Safe House

by Charley Descoteaux

  He was as stealthy as he’d ever been in his life, barely making a sound aside from the water as he ran the tap. By the time he’d finished, he was thankful for all the practice he’d had in being quiet, mostly from his younger years while sneaking in after curfew. Being a cop in such a sleepy little town—regardless of its reputation as a tourist mecca during the warmer months—had been largely uneventful, so those skills had come in less handy than manning thinly veiled versions of sobriety checkpoints, breaking up the occasional bar fight, or tracking down runaway teenagers.

  Bran stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He’d been prepared to go back to bed, to curl back around Kyle and hope for round two in the morning, but he stopped himself. He turned back and looked into the mirror over the sink. It was bordered with a tasteful craftsman-esque wood frame—which, he was sure without having to look, matched the mantel and built-ins perfectly. Reluctantly, he settled his attention on his reflection. Even in the subdued glow of the night-light, he couldn’t deny it—he had the face of a consistently mistreated bulldog, with his ruddy complexion and jawline that had started to sag. Brandon had Kyle’s age pegged at midthirties, at most; how would he react to waking up with this face? Probably not the way Bran would prefer.

  His gaze traveled down to his shoulders and chest. Gray chest hair wasn’t so bad, maybe, but it was noticeably uneven due to the biopsy. Maybe Kyle wouldn’t notice the small scar, but now that Bran had looked at it, that was all he saw, and it sent a chill through his body. He wasn’t there on a date or honeymoon retreat. He’d followed Kyle up to his room for a hookup. When hookups ended, one or both parties left the scene. Simple as that.

  As quietly as possible, Bran pulled his clothes on, leaving everything unzipped and unbuttoned in his haste to leave before he accidentally woke Kyle. Shoes in hand, he stopped on his way to the back door when he noticed a reflective square on the floor. Patting his pockets led him to his phone, so the one on the floor had to be Kyle’s. Bran looked at the bed, at Kyle sleeping in the center, the curves of his body bathed in moonlight. He didn’t seem to have moved at all.

  Bran scooped Kyle’s phone off the floor and thought about adding his number to the contact list. He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or crushed to find the phone was password protected. Of course it would be.

  And why would he enter his number anyway? It was invasive, inappropriate conduct, not to mention counter to the whole hookup concept.

  Bran stole one last glance at Kyle and slipped out the back door. He carried his shoes until he’d gone down the back porch steps and all the way around to the wheelchair ramp on the north side of the front elevation. He stopped at the top of the ramp to button his shirt and slip his feet into his shoes, and took another moment to admire the ramp.

  Ha. To think about Tim.

  If he hadn’t fucked it up so badly, they might still be together, he and Tim. But as it stood, his feelings for Tim had become irrevocably stained by the regret he carried over outing, without his consent, the man he’d been in love with, so maybe their breakup had always been as inevitable as he’d thought at the beginning.

  Getting over Tim hadn’t been easy, because Tim Tate was gorgeous, smart, talented, and one of the kindest men Bran had ever met. He’d seen through the bulldog to the puppy beneath, and they’d been happy, even though they’d kept their relationship secret from almost everyone they knew. Minnie had known, and that had made it real in a way he’d never imagined possible.

  But that might as well have been a different life.

  The Brandon Smith who strode to his car, taking care not to make noise while walking across the gravel, might as well have been a different person. Now that he was older and wiser—and potentially sicker—he had given up looking for a relationship. He wasn’t looking for anything more than as much sex as he could get for the next six months. Once he saw the doctor again, he’d start counting another six months or he’d start making more appointments. Either way, he wouldn’t be seeing Kyle Shimoda again.

  By the time he reached this point in his pondering, Brandon had also reached Highway 101. The temptation to turn south and just drive was there, but that didn’t fit Bran’s image of himself any more than settling down with Mr. Right did at that moment. He turned north, toward Lincoln City and home. He would go to bed, wake up in the morning, and go see his mother, prune her raspberries, and replace the rose that had died last fall, as they’d planned.

  Brandon wouldn’t be seeing Kyle Shimoda again, or hooking up with anyone twice, for that matter, but he didn’t think it would hurt anything to think about him.

  That’s what he told himself, anyway. Believing it was another matter entirely.

  Chapter Seven

  KYLE WOKE up cold and disoriented, and not because he wasn’t in the condo in the Pearl. Shouldn’t someone else—

  Oh.

  He lay curled on his side, but the sensation of his heart dropping onto the floor wasn’t diminished by that position—not in the least. Bran had left during the night. Maybe even as soon as they were finished. Obviously he hadn’t enjoyed himself as much as Kyle had.

  Kyle got up and pissed. When he left the bathroom, he pulled the blanket and sheet from the bed as one, wrapping them around his shoulders as he walked to the daybed. He pulled the covers tightly around himself and stood at the window, looking out but not really seeing the backyard.

  Still an asshole magnet.

  Either that, or he—and Nathan and Paulie and Eric—had completely misread Bran’s intentions.

  No.

  Brandon. Don’t even think of him as Bran. He’s Officer Brandon Smith, Lincoln City Police Department. Hookup artist. Apparently, stealthy and quiet hookup artist.

  Kyle had thought it would be different this time, since it had clearly been a setup. If Brandon wasn’t interested, why would he bother to flirt at all?

  Dumb question.

  Before he could go through the list of assholes he’d attracted in his lifetime, he decided to at least be comfortable while he relived past failures. Kyle curled up on the daybed with his back to the window and hoped sleep would overtake him.

  It didn’t, not right away, so Kyle had time to go over the day and night before in his mind, replaying their interaction and trying to tease out what he had missed. But he couldn’t find anything.

  Especially about last night.

  Kyle hadn’t been a player in any great romances, but he’d seen one firsthand. His parents had been deeply in love, so he thought he would be able to recognize the potential for true love if it ever came along. Or at least attraction that went beyond the physical. And he thought he had caught a glimpse of that the night before. The way Bran had looked at him, listened to what he said no matter how trivial, and reacted physically to every touch—not to mention the way he—

  Okay, that’s about enough. Wallowing has never done any good, and neither has unpacking your failures—past or present.

  Kyle recited one of the self-hypnosis routines he used on nights when he couldn’t sleep, and the next thing he knew he was waking up in a ball on the daybed with sunshine streaming in the west windows. His body felt stiff and a little sore in places he’d tried to pretend didn’t even exist for most of the past year. At least. As he stretched, a new idea occurred to him.

  What if Brandon—Bran—really did feel what Kyle thought he felt, but was afraid? Or something. Kyle did live three hours away, and for all Bran knew he never wanted to leave Portland. Maybe all Kyle needed to do was let him know he had been thinking of moving out here anyway. He had met with a headhunter in Portland about finding a head chef position. The meeting had been brief, with a background of dance mixes and heavy on innuendo, but Kyle thought he might hear something. Maybe even end up at one of the coastal resorts lining Highway 101. If things were to work out….

  Yeah. Sure. Just because Bran agreed to the setup, that doesn’t mean he has nothing else going on in his life or that he wants to invest in a relationship. It was a
hookup, nothing more.

  Why aren’t I relieved to have dodged—No. Don’t even think about it as dodging a bullet.

  Kyle jumped in the shower, dressed, and went down to the kitchen via the hidden staircase. Conversation and laughter floated up to meet him halfway, slowing his pace. Before he pushed the door open, he tried to listen to what everyone was talking about. He’d missed Derek’s breakfast. Damn. He’d been looking forward to Derek’s chorizo, which was what everyone was talking about—how delicious the chorizo had been, and if it was too early to have a beer to celebrate. The last was said jokingly, and since it was only Saturday and the camp was completely booked, would probably not be happening.

  When he finally went out into the kitchen, all heads swiveled in his direction. Everyone wore an expectant look until the door fell closed behind him. Paulie recovered from his disappointment first and swept across the floor to envelop Kyle in one of his famous bear hugs. Six months of living at Buchanan House and six weeks of wedded bliss might have made his hug a little softer than it had been when Paulie lived in Portland, but Kyle couldn’t have cared less. It felt damned good and made it possible for Kyle to face everyone else without flinching.

  Paulie kept an arm around Kyle’s shoulders as he brought him deeper into the kitchen. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Do you need a Southwestern mimosa?”

  Kyle allowed himself to be put on a stool at the counter. “Are you talking about a tequila sunrise?”

  “Shhh.” Paulie put a finger to his lips but didn’t lower his voice at all. “Don’t burst Derek’s bubble. He says it’s a mimosa, so it’s a mimosa.”

  “If I can get a cup of coffee on the side, I’ll take one. No matter what they’re called.”

  Paulie threaded his way through the busy kitchen to the coffeepot. While Kyle waited he watched the activity around him, the sting of waking up alone fading fast once he was surrounded by his friends. Paulie was almost back with both drinks when the microwave dinged. Derek sang “Order up!” to nobody in particular. He danced from the sink to grab the plate and deposited it in front of Kyle as he took his first sip of coffee.

  “I saved you tostadas.” Derek planted a noisy kiss on Kyle’s cheek and stole a sip from his “mimosa” before returning to the sink.

  “Thank you.” Kyle dug in and didn’t come up for air until his plate was half-empty. Half-full. “Sorry I missed your breakfast.”

  Derek smiled over his shoulder. “No worries. You need the vacation. You’re staying until Tuesday, right?”

  Kyle was tempted to cut it short, but that was his bruised ego talking. “Right. Damn, this chorizo is amazing. I’ve missed your cooking.”

  “Good, because we’re hitting the river on Monday. You might need some recovery time, old man.” Derek laughed. It was a beautiful sound, relaxed and nothing but happy, something else Kyle hadn’t known just how much he had missed. Just like he’d missed all the inside jokes and shorthand he and Derek had developed over the years, the reference to old times in the “old man” crack. He’d missed the hooking up too, but he was honestly happy Derek had found someone to love and to love him—it had been long overdue.

  Almost as overdue as it is for me.

  A few seconds later, Kyle joined him with a chuckle. “We’ll see who needs recovery time.”

  When he realized that might’ve sounded like innuendo, Kyle stuffed his mouth with more chorizo and almost choked. That he could laugh at filling his mouth with sausage to keep from sounding like he was hitting on his best friend probably meant the day wouldn’t be as horrible as he had feared while he’d been lying curled up on the daybed alone upstairs.

  He spent most of the day hanging around in the kitchen, chatting about Eric and Paulie’s latest dishes and comparing notes on some of his own. Chase and Garrett wandered through a few times—separately—and Kyle drank another Southwestern mimosa. When he finally stretched his legs all the way to the back porch, Derek followed and pulled the door closed behind him. He leaned on the porch railing, looking out toward the river. Kyle had made excuses almost every time he’d been invited out to Buchanan House, so he wasn’t as familiar with the surrounding area as he might have been and was still blown away by the beauty of the central coast when he looked out a window or ventured outside. The camp building sat nestled in a wooded area bordered on the south by the river, and except for the glimpse of a chimney on the other side, no neighbors were visible. The river was high at this time of year, and it reached the ocean not far from the little dock that also belonged to Eric and Nathan. The spot where river met ocean wasn’t visible from where they stood on the first-floor porch, but it wasn’t far. The whole effect of solitude and seclusion was seductive, and Kyle regretted passing up so many of the invitations he’d gotten.

  “So what happened last night? You disappeared right after dessert….”

  “Yeah.” Kyle leaned his ass against the railing beside Derek. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel a little of his body heat, get a little friendly support for the grilling that was sure to come. “To be honest, I’m not sure exactly what happened.”

  Derek turned toward Kyle, leaned his hip against the railing, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Seriously? That’s all I get?”

  Kyle thought about it for a second and then shrugged. “We were going to get a drink in town, do some dancing, but he followed me upstairs instead.”

  “Why did you go upstairs?”

  “To grab a jacket.”

  “Did you say that? The jacket part?”

  Kyle looked up, not quite rolling his eyes but close. “No. I said, ‘Let me run upstairs first. I’m in room eight.’ So he probably thought—”

  “—you were asking him up for a roll in the sack.”

  Kyle groaned.

  “How many Tratos did you have?”

  “None. Honest. I didn’t want to get sloppy—”

  “So you do like him. I thought so.” Derek changed position to mimic Kyle’s and gently prodded Kyle’s side with his elbow. “Maybe you should try letting him see that.”

  “Um… I think he knows.”

  “Did you do the head massage thing you do?” Derek sighed softly. He’d always loved getting a scalp massage during sex—or before, or after.

  “Yeah.”

  Derek must’ve heard something in his tone, because he turned, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

  “I did just about everything.” Which, in their shorthand, meant Kyle had done everything but fuck Bran.

  Brandon.

  “Maybe you should take another walk on the beach today.” Derek’s voice was low and slow and dripping with sexy.

  “Or maybe I should just forget all about it. I’m too old to keep beating my head against a brick wall looking for a man who’s not really an asshole.”

  “Mmmm… maybe you should beat your head against the brick wall that is Bran’s chest a few more times.” Even at half strength, Derek’s sex voice could stop a truck.

  “Maybe you should stop.”

  Derek shrugged, and when he spoke again it was in his normal voice. “And maybe we’ll both run out of mushrooms.”

  They grinned at each other and then burst out laughing. “Running out of mushrooms” was a euphemism for coming to the end of one’s sex drive. Permanently. Kyle couldn’t remember how it had started. He’d probably been drinking, and it had to have been at least ten years ago, but it was one of those things that reminded him who his real friends were. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t seen Derek much lately—they still had the connection, the history.

  “I mean that about the beach. I have work to do, and you’re not helping.” Derek pushed off from the porch railing and went back inside.

  Before Kyle could follow, Derek threw the lock and waved at him through the window.

  Kyle took that walk on the beach but didn’t see any muscle-bound sand sculptors. Later, Kyle joined the guests for a trip to a club just outside Lincoln City and danced until it closed. He
went to bed alone and the next morning was awoken by a series of loud bangs.

  Derek was knocking on the hidden door that opened in the bathroom. It was a strange arrangement, but it meant Buchanan House always had a room open for friends. What paying guest would stay in a room with a door leading up from the kitchen? Anywhere else, and Kyle wouldn’t even consider it. And when he heard the knocking—more like pounding—he wondered if it would have been smarter to sleep elsewhere. Kyle worried a little about Eric and Nathan’s finances, but since they seemed so relaxed—especially Eric, who was not easygoing by nature—he didn’t let it bother him too much.

  He’d stayed in bed late again but couldn’t force himself to feel guilty about it. He stood and wrapped the sheet around himself before he opened the door.

  “You’re not ready?” Derek pretended to be shocked. He looked ready for something athletic, in his Converse high-tops and sweatshirt.

  “Nope.” Kyle hoped it wouldn’t be anything more than a hike and was tempted to say he’d be down in a few hours. “What do you have planned?”

  Derek looked him over and grinned. “You don’t look too rough. Just what I said yesterday. Get dressed and come down. Don’t bother with a shower, you won’t miss it.” Derek winked and before he left gave the sheet a playful little tug.

  Kyle’s reflexes weren’t any more awake than the rest of him, and the sheet pooled around his feet. Derek walked backward a few steps, laughing, and then took off running down the stairs, his footfalls echoing in the narrow stairway.

  While he dressed, Kyle tried to get into the spirit. Obviously Derek had an adventure planned, and Kyle didn’t want to disappoint him. He hoped to have a little fun too, but past adventures had taught him it could go any number of ways, not all of them entertaining or even pleasant.

  Kyle found Derek in the dining room and joined him in a light brunch with a few guests. Just soup and fruit, but it gave him time to drop his guard, to think maybe he was off the hook.