The Hideaway (Lavender Shores Book 5)

by Rosalind Abel

  Another man was auctioned off, then three women, and then a name was called that caused a different kind of reaction from Seth.

  “Our next bachelor not only has a face and a body to drool over, but his food is equally as appetizing.” Robert nudged my mother. “What do you think, Regina? Which is worth five grand, Charlie’s ass or his enchilada?”

  “What a stupid question.” Though I knew they hadn’t rehearsed, Mom didn’t miss a beat. She lifted the bottle of champagne that she’d brought out with her. “Both, of course! I can guarantee no one’s taking Charlie Perez home for less than ten big ones!”

  As they called Charlie on stage, Seth clenched his fists beside me. He’d never explained why he hated Charlie so much, and I hadn’t pushed. When you have secrets, it’s best not to pry into those of others.

  The applause faded to awkward silence, drawing my attention from Seth once more. Mom and Robert looked at each other in confusion. Robert leaned behind Mom, looking back into the hidden portion the audience couldn’t see. “Charlie?”

  A few heartbeats passed, and then Andrew poked his head around the curtain over the right side of the stage. “He’s not back here, Dad. Haven’t seen him in a bit.”

  Robert looked flustered and at a loss for words, which I’d never seen from him before. Mom piped up, “We only have one more stallion scheduled after Charlie, and I’d hate for the youth center to lose out on desperately needed money.” She made a sweeping motion with her champagne bottle across the audience, spilling some on stage. “How about a volunteer? Any of you beautiful people wanting a moment to shine in the spotlight? Do some good for our community?”

  There was a heartbeat of silence in the crowd, and then Seth stood up, raising his hand. “I’ll do it!” He almost sounded angry.

  Robert cheered. “I knew I’d get you up here one way or another!” He addressed the crowd once more. “Get your wallets out, boys, the infamous Casanova and the most popular bartender in Lavender Shores is headed your way!”

  Seth looked down at me, and though there was definitely a touch of anger in his expression, his questioning was clear. He started to step around me, then hesitated.

  I nodded. “Go get it! Show Charlie you can raise twice as much without him even here.”

  I thought with the Charlie comment, Seth might laugh, but I should’ve known better. I’d answered his unspoken question incorrectly, and we both knew it. Another heartbeat of a pause, and then Seth stepped around into the aisle, and walked up toward the stage, stripping out of his clothes as he went.

  Four

  Connor

  My entire performance had been rigged, and even so, my heart rate was barely coming down. Fortunately, I’d had the forethought to put all my clothes in a separate classroom from the one all the other guys were using as a changing room. I could crawl under a desk and hide for a few hours and still need to be alone for the next day to recover from having the entire town’s eyes on me. It was proof enough that I wasn’t truly a Bryant. I didn’t have one ounce of my mother’s showmanship and ease in the limelight. Of course, Gilbert didn’t either, and he did share her genes.

  I retrieved my shirt that I’d tossed on the teacher’s desk when I’d gotten ready—which had only consisted of taking off my shirt, shoes, and socks and then pacing the room for half an hour, trying to work up the nerve to go on stage. I started to pull on my shirt, then noticed the name at the top left of the whiteboard. Ms. Westfield. Pausing, I glanced around the classroom. How had I not noticed before? I suppose it showed just how nervous I had been. This classroom had been nearly as much my salvation as the Bryant home. School had never been easy—though it became a little less stressful once I lived somewhere I was actually wanted—but here in Ms. Westfield’s English class my future began to fall into place. Instead of taking notes on Shakespeare like the class had been instructed, my pages were full of doodles and designs. That was the case for all of my notebooks, no matter what the subject. When she noticed, Ms. Westfield asked me to come see her after school that day. I’d expected a lecture, additional homework, some sort of punishment. Instead she pored over my drawings with me, going on and on about how amazing they were. I’d looked back at those notebooks since, and most of them were a far cry from amazing, but she either saw something in the work itself or in me, maybe both. From that day on, she figured out a way to incorporate the drawing aspect into every one of my assignments.

  Stepping around her desk, I moved to the whiteboard, picked up a black dry erase marker, and began to draw.

  I lost track of time, lost track of my nerves and worry, as I transformed the whiteboard into a collage of Persian cats—Ms. Westfield never had less than three living with her at any one time—and tattoo-style script of various Shakespeare lines I recalled. When I was done, I wrote a simple thank-you near the bottom of the board. I didn’t sign my name. She would know.

  Standing back, I took in my handiwork, letting the years mingle and dance together. I’d been so grateful for my new life. For my friendship with Gilbert that had led me to being brought into his family, for Ms. Westfield, for the town itself. I’d thought the worst was over, and in many ways, it was. I was away from my father’s physical violence and my mother’s religious mental abuse. I no longer had to hide or worry about who I was. I hadn’t seen my biological family in years and each day that passed made it all that much better. Life could only get better from there on out. But a new sort of complication was headed my way, one that would make the following years incapable of truly being at peace or ever satisfied.

  What I would give to be in that sweet spot between escaped abuse and unending guilt and desire.

  I needed something nicer for Ms. Westfield than a whiteboard full of Persian cats and fancy lettering. Maybe she’d like some tattoo work done. She had to be in her sixties by now, but she was always a cool lady.

  “Ms. Westfield and her cats. She was one of my favorite teachers, but the constant trail of cat hair she left behind drove me a little batty at times.”

  I jumped, startled at the abrupt sound of Micah’s voice, but I didn’t turn around. Nor was I surprised. Speak of the devil. “Your ability to walk into locked rooms when people are trying to be by themselves has never been your best quality.”

  Micah didn’t answer as quickly as I thought he would, nor with his typical charm or bravado. The pause made me worry I’d hurt his feelings, and I tried to push that guilt away.

  His footsteps sounded closer, but I kept my focus on the whiteboard. Desire and frustration left me frozen.

  “What do you want me to do, Connor? You’ve been avoiding me ever since Charlie’s.”

  “That’s only a week. After being forced to sit and have dinner with you and your boyfriend, I think I’m entitled to a week alone, don’t you?” Goddammit, why was I angry? Even more so, why was I letting my voice betray that fact? I turned and found him sitting on one of the desks, his legs splayed, his hands resting between them, fingers curled over the edge. There were no lights on in the room, but the wall of windows allowed plenty of moonlight in. I’d give anything if I could see Micah just once and he not be the most beautiful man in the world. It would really help.

  Actually, it probably wouldn’t.

  There was a twitch of a smirk on his lips. Clearly I hadn’t even come close to hiding my reaction to him. “That shitshow at Charlie’s wasn’t my fault. Moses was the one wanting to eat with us.”

  I bristled instantly. “Don’t blame Moses.”

  “You know what—” Micah started to hop off the desk, temper flashing over his face, but then he shook his head and settled back to his original position. He didn’t finish his thought, but he let out a long breath.

  Fuck, I was being an ass. Obviously Micah blamed Moses for lots of things. But I also knew Micah well enough to be certain he fought that impulse every second of every day. We were both aware I was the one to blame. But the minute Moses had walked into my life, I’d latched on to the excuse he’d prov
ided. In my defense, it was the right call. The only call. It still was. “Sorry, Micah. You’re great with Moses, and you’ve done more for him than anybody.”

  He didn’t speak, but studied me for a little bit. His gaze traveled from me to the whiteboard, a different sort of smile playing on his lips, and then he sighed, the tension gone. “So, where is the mini-Connor tonight? I figured this would be way too much gayness to throw at him.”

  “You think?” I couldn’t hold back a derisive snort at that. “He’s babysitting Shawn Carlisle’s kids.”

  “I can see him being good at that. Not to mention, Moses isn’t afraid of hard work.”

  “That is true. But yes, he’s still thrown off by seeing two guys hold hands in real life. This would’ve been too much, way too much. Probably enough to send him running back to our stupid family for fear of hellfire overtaking the gym.” I’d had a similar reaction years ago, and I’d been younger, had more of a transition to it all. Moses was nearly an adult and had been plunged in headfirst.

  “You know they’re building the youth center close to where Adrian’s and my farm is, right?”

  I nodded. Just a little north of Olema, close to Inverness, close to my family—no, not my family, but close to the ones who shared my name and had given me life. The ones I’d managed not to speak to or see for nearly two decades. “Yeah.”

  Nothing else needed to be said. Mom’s location choice had been obvious. Choosing the spot right next to the place that had given her me and now Moses.

  Silence ticked by for a few moments, and when Micah smiled, a whisper of warning tingled through me. I could never figure out exactly what it was—the way his lips moved, some glint in his eye—even after all these years, but my body had. That switch in Micah’s demeanor, letting me know if I didn’t run as fast as I could, things were going to end up how I didn’t want them to. No… they’d end up exactly how I wanted them to, just not how they should. “So, Pete Marks, huh? I didn’t know you were a daddy chaser.”

  Despite myself, I laughed. “I think that would make me a grandpa chaser, don’t you?”

  Micah shrugged. “Point taken. Still, you’re not going to find a better guy than Pete Marks. You could do a lot worse.”

  How many times had we talked about dating or fucking other people, sometimes to convince ourselves it was over, at other times simply trying to hurt each other. Teasing about dating Pete was ludicrous enough to be pleasant. “Yeah, I was relieved he won.”

  “Oh, come on.” Micah rolled his eyes. “We both know you set that up in advance, though I don’t even want to know how many tattoo sessions you are going to have to do to pay for that.”

  I wasn’t going to try to deny it. “And every one of them will be well worth it.” Micah’s blue eyes studied me, and though there was Ms. Westfield’s desk between us I grew aware of how close we actually were. There were only two options, and the one I wanted most was to leap over the desk, tackle him, and fall to the floor. I chose the second, allowing a cruel tint to my words. “The guy who bought your boyfriend sure was attractive.”

  Micah stiffened.

  I could’ve stopped, but I didn’t. If I did, things really would end up the way I wanted them. “Seth with him right now? Getting his time over with?”

  “No.” His whisper was cold, angry. “He went home. I told him I was going to help the family take down all the decorations.”

  A variety of mean things flitted through my mind. Pointing out that Seth should’ve offered to stay and help—though I knew him well enough to bet he probably had, or asking if there was someone else waiting at home. Instead I chose to attack Micah. “Oh, so you lied to him.”

  He didn’t even flinch. This game was an old one, which we both played. “I’ll help. As soon we’re done here.”

  It seemed the game wasn’t working as well as it used to. I placed my hand on the top of Ms. Westfield’s desk, more to ground myself and ensure I stayed where I was as opposed to actually providing support. I tried again. “Still, I bet the date he has will be something. The two of them would be quite a pair.”

  The second the words left my mouth, I realized why the game wasn’t playing out as I’d intended. Why Micah wasn’t pissed and yelling at me. Reminding me that I was the reason for my own jealousy. That it was my fear and weakness that kept me miserable. Though my words were harsh and accusing, I was tempting him, taunting him.

  Fuck.

  Even though I knew it, was suddenly aware of it, I couldn’t stop. “Didn’t it bother you, watching him sell himself to the highest bidder?”

  Micah slid off the desk and slowly walked toward me. “Did it bother you? Having to arrange for Pete to buy you when it’s me you want?”

  He was at the edge of Ms. Westfield’s desk, a couple more steps and he’d be pressed up against me. It was enough to wake me up. Enough to give me the strength I needed. “Don’t do this, Micah. You’re dating Seth. He’s a great guy. He deserves better than this shit.”

  “We are open, you know that. Everyone knows that. That’s the only way Seth does relationships.” Micah closed the distance and came to a stop less than six inches from me. “Quit worrying about Seth.”

  One more try. “One of us has to.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Connor. You don’t get to play this both ways. The only reason I’m with Seth is your fucking fault.”

  The anger in Micah’s voice brought a wash of relief and regret. It worked. Crisis avoided.

  Micah took the final step, then with a quick motion raised both his hands to my chest and pushed.

  I stumbled back, crashing into the whiteboard, dry erase markers and erasers bouncing off their metal tray and falling to the floor. He’d never hit me in anger before, but maybe this was good. The beginning of the end. We could finally finish this. It would be a relief to have it done, a relief to have him take out his fury on me. I deserved it. I’d stolen so many years from him.

  He followed me in a rush, and I closed my eyes, preparing for the strike, welcoming it. Micah’s hands smashed against my chest again, but this time they stayed there for a moment and then began to move down my stomach.

  I opened my eyes in confusion, not seeing Micah’s furious face inches from mine like I expected. I glanced down, following the feel of his hands over my body, watched in mute surrender as he lowered himself to his knees.

  I’d failed. I’d given it my best, the game was over, and I’d failed.

  Micah didn’t look up, didn’t hesitate to ask for permission, just unbuttoned my jeans with a flick of his thumb and finger, then pulled the zipper down. In less than a heartbeat, he had my pants around my knees and my cock in his mouth.

  The wet heat of him surrounding my hardness was nearly as known to me as my own hand, and the sound of his groan as he tasted me had reached my ears countless times before, and both drove me wild. I clenched my fingers in his silken dark blond hair and held tight, instantly thrusting into his mouth, fucking his full lips hungrily. It had been so long, so very long. Nearly a year since I felt him.

  Nearly a year, we’d done so well. And we were fucking it up.

  I let go of his hair and sidestepped, pulling free from his mouth, his teeth scraping against my cock at the sudden motion. “No, Micah. We can’t do this. We can stop right now. It won’t fuck up anything.”

  As Micah stood, he pulled his polo over his head and dropped it to the floor. “I thought I told you to shut the fuck up.”

  As familiar as the feel of his mouth on me, the sounds of his arousal, and the sight of his stunning shirtless body were, the emotion in his words was new, and it gave me pause.

  The game had worked. He was furious. Angrier than I’d ever heard. But beneath the growl, his desperation called to me. The hurt he’d endured over our separation screamed out to my own, and I had no choice but to answer.

  I crashed into him, wrapping my arm around his neck and crushing our lips and bodies together.

  Micah dug his fingers into my back and th
en managed to grip my skin. It hurt. But God, I didn’t care, I just needed to feel him again. No matter what he was doing to my body, as long as his hands were on me, as long as his lips were on me, as long as his skin touched mine.

  There was no clarity in the sensations, everything was a tangle of arms and legs, tongues and lips. In the midst of the chaos, the rest of our clothes disappeared, and then I was the one on my knees, taking Micah’s long thick cock into my mouth and down my throat. The salty tang of him only ignited my suppressed hunger.

  Everything vanished, the town, my past, my present, the classroom. Moses and Seth were no more. Micah was no longer my brother. Our matching tattoos identifying us as family faded from our skin.

  It was just Micah. Just me.

  He was just the man I loved and lusted over for years, the man no one else had ever been able to measure up against. The one who set my heart on fire and my soul at peace.

  And I needed him. Needed him to fill me. Feel his release over my tongue, down my throat. To take him inside of me, to own him, possess him.

  No impulse of giving him pleasure or making it last cut through my frenzy. I skewered myself over his cock, shoving him deep into my throat, gagging, and then doing it again, never pulling back for breath or thought.

  “Oh, that’s how I want it.” His large calloused hands gripped my hair as he fucked into me. “Fuck, yes, Connor. Take my load.” Micah held my head still, stopping my rhythm as he turned loose, causing me to gag more. “Yes. Yes. Take it.”

  Then he was spilling down my throat. His cries from above me mingled with the sound of me trying to catch my breath while swallowing him down, refusing to lose a drop of him.

  He thrust, and then thrust again. His swollen cock throbbing in my mouth; each surge of come bringing me closer to my own edge, though I hadn’t even touched myself. A final thrust and he pulled free.

  I looked up at him from my kneeling position, panting. I expected to see him slack against the desk, spent. Maybe guilt already rising. It wasn’t. If anything, the heat in his expression had become an inferno.