Copyright © 2021 by Patricia D. Eddy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons or events are purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Deranged Doctor Design
Cover Photography: Paul Henry Serres
Contents
Just for you
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Patricia D. Eddy
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Chapter One
Eight Years Ago
Graham
Draining my second bottle of beer, I glance around the crowded bar. I don’t know why I let Oskar and Simon talk me into this. But it’s New Year’s Eve, and in two days, we’ll be headed to Alaska. My bunkmates wanted to party, and they dragged me along—probably because they know I’ll get them back to the cutter on time.
Assuming I can find them. The music is loud enough, I feel it in my gut. This isn’t my scene. All night I’ve had to fend off drunk advances from chicks who just want a night with a guy in uniform.
One of them—she couldn’t have been more than nineteen—was so aggressive, I finally had to tell her I bat for the other team. She spent a full five minutes cursing me out for “leading her on.” The fuck? I ignored her for an hour. Didn’t tell her my name. Just a polite, “Sorry, I’m not interested.” Over and over again.
It takes more than ten minutes of fighting through drunk revelers to find Oskar. “Dude, we need to head back.”
“It’s almost midnight, Peck. Live a little.” His words slur, his arm draped around a tall, willowy woman with jet black hair.
“Yeah,” his companion says. “Have a little fun. Want to come join us in the back?”
Oh, hell no. Holding up my hands, I shake my head. “Not my thing. But you two have fun.” Before I start looking for Simon, I lean in so I can shout in Oskar’s ear. “I’ll be outside in fifteen minutes. You’re not there in twenty, you can find your own way back to the cutter.”
He toasts me with his beer bottle seconds before he and his “date” start sucking face.
Simon, Oskar, and I aren’t close. Then again, I’m not tight with anyone on board. It’s easier that way. No need to make up a story about the girl back home or brag about past conquests that never happened.
I’m not sure why I agreed to come out with them tonight—except we’re shipping out in forty-eight hours, and this is my last chance to see the inside of a civilian bar for at least two months.
Simon’s nowhere to be found, so I make my way to the door just as the DJ announces it’s one minute until midnight.
Spilling out onto the sidewalk with the rest of the overflow, I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket and breathe in the foggy San Francisco air. Everyone else is cheering, hugging, and kissing, but I find a spot against the wall and try to ignore the party happening all around me.
A big, burly guy—probably the bouncer—gives me the side eye, and I shrug. “No one to kiss at midnight.”
He scoffs. “Coast Guard? You’re not looking hard enough, man. Plenty of ladies in there who’d be all over you.”
I glance around, then lean in. Between the look in his eyes and the slight bulge in his tight black pants that I know wasn’t there a second ago, he’s sending signals like a fucking beacon. “Ladies don’t do it for me.”
As the whole bar shouts, “Three, two, one,” the bouncer fists my jacket and pulls me in for one quick, hard kiss. It’s nothing but heat and the pressure of his lips crushing mine, and for all of three seconds, I lose myself to it. To him.
Until I realize where I am. In public. In uniform. With two of my bunkmates inside.
My shoulders hike up, and I press my palms to the bouncer’s massive chest. “Sorry...bad idea,” I manage, then add, “Happy New Year.”
His cheeks, already flushed from the cold, turn beet red, and he steps back. “Thought I caught a vibe, man.”
“You did. But…you know. Doesn’t change anything.” I can’t muster much of a smile as I peer back inside, hoping Oskar and Simon aren’t right there. “If you see two guys dressed like me stumbling out of here in the next few minutes, send them south. I’m heading for the light rail station.”
“Sure.”
I haven’t kissed anyone on New Year’s Eve in years. Five steps down the street, I turn. “Bad idea or not...that was hot as fuck.”
He flashes me a killer smile before focusing his attention on a couple of drunks starting to get loud behind him. Not more than two blocks later, the fog so thick I can only see a foot in front of me, the punch comes out of nowhere.
“Get his hands!”
I can’t see anything but white as I’m thrown to the ground. Someone jerks my arms behind my back, and the distinct sound of a belt buckle flaps seconds before the leather’s wrapped around my wrists.
My cheek lands in a pile of dog shit, and the sound it makes squishing into my ear when a boot presses to my temple is one I know I’ll never forget.
“Let’s give this piece of fairy garbage what he deserves,” another angry male voice says from above me.
“Let me go, assholes,” I manage and kick, trying to catch one of them—any of them—somewhere vital.
“You’re not going anywhere, pretty boy. Except into the dumpster when we’re done with you.”
The boot to my side steals my breath, and the distinct crack of bone and lance of pain reminds me of the time I fell out of a tree when I was eight. At least one rib. Maybe two.
Then they’re all around me. Punching. Shoving. Ripping my pants and yanking them down to my ankles. Exposing my ass. There are too many of them. Time stops as they take turns doing their worst. I don’t know what they use. Don’t want to know. Things mostly. Bottles. A pipe, maybe. Until the end. Until everything’s dark and red with pain.
And then someone shouts. I know that voice. The bouncer.
“Hey. Get the fuck off of him!”
There’s a punch. A groan. Scuffling. Swears. And then it’s almost quiet and a big hand touches my shoulder. “They’re gone. I’m calling 911.”
“No...” I manage, but I can’t lift my head. Or see. One of my eyes is swo
llen shut and the other...there’s too much blood.
“You’re torn up, man. Sorry. You don’t get a choice.” The bouncer doesn’t let go of me as I start to shake, shock and fear mixing together until I hear sirens and give in to my body’s uncontrollable urge to retreat somewhere dark and warm where nothing else can hurt me.
The call to the staff duty NCO is one of the hardest I’ve ever had to make. Because he asks why I’m in the hospital. Details about my injuries. Whether I’m fit to return to duty. And why the assholes targeted me in the first place.
It doesn’t matter that I’m allowed to serve. That the Coast Guard makes a big, official deal about accepting everyone these days. There are still too many guys ready and willing to protest. Guys who would love to hassle me. To make my life a living hell.
I could lie, but the bouncer filed a police report. Mike—I only found out his name hours later when the police came to question me—was doing his job. Hell, he probably saved my life, and if I thought I could handle seeing him, I’d track him down and thank him. But that report...that public record? It’s the end of my career.
Thirty-Six Months Ago
Quinton
Water pours down the windows in sheets. February in Dallas is always a crapshoot, and today, it’s like a monsoon. The Dallas Bystander—a little alternative weekly newspaper—has its offices on the tenth floor of one of the city’s older buildings, and the glass rattles in the frames as the wind picks up.
But from the owner’s desk, where I’m currently sitting while troubleshooting his crappy internet speeds, I can see half the city.
Not a bad place to be.
“Any luck?” Frank asks as he picks up his briefcase.
“Your system’s all kinds of jacked up,” I reply before catching myself. “Sorry, Mr. Smythe. I just mean—”
He chuckles. “Relax, Quinton. I’d be more concerned if it worked perfectly for you. Take your time. I have a meeting downtown. I won’t be back for at least a couple of hours.”
With a mock salute, he grabs his rain coat and heads for the door, leaving me to do my job in peace.
I’ve only worked for the Bystander for two months. It’s a good job, though the salary isn’t great. I could make more with one of the large tech firms in the area. But last year, the stress of being on call 24x7 caught up with me, and the breakdown it caused? Epic. I’ll take the pay cut to work in an environment where no one needs me to fix their entire network at 2:00 a.m. Plus, this job gives me enough spare time to pursue my passion—an anti-anxiety phone app I think could really help people.
Little by little, I chip away at the truly amazing amount of random electronic crap Frank has on his laptop. The anti-virus basically laughed at me when I asked it to run the first time.
“Well, that’s got to go,” I mutter as I find yet another folder full of temporary files that are taking up more than ten percent of his hard drive. I’ve rarely seen one person screw up their computer this badly.
Leaning back in his chair, I let the anti-virus have another run at the system while I watch the rain. I wanted to go out tonight. Check out the new bar on Sixth. It’s supposed to be quiet. A good place to meet another guy and actually talk rather than just grind away on the dance floor or hook up for anonymous sex. I don’t do well in crowds, and though I’ve met a few guys I liked enough to see multiple times over the past few years, none of them were long-term relationship material.
Midway through my thirties, the idea of a one-night stand doesn’t do it for me like it used to. I want more. Something real.
The program errors out with a beep, and I dig through the logs to find out why. “Huh? What the hell...?”
Buried four levels deep, there’s a folder named _Recycle Bin. It’s the underscore that catches my eye. And the size. Whatever’s in there is consuming a quarter of his hard drive space.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The second I open it, I wish I hadn’t. Kids. Pictures of kids. Thousands of them. And they’re...not good pictures. Not legal ones. Photos no one should have ever taken.
My stomach cramps. I slam the lid down on Frank’s laptop and race for the bathroom, barely making it into the stall before I throw up.
What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just ignore what I saw. Those are someone’s kids. A lot of someone’s kids.
Fifteen minutes pass before I’m no longer retching, and I stagger to the sink to rinse out my mouth. Thank God the office is quiet today. Only two of the reporters are at their desks. Everyone else is either out covering a story or working from home.
Back in Frank’s office, I take out my tablet, open a program to mask my identity, and then Google “what to do if you find child pornography on your boss’s computer.”
Every link tells me to call the police. I know it’s the right thing to do. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. And I’ll never be able to look Frank in the eyes again.
I don’t touch his laptop. Leaving it closed, I head for one of the little privacy booths we have set up around the office for employees who need to make phone calls they don’t want overheard.
I hate being in these things. Claustrophobia, coupled with my already raging panic, makes my chest tight, and I can’t take a steady breath. After I pop one of the fast-acting anti-anxiety pills I always have on me, I close my eyes and rest my head against the back wall.
You can do this. Focus. In. Out. In. Out.
When I no longer feel like I’m about to pass out, I look up the number for the Dallas PD.
I’m going to ruin a man’s life. But those kids? Their lives are more important.
“This is the Dallas Police Department, how may I direct your call?” the bored sounding man on the other end of the line says.
“Um, I need to report someone for possession of child pornography.”
Six weeks later
No one says goodbye. With my small box of personal effects tucked under my arm, I leave the Bystander for the last time.
I know I wasn’t here long, but I liked my coworkers. I thought they liked me too. But apparently getting our boss put away on more than five hundred separate counts of possession of child pornography didn’t endear me to them. No one at the paper believed me. I’ve heard variations of “There’s no way Frank would ever...” a dozen times.
Along with being called a snitch, a rat, a piece of shit, and a cocksucker. That last one…I do enjoy sucking cock—assuming it belongs to someone I’m dating—but I doubt it was meant as a compliment. Especially since the guy who said it punched me in the face a half-second later.
At least there won’t be a trial. My panic attacks have been bad enough just dealing with the police, the FBI, and my own lawyer. Frank, for all his faults, owned up to what he did and asked for psychological counseling. He even helped the FBI find the assholes who took those pictures in the first place. Two dozen kids are a hell of a lot safer now because of it.
He’s still going to jail for fifteen years, but supposedly, his deal got him assigned to a better facility where he won’t be confined to a cell for twenty-two hours a day.
At the elevator, I pause and look around the office one last time. No one meets my gaze. Especially not the new Editor-in-Chief. Frank was his mentor, and when Will suggested I find another job? I didn’t argue. He can’t make me leave—we both know it. But why would I stay where I’m not wanted?
The doors ding, and I meet a pair of curious gray eyes. The man smiles as he asks me for my floor, then runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair. He’s cute. Mid-forties.
“Lobby,” I say quietly, then stare down at the box in my hands.
“Last day?” the guy asks. His voice is gentle, almost sympathetic. “I work upstairs at Anderson Investments. I’ve seen you around before.”
“Y-yeah. Time to try something new,” I mumble. I don’t want to talk about the hell of the last six weeks or how the only job I could find on such short notice was at a call center out in Plano. Hiring a lawyer—wh
ich my older brother, Connor, insisted I do—decimated my savings, and I’m still at least six months away from having an app prototype I can shop around to investors. Or release all on my own.
The rest of the ride passes in silence, and when we reach the lobby, I try for a quick escape, but instead, a gentle hand touches my arm. “I’ve never been very good at this,” the guy says. “Every time I’ve seen you in the elevator, I’ve wanted to say something, but…y’know. What if I were wrong?” He waggles his eyebrows hopefully, and I know what he means.
It’s not like I wear my sexuality on my sleeve or have some bright flashing light over my head that says, “I’m gay and available.”
When I don’t respond or pull away, he smiles again. “I’m Alec. Maybe you’d like to get a drink with me sometime?”
“Quinton.” I don’t think before I reply. But now, I don’t know what else to say. “Thanks, but I just got fired.” Or maybe, “You sure about that? According to my former coworkers, I’m a piece of shit.”
“Quinton. I like it. Do you ever go by Quint?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “So…what about it? I know a place. Quiet. Intimate. Drinks that are only moderately overpriced. What do you say?”
With a little shake of my head, I take a step back. “I can’t, Alec. I’m sorry. I’m not in a good headspace right now.”
Stupid, Q. He’s hot, he seems nice, and you haven’t had a real date in six months.
Alec’s smile fades. He pulls out a business card, leans forward, and tucks it into my pocket. “Well, if you change your mind…give me a call. I’ll miss seeing you in the elevator.” He backs away, watching me the whole time until he reaches the building’s front doors. “Always did enjoy the view.”
Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Page 1
