyes as he searched the piles of discarded candy wrappers and old homework that had settled under the aluminum seats.

  Nothing.

  “Hey.” Carl’s voice brought Jimmy back to himself. “It’s getting dark. Whatever you’re looking for, why don’t I help you find it tomorrow?”

  Jimmy wiped the back of his hand over his eyes and nodded. He followed Carl back to the building, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach spreading to his arms and legs. He wanted to die. He wanted to hide.

  As he stepped through the doorway, he saw someone leaning against the fence, near the entrance to the locker rooms. In the darkness and through his tears, he wasn’t sure, but he thought maybe it was Danny.

  “Jimmy? You comin’?” Carl asked.

  “Yeah.” When Jimmy looked again, whoever it was had disappeared.

  Chapter One

  GRAHAM Swann hopped on his bike. Already the sun had made it high enough that his damp shorts would be long dry before he started on the run.

  Steam rose from the asphalt, blurring the trees at the side of the course. As he finished the third mile, the Cape Fear River came into view, the shards of bright light on the surface of the water breaking through the filmy dampness.

  The rider in front of him slowed to take a quick drink. Graham recognized him by his incredibly fit body and the turquoise stripes on the side of his tri shorts. The man, whose upper arms and calves were marked with race number 247 and his age—thirty-two, the same as Graham—had started in the same wave of swimmers as Graham but finished several minutes ahead. Not surprising, given the man’s powerful shoulders and chest.

  For the next few miles, Graham paced himself by following Number 247. More than once Graham had to remind himself that his goal was finishing and not admiring 247’s muscular ass. He bit his cheek when he realized he’d licked his lips in appreciation. Tri shorts left little to the imagination.

  247 was a little slower than Graham, but a triathlon this long was all about pacing. A few feet from the halfway point, Graham pushed himself hard enough to pass. Number 247 waved and offered Graham a brilliant smile that made Graham’s toes curl and his stomach do a backflip. Auburn curls peeked out from under his helmet at his nape, and Graham wondered what color eyes hid beneath the polarized glasses.

  Focus! Graham pedaled harder. He overtook several more riders as he passed forty miles, and by the time he headed into the next transition, he had some of the younger competitors in his sights.

  He walked his bike the last few feet to the racks, slipped off his bike shoes, and pulled on his running shoes. Seconds later, he hit the pavement. The warm breeze smelled salty, and he wished he could have justified a vacation at Terri’s beach house. Hopefully with the new hires starting next week, things at the office would ease up a bit.

  Focus! If he couldn’t focus long enough on this shorter event, how would he make it through an Ironman triathlon?

  With this thought, he realized someone was pacing him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Number 247 making a seven-minute pace look easy. Graham waved. 247 waved back and then began to run faster, matching Graham’s pace footfall by footfall.

  Great. Graham steeled himself for the small talk—would the topic be the heat or the last race the guy had competed in?—but none came. Instead, 247 just grinned and continued to pace him. He kept a comfortable distance between them, which Graham appreciated.

  As they neared the twelve-mile mark, a woman who had been running about a quarter mile ahead of them tripped.

  Graham glanced around for a volunteer who could help the woman, but there were none in sight. 247 took off at a sprint that took Graham’s breath away. Had he been planning on leaving Graham in the dust all along? But instead of running ahead to find a volunteer, 247 ran over to the woman, stopped, and knelt.

  At the pace 247 had been running, he’d been likely to place in their age group. Stopping now, when they were only a few miles from the finish line, was almost unheard of.

  “You okay?” 247 said. “You think you can stand?”

  The woman shook her head and winced as she rubbed her ankle.

  “I’m sure there’s a volunteer up ahead,” 247 told Graham. “I’ll stay with her. You mind asking them to come back and help?”

  “I…. Sure.” 247 was going to stay with her? He’d lose any chance of placing.

  Not my problem. Still, Graham admired the guy. Most folks who did this sort of race were serious competitors. And as good as he was….

  “Thanks!” 247 shouted as Graham left them behind.

  Graham flagged down a volunteer a half mile down the road and explained the situation, then sprinted toward the finish line, still thinking of 247.

  A half hour later, Graham sat near the finish line and ate a stale bagel and a banana he’d snagged from one of the refreshment tables. The food tasted amazing, considering he hadn’t eaten much before the race. He’d nearly finished the fruit when 247 crossed the electronic finish line. He must have noticed Graham, because he nodded and smiled before jogging over to an older man who gave him a high-five and a big hug. His father, judging by the strong resemblance.

  247 pulled off his sunglasses and set them on his head. Graham caught a glimpse of his startlingly blue eyes and the strong sense of déjà vu took him by surprise. Had they met before? Graham struggled to remember if he’d seen him at another race.

  No. You’d have remembered him.

  Another racer bumped into Graham. “Sorry,” she said and smiled.

  “No problem.” Graham glanced back at the finish line, but 247 had disappeared into a crowd of well-wishers.

  The woman lingered a moment as if she wanted to say som
ething, but appeared to change her mind and walked away. Graham sighed in relief. He’d never been comfortable with the attention he got from women—or men, for that matter—and he was glad he didn’t have to make up an excuse not to talk to her.

  Several people shouted and rang cowbells as a few more competitors finished the race. Time to go. Graham made his way to the transition area, and his mind wandered to what 247’s full lips might taste like. He took a long breath as his shorts became uncomfortably tight. He’d clean up, load his bike, and head back to Terri’s place for a shower and a nap. Later, he’d head to downtown Wilmington for the after-race party. With a little luck, 247 would show.

  Chapter Two

  “THIRD place in my age group,” Graham told Terri, who’d called just after he’d settled at a table.

  “That’s terrific,” she shouted through the speaker. “I knew you’d place if you trained hard enough!”

  “Thanks. I would have come in fourth except the guy in front of me stopped to help someone.” Graham imagined 247’s thighs tensing as he knelt beside the injured runner. He glanced around the room. 247 hadn’t made an appearance.

  “Doesn’t make it any less impressive,” Terri said. “You only started competing a few years ago. Fourth place would still have been amazing. When are you coming back to Raleigh?”

  “Tomorrow sometime.”

  “Graham, we talked about this. You were going to stay a little longer. My place is free all week and it’s been more than a year since you took a day off.”

  “New blood starts Monday,” he replied. “Much as I detest it, I need to be there to welcome them to the firm. I seem to recall you admonishing me for not being there the last time.”

  “I think I’m gonna cry,” she said. “You finally listened to me.”

  “As if.”

  “Still, you really do need a vacation. I’m sure they’d be just as happy meeting you next we—”