Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone

by Patricia D. Eddy

“Relax.” Manny offers me his hand to help me off the table and steadies me until my legs agree to support me again. “You’ll be fine for two weeks. Just keep up with your daily exercises. Listen to your body. Push yourself, but don’t go overboard.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” My heart is pounding, and shit. I should be better than this by now. Manny talks about Carl all the time. The guy rehabs all the local football and soccer players, and they’ve worked together for years. But I lurch into the bathroom, almost falling over on the way, and grab the prescription bottle with my low-dose anxiety meds. Ten minutes, and they’ll kick in. Ten minutes, and I’ll be okay again. Ten minutes, and I won’t feel like I’ve lost control.

  “Quinton?” Manny stands in the doorway, hands on his hips. “I know I should leave it alone. But you could save a hell of a lot of money if you’d let Carl work with you instead of me. You’re more than a year post-injury. You’re stable. Sure, you’ll continue to make some modest improvements as long as you’re consistent with your therapy, but you don’t need someone with my credentials to get you there.”

  “I trust you.” Those words…they’re the hardest ones for me to say. Because I don’t trust many people. Manny. Val, the woman who cleans my house every week, my therapist, and my brother, Connor. That’s it. And while I may trust them, I’m not close to any of them—not even Connor. But he’s the one who came to rescue me. He’s the one who got me into Thatcher House and paid for all of my rehab. Not that he told me how he could afford that.

  Manny blows out a long breath. “Fine. I won’t bring it up again.”

  “I’ll do my exercises while you’re gone. No problem,” I say, my hands still braced on the sink.

  “It’s not just your exercises. Part of your recovery is getting back out into the world. Going for a walk. Navigating the grocery store aisles. Going to a coffee shop. There are some things exercise can’t do for you. Only real life can. Dealing with seams in the sidewalk. Avoiding puddles on linoleum floors. You know it rains a lot here, right?”

  The damn pills aren’t kicking in. Why aren’t they kicking in?

  Because it’s only been three minutes, dumbass.

  Clementine jumps up on the counter and nudges my hand with her tiny wet nose.

  “I see that little one is doing well,” Manny says. “She hid the last time I was here.”

  I had a therapy session with Manny two days after I found Clementine and I practically begged him to take her to the vet for me. Get her checked out. Make sure she was going to survive. The man went to the pet store, bought a carrier, and sat in a vet’s waiting room for two hours after his last client. I panicked every minute until he came back with a very pissed off kitten, a certificate giving her a clean bill of health, two pounds of kitten food, a litter box, and a collar.

  “I’m not sure she’s forgiven you for kidnapping her and letting someone shove a thermometer up her ass.” Joking helps diffuse a small bit of my anxiety, and Manny’s chuckle chips away at it further.

  “Fair enough. What did you name her again?”

  “Clementine. My mom always used to buy those little Clementine oranges for Christmas. And she’s the same exact color.” I run my fingers along the kitten’s back, and she arches and purrs under my touch. “Thanks for helping me with her.”

  Manny makes a vague pshaw sound. “I have a soft spot for animals. Especially ones that fit in my palm. But if I don’t leave right now, I’m going to be late for the kids’ class at Emerald City Krav Maga. At least try to get outside for a walk before I get back. Around the block. Just once.”

  I nod, even though I have no intention of doing it. Manny’s a good guy. A great therapist—one of the best in the country. But he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t understand.

  The door shuts with a finality I can’t ignore. When he comes back, I’ll either have to lie to him or admit the truth—that I’m never going to be able to go for a walk like a normal person. Or step inside a coffee shop without having a panic attack. Or let anyone close to me again.

  Graham

  I’m only the second to arrive. Ripper’s sitting at Hidden Agenda’s conference table, a cup of coffee at his elbow, peering at the computer screen and scowling.

  “Rip? I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  He glances up briefly, then rolls his eyes. “Neither did I. But Ry damaged the hardline to his condo. I’m setting up a server farm here to handle some heavy processing Wren has running.”

  “Damaged…?” I pour myself a cup of the best damn coffee in Seattle—courtesy of West—and join him at the table.

  “Uh, he’s doing some construction.” Ripper looks downright uncomfortable now and doesn’t meet my gaze.

  “Does this have something to do with the baby?”

  Relief washes over him, and he sits back with a weak chuckle. “Thank fuck. I told him he couldn’t keep this from the rest of you, but you know how well he listens to me. Or anyone.”

  “He told us last Saturday. Still can’t believe it.”

  The man we rescued from a literal hole in Afghanistan studies me.

  Jackson “Ripper” Richards served with Ryker and Dax in the Special Forces, but after six months of torture in Hell Mountain, a system of tunnels and caves deep under the Hindu Kush, Ripper disappeared. Taken by one of the tribal leaders, he was brainwashed, beaten, and forced to use his computer skills for the Taliban’s gain. The world thought he was dead for six years. When we found him, he was so messed up, he didn’t trust anyone. Fuck he didn’t even believe that Ry and Dax were real.

  “Something on your mind?” he asks.

  Rip doesn’t need to deal with my shit, so I wave him off and focus on my coffee. I haven’t managed more than three hours sleep a night since that kiss with Quinton, and the urge to text him? It’s almost overwhelming.

  “Well, now I know you’re fucked,” Ripper says. “Spill it, kid.”

  “I’m only a few years younger than you, probie.” He’s the newest member of the team, and the only one who never leaves Seattle on a mission. When he joined us, the title of Probie—slang for probationary—transferred from me to Ripper.

  “I hate that term,” he mutters. “I’ve got more experience in my thumb than you have in your whole body.”

  Despite his best effort to sound tough as nails, his tone holds a rare warmth reserved only for us and his wife, Cara. A part of him loves being hazed a little, because it reminds him that he’s a part of something. That he’s alive. Free. His own man.

  He doesn’t speak again, just sits back in his chair and stares at me like he knows I’m about to crack. And I am. His eyes are a pale blue, never at peace, never still. He’s always checking his surroundings for threats, even here, one of the few places he knows he’s safe.

  “I met this guy…”

  His brows arch, and a hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “Should have known. So? What’s the problem?”

  Taking another sip of coffee, I stare up at the ceiling and try to figure out how to put the “problem” into words. But I can’t. At least, none that make any sense. “He’s hiding. From me, from himself too, I think.”

  Ripper shuts the lid on his laptop and nods towards the kitchen. “I need more coffee. Start from the beginning.”

  Half an hour later, Ripper knows everything. Or, mostly everything. How we met. How Q’s emails bounced from curt to dismissive to flirty and back again. How we kissed, and I thought we were finding some sort of middle ground when he shut down completely.

  We’ve moved to the little sitting area. Two leather couches, a coffee table, pinball machine, and bean bag chair, along with a big screen TV. Almost like a second home. Albeit one with a boxing ring, climbing wall, and enough space to run an obstacle course the likes of which no endurance race in the world could top.

  Ripper rubs the back of his neck and presses his lips together to form a thin line. That particular combo usually means he’s having a flashback or reliving a bad memory—serious shit, as Inara likes
to say.

  “You remember that first night?” he asks, his voice rough.

  I nod. I’ll never forget it.

  When we found him in Afghanistan, he was dehydrated, malnourished, and beaten to shit. The asshole who’d tortured him had left him to die in an old well where scorpions came out at night and stung him until he was delirious with pain from their venom.

  “You were on watch. Pretty sure the guys thought I’d jump out the window if they left me alone. Not that I could have gotten myself out of bed.”

  “That was almost word for word what Ry said when he and Dax left me in charge.”

  There was also a very specific threat as to what would happen to me if I let my attention wander for even a second, but I keep that part to myself.

  “You remember you had to help me,” he swallows hard and won’t meet my eyes, “take a piss?”

  This time, I stay silent. He’s working his way up to something, and with Ripper, these small moments of vulnerability are rare. I get the sense he’s more open with Ry and Dax, with Cara, but not with West. Never with Inara. We’re all family to him, but some of us, he keeps almost at arm’s length. I thought I fell into that category too.

  “I asked you to help because I didn’t know you from Adam.” Clearing his throat, he stares down at his boots. “Nothing seemed real. Until you offered me your cup of coffee. I hadn’t had coffee in six years. Fucker only ever gave me tea, and whenever he brought it, there was something in it that messed with my head. Coffee? It made me think…maybe I really was out of that hole. Safe.”

  “Rip.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, careful not to get too close. The man doesn’t like to be touched. None of them do. He, Dax, and Ry were tortured for so long that they don’t trust anyone. Except the women they fell in love with. And each other. Hell, this is the most Ripper’s said to me in over a year.

  He shakes his head. “If Ry had been the one sitting next to that bed? I would have pissed myself before I asked him for help.”

  “Why? He’s…he’s your brother.”

  “In every way that counts, yeah. Doesn’t make it any easier to admit you can’t do something as simple as stand up. Or whip out your dick and hold it over a toilet.” Ripper drains the last of his coffee as Ryker strides into the warehouse, the snap of the electronic door locks the only sign of his entry. Despite his size, he’s utterly silent when he walks. As he pushes to his feet, Rip reaches out and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Graham, if this guy’s been hurt before, if he’s really as scared as you think he is? Try what you did with me. Don’t ask him if he’s okay. Ask him if he wants a cup of coffee.”

  For the next six hours, we put a group of five vets through a series of drills, actively trying to make them quit. Two of them do—an Army medic and a Naval Petty Officer. After West barking orders at them every five minutes, Ryker’s intimidating stare, and Inara’s prowess on the climbing wall, one of the washouts asks me if it’s always this brutal.

  I tell him to go run two miles and come back for another climb. His response? “Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

  With a laugh, I meet Ry’s gaze across the warehouse and shake my head. Five minutes later, Ry hands him a check for $1000—just for showing up—and warns him if he breathes a word of what happened here today, he’ll regret ever being born.

  A little after 6:00 p.m., Ryker shouts, “Shut it down. Everyone on the mats in five.”

  The three newbies, Caleb, Jonah, and Raelynn, head for the corner we use for yoga practice. The guys collapse in sweaty heaps, but Raelynn stands tall with her hands on her hips.

  “You two pansy asses can’t even bother to stand up? Sheeee-it. I’d rather be elbow-deep in a heifer’s ass pullin’ out a calf than goin’ into the field with the two of you.”

  I take a step back when she casts a quick gaze at me, then turns to Caleb and Jonah. “That kid out classed both of you.”

  Inara barely manages to cover her laugh. Ryker’s stone-faced as always, but something dark and dangerous simmers in West’s eyes. “Graham’s not a kid. He’s a senior member of this team. One I trust with my life. And you’ll show him some goddamn respect if you want to consider joining us.”

  Raelynn snaps her mouth shut and gives West a curt nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  With what might almost be a smile, Ryker steps forward. “The physical part of the interview’s over. Next up…psychological testing and one-on-ones. If you want to take this step, there are updated NDAs on the conference table.”

  “We already signed one,” Jonah protests.

  Ryker stares him down until the former Marine looks appropriately chastised. “And you’ll sign another. Because what comes next could land any one of us in worse shit than you’ve ever imagined. We clear?”

  “Crystal, Sir,” Caleb and Raelynn say sharply.

  Jonah pushes up with a groan. “I had enough of this clandestine shit when I was deployed. I’m done.” He refuses to take the grand West offers him for his time and grabs his keys and jacket from the temporary locker each potential was assigned when they walked in the door.

  “I don’t have to remind you what happens if you breathe a word of this to anyone,” Ryker barks out.

  “Then don’t. Fuck off, McCabe. The government might think you’re a hero, but I just think you’re an asshole.”

  The door slams, and five seconds later, West, Inara, and I burst out laughing. Ryker turns to us, one brow raised. The other is bisected by a thick scar. “Care to explain?” he asks.

  “The Marine’s not wrong,” West says as he cracks the seal on a bottle of water. “You are an asshole.”

  “Damn straight.” Ryker jerks his head towards the conference table. “Well? If you two sorry sacks of shit want a chance to work with an asshole—and this asshole’s team—get to signing.”

  Chapter Ten

  Quinton

  Before I shut my laptop for the night, I check my old email—the one I used when I was with him. I have a whole folder of archived messages from Alec—evidence if I ever need it—and I use this account almost like a diary. A history of the hell I went through and how I escaped.

  Composing an email to myself, I summarize the past few days. Connor’s belief that Alec was outside his house, the catalog that showed up in my mailbox, and my fears that Alec hasn’t given up on his quest to hurt me. To get revenge for what I did to him—leaving him, serving him with a restraining order, calling him out on his shit.

  After I send the message to myself, establishing a record of my thoughts, I notice the chat bubble in the lower right corner. Oh, God. Somehow, the program showed me as online, and Alec sent me a message.

  Don’t read it. Just delete it.

  I can’t. As much as I want to...as much as I know I should, it’s all evidence. But he doesn’t need to know that I read the message. I have a program that blocks read receipts. Once that’s active, I click on the notification and try to ignore the icy ball of panic in the pit of my stomach.

  My dearest Quint,

  It’s been over a year since we’ve seen one another, and this message is long overdue. I had the best intentions. But that doesn’t excuse what I did. I thought I knew better than the doctors. That no one could take care of you like I could. I felt horrible knowing you got hurt because of me, and everything I did...it was because I loved you.

  After your brother took you from me, I was angry. But then I got help. I can see how much I hurt you now. And I’m sorry. I know it’s too little, too late, but I miss you. You were the best thing to ever happen to me, and I wish I hadn’t screwed it all up.

  My sincerest apologies,

  Alec

  Suddenly, I’m a shuddering mess on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees. The position stretches my tight muscles, but it’s all I can do when I’m paralyzed, trapped in my memories of my time with him.

  What the hell is he doing? And does he really think I’m going to believe his apology?

  Sociopaths, psychopaths, narcissists, a
nd many individuals with Antisocial Personality Disorder often don’t feel genuine emotions. They can’t. They are, however, experts at mimicking the emotions of others. They always say just the right thing at the right time because they’re often incredibly smart and experts at reading their victims.

  Before the night I planned to break up with Alec for good—the night everything changed—my therapist warned me repeatedly not to believe any crocodile tears Alec might shed. Being a sociopath isn’t like having depression or anxiety. You can’t take a pill and make the condition go away—or even control it. Some people do learn to live without the ability to understand or feel emotions. A rare few even manage not to be a danger to others. They have very strict rules they follow every day of their lives. When you don’t feel pain, remorse, anguish, or joy, it’s too easy to think of life as one giant game designed for you and you alone.

  Alec is up to something. I know he signed me up for Rodeo Vibe. How else would they have gotten my name and address? And now...this? If he thinks I’ll believe anything he says, he’s an idiot. And Alec is not an idiot.

  Focus, Q. You’re safe here. The cameras, the security system, the bars on the windows, the locks...

  But am I? He knows where I live. That I’m in Seattle. Hell, he probably knows that I live alone. That I’m vulnerable.

  Clementine crawls into my lap, and I rock back and forth for an hour with her until I’m steady enough to get to my feet. If for no other reason than she needs dinner, and I won’t deny her a meal—ever.

  But no more than five minutes after she finishes the bowl of kibble, my security alarm goes off. Oh, God. What if…what if he was just toying with me with that email? He could be here right now.

  Clementine bolts for the bedroom, probably to hide under the bed, while I lurch over to my computer. The alarm’s coming from the rear exterior security door, but when I check the motion sensor and camera, everything’s quiet. Rewinding five minutes, I replay the video. Nothing. Not even a rat scavenging in the dumpster or a stray dog.