I gave up on friends a long time ago. And people in general. Thanks again for the ice cream. - Q
Chapter Seven
Quinton
A little after noon, my watch timer goes off, and I swat at it like it’s a mosquito about to bite me. Clementine opens one eye from the little cat bed I put next to my computer monitor.
“No, it’s not dinner time.”
With a big sigh, she goes back to sleep. I swear, this kitten is the most melodramatic creature on the planet. But she’s been my constant companion since I first rescued her, and when I freak out, she helps calm me down.
I need to get up. To move. No matter how much it hurts. When Connor saved me, I couldn’t manage more than a couple of steps at a time. Now, on my good days, I can do almost everything I used to—except run and balance on one foot.
Today’s not a good day, though, and I repeat one of the mantras that help keep me motivated when the pain’s at its worst.
You’re strong. You survived. Don’t let him win.
An electric shock zings down my left leg as I brace myself on the arms of the chair, forcing me to blow out a deep breath. My physical therapist would tell me to take a pain pill, but they make me feel loopy, and I can’t let my judgement be compromised in any way.
The last time I took one, I found myself on his Facebook page. My intention? Make sure he was still living in Dallas. But I wasn’t being careful, and almost hit the message button. I flushed all the pills down the toilet after that.
Another two minutes, and I’m standing. Wrapping my hands around the handles of my walker, I shuffle slowly and deliberately down the short hallway to the first floor bedroom. I converted the space into a home gym not long after moving in. Well, I didn’t, but two of my PT’s friends did.
Cursing at the treadmill as I climb on, I set it for the ridiculously low speed of two miles an hour and flip on the little television mounted on the wall.
One episode of The Office and I can stop.
Each step sends more sparks racing up and down my back and legs, but by the time the show’s over, my muscles have loosened up enough that I’m almost steady.
“You’ll never be a hundred percent again, Quinton,” Jack, my rehab coordinator, says to me as I stare out the window at the rain. “But if you keep working the program when you get out of here, you can probably make it to a solid seventy.”
“What the fuck is seventy percent?” I spit out. “Only falling three out of every ten steps? Because that’s not acceptable. I want my life back.”
My life. Back then—two months after I escaped Alec—I thought I’d have a life again. Snorting as I flip off the TV, I make it to the weight bench without the walker, and sink down to start working my quads.
After every exercise, I make notes in the little booklet I share with my current PT, Manny. He’s the best in Seattle, and while I can barely afford him, he’s one of the few therapists who offers in-home visits. I need to take back control of my own body. To feel something close to normal again. Alec didn’t just steal months of my life. He robbed me of something even more precious.
Any hope of trusting myself—or anyone else—ever again.
The client I’ve been working for this past month is thrilled with the website I built, and our final video call is tinged with a hint of sadness on my end. Each time I finish a project and say goodbye to these small glimpses into the outside world—into other people’s worlds—I fight a new bout of depression. A fresh reminder that I’m alone and always will be.
At least I already have two new projects lined up that will carry me through the holidays. The idea of spending those dark months all alone—the short days, the endless nights—leaves me hollow.
If I were stronger...
No. Don’t go there, Q.
“If you need anything else, Rebecca,” I say, forcing my smile to match the client’s expression on screen, “you know how to reach me.”
“Quinton?” Her eyes narrow slightly, and she leans closer to her camera. “You take care of yourself now. I mean it. While I appreciate you making time for me on a Saturday, weekends should be for relaxing. I’m going to need your help again in February, and you’d better not still be so pale. Get some sun. Take a vacation. Anything but work yourself to death.” Rebecca carries herself like a grandmother, despite not being much older than I am, and when she shakes her finger at me, I chuckle.
“I’ll try. I promise. I have you all scheduled for the second Monday in February, and I’ll send over the contract by the end of next week. Don’t forget to tell me when you announce the rebrand so I can help you spread the word.”
We say our goodbyes, and before I shut down my workstation, my gaze flicks to my email.
Nothing new. Not from anyone I want to talk to, anyway.
Like Graham.
The words bounce around in my head before I can stop them. Followed quickly by self-loathing and frustration.
Well, maybe if you hadn’t been a dick to him... For fuck’s sake, Q. How would you feel if someone tracked you down from an ice cream receipt?
Answer? I would have fallen into a panic attack so severe, nothing would have been able to pull me out. Before I moved to Seattle, my brother and my lawyer helped set me up with a new identity. Quinton Davis disappeared, and Quinton Silver was “born.” Along with a corporation—Silver Star Technologies—that signed the lease on this townhouse, pays the utilities, and handles all of my banking needs. There’s no way Alec should ever be able to find me, but that doesn’t stop me from looking over my shoulder—figuratively—every single day.
And yet, I tracked down a guy who didn’t give me his last name just because he brought me ice cream. I should have known better. Hell, I shouldn’t have messaged him at all. My time with Alec not only left me physically broken, it shrunk my world down to these four walls. I lost most of my friends to that asshole’s lies. The few who stuck around? Or who led me to believe they stuck around? Well, I messaged one of them before I left the rehab facility for Seattle, and two days later, Alec showed up at Thatcher House, demanding to see me. The security guards called the police, but the officers didn’t want to do a damn thing—even though he’d violated the restraining order I had against him.
“He didn’t threaten you, Mr. Davis.”
“The security guards had to subdue him! When he finally agreed to leave the building, he sat in his car across the street staring at Thatcher House for three hours. How is that not a threat?”
“Don’t engage with him and you’ll be fine.”
I’m never going to engage with Alec again. But that means cutting off contact with anyone who might even think he’s an okay guy. And narcissists? Sociopaths? They can fool almost anyone—for a while.
Shutting down my computer, I head for the kitchen. I can’t even handle microwaving a frozen dinner tonight. After filling Clementine’s bowl, I pull the rest of the mint chip out of the freezer and head upstairs. A Netflix marathon is all I have the energy for.
Graham
After eight fucking hours at Hidden Agenda running drill after drill after drill, all I want is a beer and a couple of slices of pizza from Big Mario’s. And to get my head on straight.
Quinton’s last email burned itself into my brain, and I can’t stop thinking about him.
“I gave up on friends a long time ago. And people in general.”
What the hell happened to this guy that he doesn’t have friends? Or…anyone in his life?
The line at Big Mario’s is out the door, so I pull out my phone and switch over to my email. I shouldn’t reply. He probably wants to be left alone. But the pain in his voice last night, the raw desperation, the need...I can’t ignore it. Or walk away. Not yet. Not without one more question. Or...three.
“Why? Why did you give up on people? On friends?”
Half an hour later, I code myself into my apartment. The security system is more sophisticated than anything on the market today—courtesy of West’s wife and com
puter genius, Cam Delgado.
Despite the tech, the building is old, which means large, spacious units. After my first couple of missions with Hidden Agenda, I moved into the top-floor east-facing space with almost fifteen hundred square feet and a view of the entire neighborhood.
Grabbing a bottle of Coke from the fridge, I sink down onto the couch with the pizza box. I ended up with a whole pie because…well…why the fuck not? After hours of grueling workouts this morning, I’ve earned it.
My phone dings with a new email, and when Quinton’s name flashes across the screen, I almost choke on a sip of soda.
“Because my friends gave up on me.”
Shit. I drop my second slice and thumb out a reply, then delete it. What do you say to a message like that?
I want to tell him that true friends don’t give up on people. But then I think about Ripper. Ry and Dax thought he was dead. For six fucking years. They never would have given up on him had they known the truth, and it haunts them. Hell, Rip gave up and stopped fighting when his captor made him believe Ry and Dax had been killed.
Giving up isn’t always a choice.
It takes me another full slice to decide what to say.
“Sometimes, people are complete dicks. But other times, they’re up against a wall with no escape. Either way, you need new friends. Ones who stick around.”
A little after 10:00 p.m., I’m in bed with my laptop reviewing schematics for the new surveillance tech Cam, Royce, and Wren have been working on for the past few months. Wireless cameras smaller than a pack of gum and a receiver that can fit on any standard bookcase. Pretty sophisticated stuff. We sent the first batch of them to Second Sight last week, and from what I hear, Ronan and Clive are using them on some op with Austin Pritchard.
Never expected Austin to reach out after Venezuela. Despite what he did for Ripper—giving him the Congressional Medal of Valor even after what Abdul Amir Faruk made him do—Austin never gave any indication he understood the meaning of family. He and Ry got into it more than once in that miserable hovel just outside of Caracas. But by the time we rescued Trevor, I think they’d found some sort of peace.
For the twentieth time tonight, I tab over to my email, and my heart starts to beat faster when I see Quinton’s name.
“Are you offering?”
I can’t tell if he’s flirting or being sarcastic.
“To be your friend?”
The reply comes back almost immediately.
“Yes. Because I’m a shitshow, Graham. You seem like a nice guy. A really nice guy who should run away from me as fast as you can.”
Well, fuck.
Quinton
Now I’ve done it. It’s after midnight, and Graham hasn’t replied to my last message. Not that I’m surprised. I tried to push him away after all. Guess I did a bang up job of it.
Seconds before I shut down the laptop for the night, my brother’s name pops up on screen. Connor hasn’t emailed me in months.
Quinton,
I couldn’t sleep tonight. Something just felt…wrong. Went for a run around 10, and I’m pretty sure I saw Alec sitting in a car at the end of the block. He drove away before I could confirm it was him. If he’s watching me, he obviously doesn’t know where you are, and I’ll make sure it stays that way. But be careful.
-Connor
My heart races, and I lurch into the bathroom and grab a Xanax. Alec has nothing but time. After the accident, he quit his job to “take care” of me. Even though it was my money supporting the both of us. When he lost access to my bank accounts, he went back to work at some day trading firm, but Connor—who’s been keeping tabs on Alec ever since he rescued me—said he was fired after being served with the restraining order. The process server found him at his office, and his boss...well...apparently it didn’t go over well.
Alec stalked Connor for two months. Until my brother threatened to beat the shit out of him.
The Xanax starts to take effect, but my back is locked up tight from the strain. My fingers aren’t steady, but I send Connor a quick reply.
If you see him again, call the police. Get it on the record—even though they won’t be able to do anything. I’m sorry you have to deal with this. - Q
I only have another five minutes before the meds force me to relax—by way of making me so loopy, the only thing I’ll be able to do is sleep, but I email the last detective assigned to my case to give him an update. I don’t even know if he’s still working in Dallas. It’s been a year, after all. But I have to try.
Alec won’t hurt Connor. My brother’s built like a tank, and thanks to his years in the army, he’s got that scary-as-fuck look down pat. But stalking Connor is a way to get to me. To still hurt me even though we’re half a country apart.
As I drift off to sleep, my thoughts fractured by the Xanax and exhaustion, I decide it’s a very good thing I drove Graham away. He doesn’t need to see what a complete mess I am. And if Alec does decide to try to find me again? Graham would just be one more target he could use to get to me.
Chapter Eight
Quinton
Despite how poorly I slept, I’m determined to have a good day. My next client project doesn’t start for a full week, so I can spend every minute putting the finishing touches on my anti-anxiety app, Zen Oasis.
Alec convinced me I’d never be able to write code again, and if I’d stayed with him? I’d have given up my dream completely. But six months ago, my therapist suggested I start working on it again, and as soon as I opened up the old files, I realized how important it was for me to finish the damn thing. Not only because I think it’ll help people, but because it’s one final “fuck you” to the man who almost killed me.
Checking in with the beta testing group for Zen Oasis boosts my mood even more. They all love it, and while I have a few new bugs to fix, they’re minor. If I can keep my own anxiety in check, I might be able to submit the final product to all the mobile app stores in just a few days.
The latest message waiting in my inbox would have me bouncing in my chair if my body were capable of it.
“This app is changing my life. Every time I’ve had an anxiety attack in the past week, I’ve played Zen Oasis, and it’s kept me from landing in full-on panic mode. Thanks, Quinton!”
It’s almost noon before I take a break, and when I open the front door to get yesterday’s mail, sunlight warms my cheeks. For a moment, I stand perfectly still, braced against the door jamb, one foot inside, one foot on the porch. My heart rate spikes as a car passes by, and my instincts scream at me to get back inside.
It’s only one more step to the mailbox. You can do this.
The street’s quiet now, and Clementine lets out a yowl from the kitchen, demanding to be fed.
I didn’t manage to get this far yesterday. Scanning the street one more time, seeing no one, I lift the lid of the antique mailbox, grab the pile of envelopes and junk mail inside, and rush—as best as I can—back to the safety behind my locked door.
Clementine ambles down the hall, stops halfway between me and the kitchen, sits, and watches me with that look only cats are capable of. The Why aren’t you feeding me? Don’t you love me anymore? look.
“I’m getting there, sweetie.” And I am. Until I glance down at the catalog clutched in my hands. My stomach lurches, and my back hits the door before I sink down to the ground.
Rodeo Vibe Apparel
The guy on the cover is posing in profile, hands on his hips, dark blue denim molding to his ass, a flannel shirt open and clearly blowing in the breeze. It’s the company’s signature look. A variation of it graces every catalog they’ve ever sent, and I know because this was the only place Alec ever shopped. The only place he let me shop the whole time we were together.
I don’t want to turn the catalog over. Don’t want to see the address. And when I do? A sob sticks in my throat and I can’t breathe.
It’s addressed to me. Not my company. Me. By name. My new name. Quinton Silver.
; There’s no way Alec could have found me. I’ve been careful. So careful. But how else would the company get my name?
Clementine crawls into my lap and starts kneading my thigh, her purr so loud, I can hear it over my own wheezing. Scooping her up, I let her paws go to work on my shoulder, and she mrrps softly, rubbing her head against my cheek.
I never thought a cat could keep me from totally losing my shit, but this one...it’s like she knows just what I need. Maybe because she was starving when I found her, soaked to the skin from a summer rainstorm. Or because I held her almost constantly for the first two days trying to keep her warm and get her to eat.
Whatever made her this way, I’m grateful as fuck. After a few minutes—and more than one wince as I really need to trim her nails—my chest loosens slightly and I think I’m strong enough to make it to the kitchen where I keep a stash of my anxiety medication.
“You’ll look so good in this shirt, Quint.”
“Your wardrobe needs some serious help.”
“I am not moving all of those frumpy old man jeans into my place. You’re getting new ones.”
Flashbacks hit me with every step. All the times Alec put me down under the guise of trying to help me. The backhanded compliments. The gentle reproach. The suggestions that sounded encouraging, but really, were like death by a thousand cuts. Or a thousand criticisms.
I’m on autopilot as I pour some kibble into Clementine’s bowl, and setting it down on the floor makes my back spasm. My appetite? Completely gone.
Sorting through the rest of my mail, I don’t find anything else concerning. A notice to file my corporation’s annual report, my quarterly tax notice, and the ValPack coupons sent to every single household in Seattle.
The catalog is the only item addressed to me. I want to shred it. To tear out each page, crumple them up—as violently as I can—and burn them. But though I might find a sliver of comfort doing so, it won’t answer the most important question.
Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Page 6
