by Carrie Davis
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Turn the page for an excerpt from The Truth Will Set You Free...
Excerpt
Losing a loved one will force one man to admit his truth or risk losing his heart forever.
A very special man, Nelson Bradshaw, saves both Drake Cooper and Lincoln Porter from life on the streets. As a legal guardian, Nelson becomes a parental figure, teaching them the value of their young lives and how it truly feels to be loved for who they are, faults and all.
Working side by side in Nelson's advertising company, desire builds between Drake and Lincoln, finally exploding in one shared night that ends in disaster, leaving Drake lost and heartbroken.
Now, years have passed and tragedy can make you reevaluate what is important.
After their mentor is murdered, Drake and Lincoln discover their attraction is as strong as ever. However, before they can think of building a long awaited future together, they need to face the truth about their pasts.
Chapter One
Drake
The trial lasted six weeks and four days.
In less than three hours, the jury sent word announcing they had reached a verdict.
Whether such a quick deliberation was a good sign for the defense or the prosecution was impossible to say with any real accuracy. A host of reporters outside the courthouse offered up an endless array of speculation, some based on logical arguments, others on pure speculation, but Drake Cooper wasn’t interested in either.
He wanted, needed, to hear the actual verdict and he prayed, with what waning faith he still possessed, that it would all come down to one word.
Guilty.
On all charges.
Guilty.
That the verdict could be anything else was a possibility Drake hadn’t allowed himself to fully consider, despite the D.A’s warning that sometimes, even when faced with undeniable evidence, juries could make bad decisions.
Granted, Josh Spencer didn’t believe that would happen in the case he had carefully built against Jeffrey Shipman, but he had issued the warning nonetheless, just to be certain Drake wasn’t caught off guard if something did go wrong. He knew, via their many conversations, what it meant to Drake to see Shipman pay for what he had done, for the crime he had committed when he brutally murdered Nelson Bradshaw in cold blood.
It was a crime that had shocked even Josh, and he didn’t shock easily after nearly twenty-five years with the D.A’s office. He’d known Nelson Bradshaw personally, through the numerous charitable organizations Bradshaw had been actively involved with, and he had liked and respected the man.
He wasn’t the only one.
The entire city was in shock, angered, demanding justice for the man many had viewed as a hero, Drake Cooper included.
He was the first to admit that he wouldn’t be alive today if Nelson Bradshaw hadn’t intervened when he was seventeen, pulling him off the streets, getting him back in school and off a path that could only end badly.
“He did a lot to help a lot of people. His death was completely senseless.”
“Just promise me you will do whatever it takes to get justice for him, Josh.”
The D.A had assured him he would give his full attention to the case and sitting in the gallery now, directly behind the D.A., Drake had to admit that Josh had kept his promise.
He had laid out all of the evidence for the jury, painting a clear picture of what happened the night Nelson died while making it clear that Jeffrey Shipman was a dangerous man who, if set free, would kill again because he enjoyed it.
Anyone who could beat a man like Nelson Bradshaw to death with a baseball bat was pure evil in every possible sense of the word.
That Nelson had invited Jeffrey Shipman into his home, because he believed he was once again helping someone who needed it, only made the crime even more revolting.
Nelson deserved better. He deserved to live past age sixty-five.
Feeling the now familiar grief and guilt, Drake sucked in a deep breath, reminding himself that no matter what, he needed to remain in control.
Giving in to his urge to take justice into his own hands would be an insult to everything Nelson had done for him. Shipman was well guarded at all times, a result of the countless death threats that had been made in the year since he killed Nelson. Drake knew he should feel guilty for wishing that someone would act on those threats, but he couldn’t. He wanted Shipman to suffer the way Nelson had before he died.
The way those who loved and respected him had suffered during the last year.
Drake wasn’t the only one Nelson had helped during his lifetime. He had pulled many people from the brink, back from the edge, and during the last year they had expressed their outrage. Like Drake, many had attended every day of the trial as a tribute to their mentor/savior/friend. It was testament to exactly what Nelson had meant, what his life had stood for, and Drake knew Nelson would be pleased to see how his generosity, kindness, and strength had shaped so many lives.
But what he did for me… I never came close to repaying him.
Of course, Nelson hadn’t wanted to be repaid. He had only wanted to help when he found a seventeen-year-old Drake living on the streets and struggling to survive by any means necessary, the never-ending terror he felt concealed beneath the cynicism and bravado Nelson saw right through.
“You got two choices, kid. Let me help you, or die out here.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re doing too good a job of that.”
Nelson never hesitated to cut right to the heart of the matter. He didn’t believe in sugarcoating the truth or allowing people to hide away from reality just because the reality in question wasn’t pretty or pleasant.
And Drake knew, at the time Nelson found him, nothing in his life had qualified as pleasant.
Kicked out of his home when his mother and stepfather discovered him in bed with his then boyfriend, he had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. He had no other family and even if he had, it wasn’t likely they would have helped him.
So when his mother offered him six hundred dollars and a bus ticket to New York, he accepted it because there was no other choice.
Six hundred might have seemed like a lot of money to his mother, but in New York, it was little more than pocket change.
Within three weeks, he was broke, terrified, tossed out of the cheap motel he had been staying in, and no one was interested in giving a job to a barely sixteen year old kid, even when said kid explained that he had been an A student and basketball star once upon a time.
When it came to the real world, Drake knew nothing.
But he learned quick.
He had no choice. It was learn to survive by any means necessary or die.
By the time he met Nelson at a homeless shelter, he’d been on the streets for nearly a year. He was tired, always on edge, too thin, and looking for a place to sleep for the night.
He never expected to find Nelson Bradshaw, volunteer, working in the soup kitchen. With one look at Drake, Nelson knew what he was dealing with, and when the young man sat down in a quiet corner to eat, he sat down beside him.
“Look, Mister, I just want some food and a bed, not a speech.”
“Don’t consider it a speech then. Call it a lesson in reality.”
“And what the fuck do you know about my reality?”
“I know you can’t be more than seventeen, and I’m willing to bet you hate living on the streets. You hate what you have to do in order to stay alive, and I’m fairly certain that, if given a chance, you could make something of your life.”
An hour later, Nelson managed to convince him to stay at the shelter for two more days while he made some arrangements. When he came back exactly forty eight hours later, true to his promise, he had a deal to offer.
A chance to finish high schoo
l.
A job working at Nelson’s advertising firm.
A place to live.
All he had to do? Stay off the streets, work hard at school, and try to trust someone.
“And what do you want in return?”
“Not what you’re thinking, Drake.”
“Well, what then?”
“You’re young. You deserve a chance. I was in your shoes once, but someone gave me a real chance and now I can do the same for you. Trust me when I tell you that second chances are rare, so you’d be a fool to pass this up.”
Listening to the man, it occurred to Drake that he had nothing to lose.
He agreed to what Nelson suggested and he was astounded when he found himself in a spacious, one room loft apartment in the same building that housed Nelson’s penthouse. Nelson even hired him a tutor to help catch him up on the year of school he missed.
A job in the mailroom at Orrick Advertising five days a week, starting at two in the afternoon when school ended, allowed him a chance to make money honestly for the first time in a long time, and slowly, just as Nelson had told him it would, the world started to make sense again. He started to feel as if he had a chance of making something of his life, of becoming someone he could be proud of, and he knew he would never be able to thank Nelson enough for that. He learned, though, that Nelson didn’t expect repayment and that Drake wasn’t the first person Nelson helped, nor would he be the last.
He met several people working at Orrick Advertising who told him how Nelson had pulled them up when they were down, and Drake’s respect for the man grew.
Over time, Nelson became a friend, a father figure, a mentor.
When Drake earned a full scholarship to NYU, Nelson was thrilled for him and happy to allow him to keep working part time and then as a paid intern when Drake decided to major in advertising and marketing.
Now, fifteen years after Nelson first pulled him from hell, Nelson was gone, brutally murdered by a monster, and Drake owned half of Orrick Advertising.
And the other half...
Lincoln Porter.
Drake didn’t need to turn in his seat to know Lincoln would be sitting two rows behind him, just as he had throughout the entire trial. Nothing would have kept Lincoln away from the trial or hearing the verdict finally read. Like Drake, he owed the life he had to Nelson, and like Drake, Lincoln had never once forgotten that and never would.
Eight years Drake’s senior, Lincoln had known Nelson longer, worked with him longer, but he had never been troubled by Nelson’s tendency to treat both of them like sons, and if forced to be honest with himself, Drake had to admit that aside from Nelson, he trusted Lincoln Porter more than he had ever trusted anyone.
Problem is, trust is the least of it.
Annoyed by that stray thought, Drake reminded himself that any issues he had with Lincoln had to stay in the past.
In the year since Nelson died and he and Lincoln inherited the company, Lincoln had spent most of his time in San Francisco, setting up the west coast firm Nelson had just established before his death, but now, he was back in New York and he intended to stay.
Drake knew he could move to San Francisco, but he trusted the team Lincoln had put in place there and like Lincoln, he considered New York his home.
Which simply meant, like it or not, he and Lincoln would have to learn to work with one another and ignore not only the attraction that existed between them but the very vivid memory of the one night they had eagerly given in to that desire.
And the morning after, when Lincoln bolted and, in doing so, broke Drake’s heart.
I should have known better. I should have known Lincoln wouldn’t want me for anything beyond one night and I should consider myself lucky I got that.
Of course, Lincoln had apologized, had insisted he had a lapse in judgment.
“I’m not gay. I mean, I have no problem with anyone that is. You know how I feel about Nelson, and I care about you, but I… It might be hard to believe, given what happened between us, but I’m not gay and I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“Listen, Lincoln, I can’t tell you how to live your life, I can’t tell you what you feel, but I can tell you that lying to yourself about who you are will make you miserable.”
“I’m not lying to myself.”
“Fine. Maybe you aren’t gay. Maybe you’re bi-sexual...”
“I’m not...”
“Do yourself a favor, Lincoln. Get some help, but don’t bullshit me. I deserve better.”
For six months after that night, he and Lincoln had avoided one another at all cost, while dodging Nelson’s questions and then, unexpectedly and so unfairly, Nelson was gone and Lincoln took on the task of getting the west coast office up and running.
And Drake had told himself he was fine with that; he was content to have as little contact with Lincoln as possible.
What did he want with a nearly forty-year-old man who insisted on living in denial?
Not a damn thing.
He forced himself to ignore the voice that told him he was lying.
The same voice that reminded him he had been in love with Lincoln Porter for years before that night and despite it all, he was still in love with the man.
Which is proof I’m stupid.
Raking a hand through his hair, Drake resisted the urge to steal a glance at Lincoln because it was unnecessary, and because Lincoln would likely avoid any eye contact.
Not that Drake had to see Lincoln’s eyes because he knew they were an amazing golden hazel fringed with dark lashes and when his guard was down, those eyes could dance with an array of deeply felt emotions.
Unfortunately, Lincoln rarely allowed his guard down.
He had been close to Nelson, but in a father/son manner and he had once allowed Drake close, until they crossed the line.
Closing his own eyes for a moment, Drake allowed himself to briefly indulge in the memory of what Lincoln had looked like that night, with his beautiful eyes bright and his brown hair in disarray and his full lips kiss swollen.
Lincoln was beautiful; there was no other way to say it. He was over six feet of muscle, rock hard and deliciously defined with golden skin that was smooth and warm. He didn’t look like a man whose career kept him chained to a desk for endless hours. He reminded Drake of a male model right from the pages of GQ.
The glow from the fireplace warmed them as Lincoln shrugged out of his shirt, finally allowing Drake to see chiseled abs and powerful arms. His long legs were still encased in jeans, but Drake had no doubt they were powerful, just as powerful and beautiful as the rest of the man looking at Drake with desire burning in his eyes so intensely Drake could hardly draw in a breath seeing it.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.”
With a smile, a real smile that made his eyes crinkle, Lincoln tossed aside his shirt and stepped into the arms Drake opened for him.
“Drake...”
“Just kiss me again, Lincoln. Please. Let me taste you.”
He moved his hands to cup the older man’s face, feeling the five o’clock shadow stubble scrape the palms of his hands and that aroused him more.
Coffee.
He clearly remembered it. Lincoln had tasted like coffee.
Rich, warm, expensive coffee.
Blinking the memory away and cursing himself for having indulged in it at all, he looked up as the side door leading into the courtroom opened and tension settled in every muscle at the sight of Jeffrey Shipman being ushered quietly into the room.
He was in a suit, an ugly gray, and his blond hair had been chopped short, to give him an aura of respectability but his eyes were still hard and cold and laced with anger and hate.
The same hate that had driven him the night he beat Nelson to death.
The D.A had painted it as a hate crime and it had been just that.
Letters found in Shipman’s apartment had made it clear that he was a bigot, that he especially hated homosexuals, and his killing Nelson had been premedi
tated.
Watching as Shipman was taken to his seat, the handcuffs removed from his wrists, Drake wondered what Nelson would say about his killer.
Knowing Nelson, he would want people to forgive the bastard.
He had never been as forgiving as Nelson and he never would be. He knew he wasn’t alone in feeling that way.
The courtroom was packed with people who had loved and respected Nelson Bradshaw.
Shipman’s lawyer leaned over to say something to him and Shipman nodded, looking cool and calm.
Drake hated him.
For a moment, he almost wished the man dead, which made what happened next all the more eerily surreal.
Sitting in his seat, watching Shipman talk to his lawyer, Drake didn’t pay much attention to the man who walked slowly past him, but later he would realize he had seen the young man before.
Noah Walker.
Another kid, no more than seventeen, that Nelson had been trying to help right before Shipman killed him.
Later, Drake would be able to compare himself easily to the angry but silent young man who walked to the front of the courtroom and calmly called Shipman by name. When the smug bastard turned and looked, Noah Walker easily pulled a gun from his jacket pocket.
Without hesitation, he fired his gun four times and each shot struck Jeffrey Shipman.
Two bullets to the head.
Two bullets to the heart.
Shipman was dead before he hit the ground.
Walker allowed his gun to fall to the floor. As the room erupted into panic, he lifted his arms and held them directly above his head, allowing three uniformed police officers to tackle him to the ground.
There were screams, shouts, police everywhere suddenly, and people calling for medical help even if it was obviously too late.
Standing, Drake watched everything unfold as if he were in a dream that turned cold when he saw Shipman on the floor, covered in blood, and he felt sick at the sight when a hand suddenly came to rest on his arm and he looked to see Lincoln.
