Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone

by Patricia D. Eddy

I have enough mobility and strength to take care of my morning needs, but that’s about it. My legs are shaking by the time I’m back in the wheelchair, and I’m a little dizzy.

  Rolling myself out to the main room leaves my arms feeling like limp noodles. Every day, the trip is harder than the day before. Shouldn’t I be getting stronger by now? I need to ask Alec to check the wheel locks again.

  “Pancakes,” he says as he sets a plate in front of me, then leans down and kisses me. No matter how many times we fight, this is one thing we do well. The man can kiss like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s going for the gold medal. Even if I do hate pancakes. They get soggy. “Here are your meds.”

  Four pills tumble into my palm, and Alec nudges the glass of juice on the right side of the plate.

  Oxycontin for the nerve pain. Prozac for the anxiety I can’t seem to shake. A multi-vitamin, and…something else. Why can’t I remember what the last one is? “Alec? What is this one?” I ask, holding up a little white pill.

  “You ask me that every morning, love,” he says as he sits next to me. “It’s a mix of homeopathic herbs for pain and mental clarity. Don’t you remember Dr. Trax coming a few weeks ago?” Pulling out his phone, he taps the screen a few times and shows me smiling next to an older man with a kindly face and hair as white as his doctor’s coat.

  “No. I mean…maybe?” The memories are fuzzy. All of my memories are fuzzy. Trax’s hands were cold. He tested my range of motion. Said I needed more medication.

  The accident destroyed my back. Stole my ability to walk. But that’s not all. My mind will never be what it was. A tear burns my eye, and Alec cups the back of my neck and wipes it away. “It’s okay, Quint. I’m here, and I’ll never leave you. I love you.”

  He loves me. That’s the one thing I haven’t lost. I still matter to him. So why does it feel like he’s holding something back? That behind his earnest blue eyes and encouraging smile, there’s something he’s not telling me?

  “It’s fucked.” My voice cracks as I slam the lid down on my laptop. “I can’t remember how to do anything, Alec. It’s right there!” I slap my palm against my forehead like I can shake all my former skills loose if I just hit myself hard enough. “I was so close...before. I think I was just a couple of days away from a prototype.”

  “You had an idea. Some buggy code,” Alec says. “Nothing workable yet. Why don’t you take a break? We can check out that new Netflix special on social media.”

  Alec starts to massage my shoulders, his strong fingers stroking the sides of my neck where the muscles feel like rubber bands about to snap. “You’ve been at this all day, love. It’s not good for you to hunch over your laptop for hours on end.”

  He presses a thin, filmy square behind my ear, and in seconds, the world turns soft and a little fuzzy. The pain patches keep me from dissolving into tears every six hours, but I hate how they make me feel—like nothing matters anymore.

  And then I’m moving. Alec wheels me into the living room, scoops me into his arms, and settles me on the couch with him. I don’t protest. Just let him do what he wants. Pick what we watch on TV. Decide when to pause Netflix and start to fool around—as much as I can without being able to walk.

  And when the show’s over, I can’t remember what it was about, because all I want to do is sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Quinton

  “Pancakes,” Alec announces as he sets the plate in front of me. “And your pills. Drink up, love.”

  Every day, it’s the same dance. Pancakes. Pills. Alec’s overconfident smile. My sullen obedience. I hate this. Hate my life. Hate being trapped in this chair, in this condo, in this relationship.

  What am I saying? Alec loves me. He takes care of me.

  Get it together, Q. You need Alec. How the hell would you survive on your own?

  Staring at the pills, I can’t remember what they’re all for, but I know I don’t want to take them. Alec nudges me again, and I pick up the glass of juice. A fine, white powder dusts a part of the rim. This...isn’t right. None of this is right.

  “If he works hard at his physical therapy, there’s a chance he can regain most of his strength and muscle control.”

  I can’t place the voice in my head. Is this a memory or just wishful thinking?

  “He’s not ready to leave the hospital yet, Mr. Harrow. If you check him out now, the damage could be irreversible.”

  “He’s coming home with me today,” Alec says. “I’m the only one who can take care of him.”

  I swallow the Oxycontin with a sip of juice. My back is throbbing, and the pain zinging down my legs feels like that one time I stuck my finger in the light socket when I was six. Within a few minutes, the voices in my head: the doctors, Alec, someone else…my brother, I think…start to fade into nothingness. Replaced by a pounding that can only be a migraine starting. I never used to get them, but since the accident, they happen every couple of days.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Alec mutters as he pushes back from the table, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

  There’s someone here? This isn’t all in my head?

  Alec’s voice carries from the door. “Go away. He doesn’t want to see you.”

  Huh? Who’s he talking to? Though the Oxy is starting to make me a little light headed, I back my chair up, spin it around, and wheel myself towards the door.

  “Quinton!”

  “Connor?” My brother shoves his shoulder against the sleek, black wood and Alec stumbles back a couple of steps. He’s a big guy. Strong enough to lift me out of bed every morning, carry me to the couch at night, help me bathe…all the things I can’t do for myself. But he’s not as big as Connor. My brother has at least fifty pounds of muscle on Alec, and from the look in his eyes, he’s pissed as hell.

  Connor sidesteps my boyfriend and drops down to one knee next to my wheelchair. “Quinton, you look awful.”

  My eyes burn, and I reach out to hug him. “I’ve sent you a hundred messages,” I say quietly, barely able to control the emotion in my voice. “Where have you been?”

  I don’t understand the shadow that passes over his face, but he stands and puts himself between me and Alec. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay the fuck out of my way. Quinton is coming with me, and you’re never going to contact him again.”

  “What?” I ask. “Connor, Alec has been doing everything for me. I…need him.” Even as I say the words, something about them makes my stomach turn. I’m nauseous, my head hurts, and I don’t understand why the two of them are staring one another down like they’re about to kill each other.

  “Everything?” Connor snorts. “The doctor wanted you in physical therapy five days a week. You haven’t been once!” He scans the living room, spies my laptop, and grabs it, along with the power cord, then shoves them into my lap. “Your chances of walking again? They were upwards of eighty percent when this asshole checked you out of the hospital. How many steps have you taken since then?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  Alec springs for my brother and lands a punch, but Connor doesn’t go down. Blood stains his lips, and he swears and wipes it away. “Is that the best you got?”

  “Stop it! Both of you!” My words feel slow and unwieldy, and it’s like I’m seeing Connor through ten feet of water as he rounds my chair and starts pushing me out the door.

  “Come at me again, and you’ll be the one in a wheelchair, asshole. You fucked with the wrong family.”

  Everything’s happening too fast. Nothing makes sense. But the door slams and then...we’re in an elevator.

  “This building doesn’t have an elevator,” I slur, and Connor crouches down once the doors slide shut.

  “Q, this building has always had an elevator. I didn’t believe you before the accident. Hell, I was on Alec’s side. He said all the right things, and I was positive you were having a breakdown. But I picked up a box of your shit from your old landlord last week, and...”

  The doors
slide open, and we’re moving again. Outside. Fuck. I can’t be outside.

  “It’s dangerous out there, Quint. Up here, you’re safe.”

  My breath saws in and out of my chest as Connor wheels me to a black car, opens the door, and lifts me into the front seat.

  “Connor…please.” I can’t breathe. “Back…inside.”

  “No.” After he fastens my seatbelt, he puts his hands on my shoulders. “In and out, Quinton. Listen to my voice. You’re safe. In. Out. In…out.”

  Once I no longer feel like I’m about to pass out, he shuts the door, leaving my wheelchair on the curb.

  “But...I need that...” I say when he takes his place behind the wheel.

  “You don’t need a fucking thing from that asshole. I’m sorry it took me so long to come for you. But you’re going to be okay now.” Connor guns the engine and after we’ve made three turns and I have no clue where we are, he stops at a red light and glances over at me. “I found your journal, Q. Your landlord called me. When Alec packed up your apartment, he left a bunch of shit behind. Dad’s old pocket watch, that ceramic Christmas tree with the glass lights, and this.” Pulling a small leather notebook from his pocket, he sets it in my lap.

  I have to squint to read it, but the handwriting is most definitely mine.

  Alec is a classic narcissist. It’s possible he also has Antisocial Personality Disorder. He doesn’t feel emotions like normal people, but he’s great at faking them. He’s using you, and when he’s done with you, he’ll find another victim and leave you with nothing. You have to break it off with him. Tonight.

  “Look at the date,” Connor says quietly.

  My brain hasn’t worked right since my accident, but the date it happened? I’ll never forget it. And on that page, it’s staring back at me.

  “Fuck.” I let my head fall against the seat, panic wrapping a chain around my chest and twisting until I’m not sure my heart’s still beating. “How...?”

  “Quinton? Calm down.” My brother reaches across the center console and presses his hand to my heart. “We’re going somewhere Alec won’t ever find you. You’re going to walk again, and we’re going to make sure that fucker goes to jail for a very, very long time.”

  That somewhere turned out to be an emergency room in Fort Worth where Connor demanded the doctors run every test under the sun to find out exactly what Alec was giving me.

  Eight hours later, he wheels me into an accessible suite at a five-star hotel. I’m exhausted, and I still can’t think straight, but right now, I suspect that’s more from hunger than anything else.

  Connor drops down into the chair at the polished wood desk and flips through a binder. “What do you want to eat?”

  “Huh?” The question confuses me, even though I know it shouldn’t. But for more than eight months, Alec made all the decisions.

  “Quinton?” Connor holds my gaze, the seriousness in his dark blue eyes helping me focus. “You have to be hungry. What do you want for dinner?”

  “I…” Panic sets in again. Most of what the doctor told us before they discharged me didn’t make any sense, and I can barely feel my legs after the cortisone shot they gave me. “I don’t…”

  “Breathe. Count backwards from ten. Right now.”

  My brother was in the army for more than a decade. He knows how to get people to listen to him, and the command in his tone? It snaps me back to reality.

  By the time I reach one, my hands have stopped shaking. “S-sorry,” I whisper.

  “Don’t apologize.” Connor squeezes my shoulder gently. “Just tell me what you want for dinner.”

  “A cheeseburger. And fries. With ketchup.” Alec hated red meat. And ketchup. And anything unhealthy. “And a Coke.” Soda. Another thing I haven’t had in forever.

  “You got it.”

  With each greasy, cheesy bite of food, the world’s a little clearer. No longer in soft focus like it’s been since my accident. I can’t finish the meal, but I don’t care. It was still the best food I’ve had in…a long time.

  “What did he give me?” I ask quietly. “At the hospital…I don’t remember what they said…”

  Connor pulls a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his Wranglers and spreads it out on the table. “Scopolamine, primarily, but also something called temazepam. They’re used for motion sickness and insomnia, but in high enough doses, the two—hell, even one of them—can act a lot like rohypnol. The date rape drug?”

  “Shit. Is that why everything’s fuzzy?”

  Running a hand through his short-cropped brown hair, Connor sighs. “You cracked your skull in two places when you fell. But the brain scans you had before Alec checked you out of the hospital didn’t show any long-term damage. I talked to your attending physician two days ago, and he told Alec if you went to physical therapy and worked the program, you’d regain most of your mobility.”

  “So when you said I’d walk again…” I can’t finish the sentence. Because it’s been months. What if it’s too late?

  “There’s a room waiting for you at a long-term rehab facility in Arlington,” he says. “They’re the best in the state. Psychological counseling, physical therapy, and top-notch security. I’ve sent a couple of my guys there. Including one who had a mob hit out on him. No one’s getting to you at Thatcher House.”

  The idea of going somewhere new terrifies me, but I want out of this damn chair so badly I can taste it. “A room?”

  “Well, it’s more like a small apartment.” He moves to one of the two beds in the room with an open suitcase I hadn’t noticed before. Of course, I hadn’t looked either. I’m used to not looking. Used to not thinking for myself. Used to letting Alec control everything. Pulling out a brochure, Connor hands it to me.

  “I can’t just…live with you for a while?” I hate how desperate I sound. We’re not close. Hell, I don’t even know what he does for a living beyond something for the government.

  Connor shakes his head, but his eyes are soft. Almost apologetic. “I don’t know the first thing about what you need, Quinton. Other than a hell of a lot of counseling and a team of doctors on your side. You’ll get that at Thatcher House. And I’ll check on you.”

  Rummaging in his suitcase again, he comes up with a brand new cell phone still in the box. “My number’s already programmed in here. You can reach me twenty-four hours a day. And that phone isn’t registered in your name. Or any name traceable to me. Mom…I’ll bring her to visit you in a couple of weeks. But not until I’m sure she understands just how important it is that she never, ever breathe a word about you to Alec.”

  This entire day has been wave after wave of reality crashing down on me. I can’t handle any more. When the first sob escapes, Connor scoots his chair close to mine and wraps his arms around me. “You’re safe now, Q. And you’re going to get better. I promise.”

  The sterile gray walls in one of Thatcher House’s three little meeting rooms feel like they’re closing in on me. Across the table, my lawyer, Randall Sunstrom, removes a small stack of papers from a manilla folder.

  “As we discussed, Quinton, this order of protection won’t stop Mr. Harrow from harassing you. But it will make it a crime for him to do so. Whether or not the police choose to do anything about that crime...well...”

  My stomach twists into knots. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s been one giant knot since Connor first introduced me to Randall.

  “Just need your signature.”

  My fingers are shaking so much, I drop the pen twice. As I pick it up for the third time, the meeting room door slams open, and I jerk, sending a spasm of pain from my back all the way down my legs.

  “What the hell are we paying you for, Sunstrom?” Connor shouts, his massive presence sucking all the air from the room in a heartbeat.

  “Excuse me?” he asks.

  “You can’t charge that bastard with anything? He kept Quinton prisoner for more than two months. He drugged him, locked him up in that condo, and kept him trapped in a w
heelchair!”

  Randall pushes to his feet, though he’s at least six inches shorter than my brother. “Mr. Davis, as I told your brother, Mr. Harrow didn’t technically break any laws.”

  “The hell he didn’t!”

  “Connor.” My voice isn’t much more than a whisper, and I can’t look my brother in the face. But he stops and turns to me. “Randall’s right.”

  “How? Q, you were barely lucid when I got you out of there.”

  “I never said no.”

  “What?” Dropping into a chair next to me, Connor rests his elbow on the table. “Explain.”

  Shame curls my shoulders inward, and I fidget with the RFID bracelet that opens the various doors in and out of the facility. “You read my journal.”

  “So? He’s a sociopath. He doesn’t have a conscience. That doesn’t excuse what he did.”

  “Of course not!” When I raise my voice, Connor’s eyes widen. I haven’t yelled at him since I was a little kid. Back then, he could ignore me. “But I didn’t say no.” Memories hit me in flashes. Alec’s voice. The taste of the pills on my tongue. Him lifting me out of bed and dumping me into the wheelchair. Every. Single. Day. Panic tightens cold fingers around my heart, and I pull out the little tin of Xanax I keep in the pocket of my sweatpants and swallow one dry.

  Randall, thank God, clears his throat. “At no time did Mr. Harrow force Quinton to take medication against his will or stop him from leaving the condo. If Quinton had been in a long-term care facility, we might have a case for medical negligence. But not with their prior established relationship.”

  I flinch at the word. Relationship. I’ll never trust someone with my heart again. I can walk now. Not well. Not for long. But one day, maybe I won’t need the walker I used to shuffle down the hall from my room. The cane I use on my good days. The muscle relaxers.

  Connor jerks to his feet and starts pacing the room. “Two months. That asshole had Quinton for two months. And the best you can do is a fucking restraining order.”