Sunday, August 16, 2026
Sunday's Short Stack: Understanding Jeremy by AM Arthur
Discovering Me #2
No one in his life ever stays; maybe he’s finally found the one who will.
Jeremy Collins wants his boyfriend and live-in lover Cole Alston to stick around for the long haul, because Jeremy is definitely falling in love. But their relationship is still a secret from everyone except Jeremy’s best friend Bethann. And after eight years under the thumb of an abusive ex, Cole finally has choices about his future—choices that might take him far away from Jeremy.
When Bethann asks Jeremy for a huge, life-altering favor, suddenly the whole town is in his business. Rather than reassure Cole, Jeremy's explanations have the opposite effect and Cole withdraws. Something is going on in Cole's mind that Jeremy doesn't understand, and to get Cole to talk, Jeremy will need to confront his own deepest fears.
This title was previously published but no significant changes have been made.
Talk about an emotional read. Cole's past breaks your heart and Jeremy's past isn't exactly a sunny walk in the park either. They may have survived separately but together they begin to heal and thrive, but that doesn't mean everything is free and clear the minute they find each other. Unearthing Cole may be Cole's story and Understanding Jeremy may be told from Jeremy's side but you really need to read both books to have a complete story. There is only a few secondary characters but each one serves a purpose, none of them are there to just "pad the pages". So if you're looking for a sexy read that will tug at your heart, AM Arthur's Discovering Me duology is definitely for you, they burn up the pages and make your heart pound for multiple reasons, having a few tissues handy won't hurt either.
RATING:
AM Arthur
A.M. Arthur was born and raised in the same kind of small town that she likes to write about, a stone's throw from both beach resorts and generational farmland. She's been creating stories in her head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long, in a losing battle to make the fictional voices stop. She credits an early fascination with male friendships (bromance hadn't been coined yet back then) with her later discovery of and subsequent love affair with m/m romance stories. A.M. Arthur's work is available from Carina Press, SMP Swerve, and Briggs-King Books.
When not exorcising the voices in her head, she toils away in a retail job that tests her patience and gives her lots of story fodder. She can also be found in her kitchen, pretending she's an amateur chef and trying to not poison herself or others with her cuisine experiments.
Chapter One
COLE HAD the nightmare again. Third one this week. I did the same thing as every other time: I grabbed his arms when he woke up thrashing and screaming. Held him tight to the bed until the shaking stopped and he fell back asleep. This time it was nearly 5:00 a.m., and those few, heart-pounding minutes it took to calm him left me wide awake, sleep running away fast like a thief in the night.
I watched his face in the murky light afforded to me by the half-closed drapes on the bedroom window, still surprised such a precious gift was curled up in my bed, mumbling incoherently as he chased after sleep once more. His golden-blond hair had grown out a bit in the two months since we’d met, and it curled around his ears and chin. He hadn’t shaved in a few days—the beard burn warming my ass served as a lovely reminder—and more honey-colored hair covered his neck and chin.
Beneath the cover of blankets, the same pretty color nested around the cock I worshiped as often as he’d let me, spackled the scrotum I so adored sucking on, and left a thin trail from his navel to his dick. He told me once his ex-asshole liked him clean-shaven all over.
I told him I adored his body hair and that he could grow a beard worthy of Duck Dynasty for all I cared if it made him happy. Cole rewarded that comment with a blow job that had my eyeballs rolling back in my head and a lot of nonsense spewing out of my mouth.
In the six-ish weeks since his mother’s hoarded property was sorted and sold at auction, Cole had nightmares maybe once a week. Nightmares, I was certain, of the eight years he’d spent living in fear of his ex, Martin Palone. Nightmares, I was also certain, that were exacerbated by Martin’s sudden appearance at the preauction viewing.
I could never properly explain the rage I’d felt that day at seeing the man who’d caused Cole so much pain for so many years. The man who’d put fear in his eyes and scars on his body. The man Cole had agreed to speak with in private, even though I’d rather cut my own balls off than allow Martin within twenty feet of Cole again. I’d waited outside the shell of Cole’s mother’s house while they talked, silently boiling in my own anger, resenting Martin’s very existence.
Cole never told me exactly what Martin said, only that he believed Martin was out of our lives for good. Only he wasn’t out, not really. He existed in Cole’s tainted memories, in the nightmares, and in the moments when Cole still flinched over a too-fast movement or a dropped dinner plate. Cole was far from healed. Maybe he never would fully heal, but we’d take it all one day at a time like we had so far.
He muttered something, nose scrunching. A hand skated out, seeking something. I slid my hand into range, and soon warm fingers clasped mine. Cole settled, and I smiled against my pillow. His breathing deepened. The lines around his eyes relaxed. Once he’d been asleep for a few minutes, I slipped smoothly out of bed.
The third-floor bedroom was toasty warm, as it usually stayed all year long—a blessing in the February cold, but less so at the height of summer. I put on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt before padding down to the second floor, careful to avoid the creakiest stairs. I had a pot of coffee brewing before I snuck down to the first-floor laundry room and out onto the back porch to snatch up the morning paper.
On my way past the door that led into the antiques shop on the first floor of my house, I reached out to test the knob. I remembered locking it soundly behind me the previous evening after close, but the test was a funny habit I’d picked up after forgetting to lock it one night about six months ago. Nothing had happened, no one had broken into either my house or the store, but it had rattled me because it was the first time I’d forgotten in the four years since I’d moved to Franklin. I’ve double-checked every night since.
I settled on the sofa with the paper and a mug of coffee. I read each section, stopping for more coffee whenever the brown mug bottomed out, keeping the comic page and crossword for last. I was halfway through the crossword when the alarm clock blared overhead. Seven on the dot.
I hadn’t turned it off when I left the bedroom because Cole had volunteered to get up early and join me on today’s pick. He’d never been on a farm pick before, he said last night over dinner, and he wanted to know more about my business. He still hadn’t settled on a career path for himself—starting over completely at twenty-eight was hard for anyone, but especially for someone like Cole, who’d been stifled for so long. He spent hours some evenings poring over different online universities, reading about degrees and job opportunities. Nothing ever captured his attention for longer than an hour.
He had time to figure it all out. I liked having him in my life, and he seemed content to stay—even if he had insisted on giving me rent money on January first, and again yesterday, when the calendar shifted us into February. The need for that kind of independence was in direct odds with the fact that we shared a room and a bed every night like lovers, not like roommates. And Cole only had a set amount of money from the auction, which was slowly supplemented by additional sales of his mother’s collection of items from both online and the shop.
Unfortunately, the original bid for the land fell through, and it had to go up through a realtor, which left Cole without the large windfall he’d been expecting. He had to wait until the land sold to get that money, which could be a day or a year from now, and I didn’t want to take more from him until he had a job.
So I accepted the envelopes of cash and tucked them into a drawer in my downstairs office. I’d get it back to him somehow.
The hundred-year-old floorboards creaked overhead, followed by the rush of water in the pipes. I smiled and went upstairs to join him, telling myself that all the coffee I’d imbibed needed releasing, and it did. The bathroom door was closed to keep in steam, but not locked. I didn’t have to rattle the knob to know that. Cole had spent two years taking five-minute showers behind locked doors. Freeing himself of Martin’s shadow had freed him of that fear.
I knocked loudly so he wouldn’t be startled—I was taking no chances after this morning’s nightmare—then let myself in. I took a minute to relieve myself of the coffee, and then stripped out of my clothes and climbed into the shower.
Cole paused in the middle of rinsing shampoo from his golden hair. He grinned, and the simple beauty of it hit me in the chest. He didn’t smile at very many people, and I treasured each one I received. Looked forward to the next one, too. But the smile didn’t erase the dark shadows beneath his eyes or the weary way he stood beneath the hot spray.
“Morning,” I said, scooting close enough to get a little water on my skin.
“Hey.” Cole finished rinsing his hair before leaning in for a kiss. “Mmm, coffee.”
“You taste like peppermint.”
“Brushed my teeth first. When I woke up, my mouth tasted like ass.”
The flirty way he said that reminded me exactly why his mouth tasted like that, and my dick pulsed with the memory. Last night was only the second time Cole had ever rimmed me, and it had been fantastic. Rimmed me open and then fucked me senseless.
God. I tried to get my rising cock to calm down.
Unlike me—who’d been up for hours and had ingested half a pot of coffee—Cole simply looked tired. He wasn’t very sexual first thing in the morning, and especially not after a night of bad dreams. We washed together, all elbows and arms and wet skin, a comfortable thing I truly enjoyed. My persistent erection hung around until the end, when Cole stepped out and grabbed a towel.
I palmed some shower gel and took hold of the problem, sliding my fingers around my hot skin, feeling pleasure buzz through my body. Sometimes Cole hung around while I beat off, but this morning the nightmares were really bothering him. I dragged back memories of last night, of the way he’d licked and fingered my opening until I was begging him to fill me with his cock. My hand jerked fast, faster, up and down my length. I slid my left hand around to my crease, down past the faint heat of beard burn to my entrance. Pressed a finger inside, and that was it. I groaned and shot against the tiles, steam rising around me while my orgasm rippled down my spine. Fast and fun, but nowhere near as mind-blowing as Cole coaxing an orgasm out of me.
Cole wasn’t in the bedroom when I finally got out. I dressed for the day in old jeans and a flannel shirt over a white undershirt. We’d be outside in the cold most of the day, so layers were a must.
I found him in the kitchen, mixing a bowl of pancake batter while a mug of coffee cooled on the counter nearby. He looked good there in front of the marble countertop, dressed in the same green sweater he’d worn the first day we met.
When I bought this house and set up the store, I ripped the guts out of the second floor. I decided if I was remodeling anyway, I’d give myself the living space I’d always wanted. That included an open floor plan and an enormous gourmet kitchen.
The wide-eyed surprise on Cole’s face the first time he saw the kitchen was among my favorite nonsexual memories of him.
“I thought we’d need a robust breakfast before a long day of picking,” he said.
“Good call.”
I took the two-sided griddle out of the drawer beneath the broiler and put it flat side up over two burners on the gas range. We went through the motions of making breakfast with the ease of a couple who’d done it for years, when it had barely been months. We ate at the counter, side by side on matching stools.
Our first few weeks together, Cole had torn through his food at every meal as though he expected someone to snatch it away at any moment. And after spending two years on the run, terrified his ex-asshole would find him, never sure when he’d be able to stop, the habit made perfect sense. He always finished before I’d get halfway. Lately, though, he’d slowed his pace, taking the time to really taste and enjoy the meals we prepared together or separately. My habit of chewing each bite a careful fifteen times set my own eating pace far behind the average person—a habit burned into me when I was eight years old.
Watching your childhood best friend choke to death on improperly chewed food would put the fear of asphyxiation into anyone.
Cole drank his coffee while I polished off my final pancake. “How early were you up?” he asked.
“Around five.”
“Because of me again?”
I took extra time chewing a mouthful of pancake and syrup, hating that he’d asked and I wouldn’t lie. He always told me he didn’t remember the nightmares themselves, only the fear and dread left over from them. He knew he’d had bad dreams. “Yes, but it’s fine, babe. You know that.”
He put his mug down and scrubbed both hands over his face hard enough to redden the skin. I almost grabbed his wrists, but he stopped and heaved a weary sigh. “I’m sorry I’m still such a mess.”
“Hey, stop it.” We’d had versions of this conversation biweekly since the auction, and I didn’t know how many more times we could have it before my calm disappeared. I dropped my fork and spun my stool to face him, but he’d already slipped off the other side.
He put the island between us, gaze stuck on the marble surface. I froze, unsure if I should chase him or give him the space he’d taken for himself. Despite the huge strides he’d made toward healing in these last two months or so, he still had a long way to go. I knew that. I’d accepted that. But my patience only stretched so far.
“Cole, it was a nightmare.” Obvious, yes, but at least he was looking at me with his wide blue eyes. “You’ve had them before, and you’ll have more. I don’t care. Losing a few hours of sleep once in a while isn’t a big deal for me.”
“It’s a big deal for me.” He didn’t sound upset. Resigned maybe, and tired. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my shit, let it interrupt your life.”
“Nothing about you being here interrupts my life. Hell, I barely had a life before I met you. You being here makes me happy, Cole. You make me happy. Nightmares are simply your mind’s way of getting out all the bad stuff up there. It’ll take time to work through it all.” Words I’d said before. Words he still needed to hear.
Unless something else was bothering him beyond the nightmare and my two-hour loss of sleep. A chill snaked down my spine. “Are you not happy here?” I asked, dreading the answer once my brain had acknowledged the question. We hadn’t known each other very long, and neither of us had ever used the L-word, but things were good.
Weren’t they?
Cole blinked hard several times. “Of course I’m happy here. I love being here. You make me happy too, Jeremy. I promise.”
“Good.” I didn’t know what I’d have done if he’d said anything else. I didn’t want to know that, ever. “Please, no more apologizing for your nightmares. I’d rather have you screaming yourself awake every night than holding all that shit in, letting it eat you alive. You’re too precious for that to happen, hear me?”
He nodded, his angular face softening with the brightness of his smile. He circled back to me, and I stood so I could sweep him into a hug. My arms cinched tight around his waist and he pressed his face into the crook of my neck, leaning in. I took his weight gladly. I’d always been strong enough to stand for us both.
Cole turned his head. “I hear you, I swear, every time you say I’m precious and you’re happy. I do.”
“Sometimes it just bears repeating.”
“Yeah. Hope you don’t get too sick of repeating yourself.”
I pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “Not sick of it yet.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Anything, babe.”
WE HIT the road a little after eight. Tisdale’s farm was a good ninety-minute drive north from Franklin, almost on North Carolina’s border with Virginia. Arthur Tisdale had called me up a few days ago, looking for folks interested in buying off his land. I’d wanted to get into his various barns and outbuildings for over two years now, and I’d been denied access every time I’d asked. The excitement of Arthur’s call had been tempered by the reason for it—he’d been handed a “six months, maybe less” diagnosis from his oncologist after his third battle with lung cancer. He needed to start selling so his children didn’t get stuck with sixty years of collecting.
Cole knew all of this, and he still insisted on going with me to the farm.
Watching Cole clean his parents’ hoarded property back in December had been an exercise in patience with a dash of heartache on the side. The job had been too big for one man, and I’d been selfishly glad when he’d agreed to my business proposal: I’d dig out the treasures and sell them for a fee. We’d both made money, he’d gotten the property clear, and here we were, living together in Franklin over my shop. Cole hadn’t come back intending to stay, though, and sometimes I saw the wanderlust in his eyes—times when he didn’t think I was watching.
I didn’t know what I’d do if he decided he wanted to move on.
The closer we got to Tisdale’s, the tenser Cole got. I saw it in the way he sat up straighter, how he balled his hands in his lap. He still got nervous meeting new people, and I had no idea how he’d react to a farm as full of junk as his parents’ had been. I turned off the highway, and soon we were winding along a dirt road into a deeply wooded area. The only sign I was going the right way was a faded blue mailbox with “Tisdale” printed on it in peeling paint.
“Must be the place,” I said, even though it obviously was. From the moment we cleared the line of trees past the mailbox turnoff, the landscape was dotted with machinery—rusted-out cars, trucks missing doors, parts of farm equipment, bike and motorcycle frames. More metal than I could identify, twisted through with weeds and saplings.
“Holy cow,” Cole said. He leaned forward in his seat, peering out the van’s windshield. He seemed more amazed than horrified, and I took that as a good sign.
The dirt track that served as a driveway wound through the weedy, woody terrain, past two rusting sheds and into a circular parking area in front of a farmhouse that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror film. The two-story structure looked one nor’easter away from collapsing, as did the barn a few hundred yards away.
I parked the van behind an ancient Ford pickup, leaving the keys in the ignition, because who was going to steal it way out here? Cole unbuckled his seatbelt, and I did the same, taking my cues from him. I tried to see this collected property from his point of view—as a scary, hoarded mess—but all I saw out there was potential profit.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded and flashed me a smile I knew he didn’t feel, because it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go meet Mr. Tisdale.”
Positive he wasn’t ready for this and that bringing him had been a bad idea, I climbed out of the van. The air seemed warmer this deep in the woods, but still had a chill that made me hike up the zipper on my coat. Our van doors slamming shut echoed off the porch. I aimed for the front door.
“Here, you!”
The deep voice boomed behind us and Cole jumped a mile. I squeezed his wrist lightly and then let go. Arthur Tisdale limped toward us from the direction of the barn, leaning heavily on a thick, twisted cane that looked like he’d taken it out of the woods and polished it himself. He was average height and thin as a rail, with bushy white hair and eyebrows.
“You Collins?” he asked when he hobbled nearer.
“Yes, sir, Jeremy Collins,” I replied. “This is Cole Alston.”
We all traded handshakes, and I was impressed with Tisdale’s grip.
“Thank you for allowing us to come up and take a look around your property,” Cole said before I could.
“It’s time, son, it’s time,” Tisdale said. “I ain’t lookin’ to gouge you, but I ain’t givin’ it away either.”
“I’m sure we can work things out to both of our advantages,” I said. “Is there any particular area that’s off-limits for picking?”
“Nope. Y’can even look through the house if ya want. Got lotsa stuff in the attic and cellar too.”
“Can we start there?”
“Sure can.”
The best items were often kept close to the owner, so I wanted to get a look at the attic and his home while I had the most money in my pocket. Cole hesitated at the front door for only a moment, and then he followed us inside the old farmhouse.
BY MIDDAY, I’d rooted through the attic, root cellar, two unused bedrooms, and a messy place downstairs that might have been a den at one time. I’d collected a decent pile of items and spent less money that I expected. Tisdale was incredibly reasonable with pricing his antiques. Cole mostly watched and listened, sometimes asking questions about why I wanted a particular piece. He did, however, find my favorite pick of the day so far, which was an 1862 US Bridesburg musket. The nipple and ramrod were missing, but the musket itself was in fantastic shape for its age. I’d had a collector friend on the hook for one of those for years, and he’d be extremely excited to get a photo of this find e-mailed to him.
Tisdale disappeared into his kitchen while Cole and I loaded the van from the house pick. My stomach was grumbling, those pancakes long gone. We’d packed sandwiches in a cooler, and I was about to suggest we eat before hitting the exterior buildings. Tisdale surprised me by poking his head out the front door and yelling, “Got lunch on. You boys get in here and eat.”
A stockpot of something spicy was bubbling on the old gas range in the kitchen. We helped ourselves to bowls of chili and oyster crackers. Tisdale poured us sweet tea in Mason jars.
“Is there meat in here?” Cole asked.
“You one of those veggie-terrians?” Tisdale replied, and I wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating the word on purpose or not.
“No, sir, I just don’t recognize the flavor.”
“Venison, son. Neighbor brings me meat every autumn. I freeze some, make chili with some. Keeps real well all winter.”
“I’ve never had venison. It’s very good.”
It was extremely good. I’d had venison steaks before, but never in chili. The slightly gamey flavor went well with the beans and spices in the sauce, and I was disappointed when I got too full to eat more.
“You boys go on out to the barn,” Tisdale said. “Gonna wash up and rest awhile. I’ll join ya in a bit.”
We thanked him for our very tasty, very filling lunch and then headed outside. In the bright afternoon sunshine, I finally noticed the strained way Cole walked, like he was forcing himself to take each step. His eyes were pinched, his face a little pale even after eating all that hot chili.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked.
He stopped walking and shook his head. “It’s too soon. You haven’t picked outside yet.”
That hadn’t answered my question. He’d gotten very close to his fill of being around junk-piled rooms and layers of dirt. The barn wasn’t going to be pleasant, and we both had heavy-duty work gloves, but not even hard rubber and work boots could protect his eyes or mind. He’d grown up around this kind of collecting (or hoarding, in his mother’s case), and he’d gotten out, left it behind. Today was his attempt at facing those memories, but he could only stand it for so long.
“You tell me if you need a break, hear me?” I said.
“Yeah.”
The kitchen was on the other side of the house, so I leaned in and kissed him. A gentle, supportive kiss I didn’t dare deepen if I’d wanted to. The last thing I wanted to risk was Tisdale running us off his land with a shotgun if he rabidly disliked the fact that we were a couple.
Except for my best friend Bethann, no one in Franklin knew I was bisexual or that Cole was anything other than a rent-paying roommate. Folks knew I was a widower, that I’d moved to town not long after my wife died of anaphylactic shock, and that I didn’t date. So far, no one seemed to have figured out Cole was gay, and he didn’t advertise the fact. Until Cole, I hadn’t been attracted to a man in a long, long time. He brought out a side of me I’d forgotten, a side I embraced when I was with him. But this thing between us was still so fragile, so uncertain. Not yet permanent.
I wouldn’t out either of us without a long conversation. Living in a small town was safer in the metaphorical closet—at least for now.
The kiss put a little color into Cole’s cheeks, and he smiled.
Our initial investigation into the barn didn’t yield much. Holes in the roof had leaked years’ worth of rain and snow into the rotting structure, destroying anything made of paper, leather, or wood. The metal was rusted. Most of it would be better off at a scrap yard. By the time I dug some bicycle frames out of a somewhat protected stall, Tisdale had joined us again. I bought the frames for a steal.
Cole surprised me by asking for a price on a wooden chair with only three legs. Tisdale looked at me like he was crazy, and I had to admit, I was curious what Cole wanted with a three-legged chair. Tisdale said he could take it for free. Cole pressed some money into his hand, and I saw a flash of Lincoln’s face.
After Cole and I lugged the chair and frames to the van, he grabbed my elbow, his eyes pinched. I knew before he said anything. “You mind if I sit here for a while?”
“You want to leave?” I asked.
“No, I don’t want to interrupt this. It’s your business. I just….” He shook his head, frowning like he’d failed an easy test and couldn’t quite believe it. “I can’t handle more today. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m proud of you for all this.”
“The barn’s just too”—his eyes flashed with some dark memory—“smells too much like my parents’ house, you know? The rot.”
“I get it.” Behind the shield the van provided from the barn, I pulled him into a hug. His heart was pounding rapidly, and I held him a minute until it calmed. I didn’t want to let go because he fit in my arms perfectly, but we were burning daylight and it was a long drive home.
“Find something that’ll make you rich,” he said as I headed back to the barn.
I gave a thumbs-up.
No such luck on the first floor of the barn. Tisdale had a handful of outbuildings to inspect, plus all of the things strewn around the land, but I wanted a peek into his hayloft first. He said he’d put a few old railroad lanterns up there a decade or two ago, and those were always collectible, especially with the glass intact.
The ladder up to the loft was broken in several places, the wood soft in others. I scrambled up fast and the boards groaned beneath my weight. My heart jumped. I shone my flashlight into the gloom, sure this was a bad idea. A lump of moldy cardboard boxes sat a few yards away, across a floor littered with straw and old feed sacks. I picked my way to it, sliding my feet, testing for strength like I was crossing a frozen lake in March.
“You okay up there?” Tisdale yelled somewhere down below.
COLE HAD the nightmare again. Third one this week. I did the same thing as every other time: I grabbed his arms when he woke up thrashing and screaming. Held him tight to the bed until the shaking stopped and he fell back asleep. This time it was nearly 5:00 a.m., and those few, heart-pounding minutes it took to calm him left me wide awake, sleep running away fast like a thief in the night.
I watched his face in the murky light afforded to me by the half-closed drapes on the bedroom window, still surprised such a precious gift was curled up in my bed, mumbling incoherently as he chased after sleep once more. His golden-blond hair had grown out a bit in the two months since we’d met, and it curled around his ears and chin. He hadn’t shaved in a few days—the beard burn warming my ass served as a lovely reminder—and more honey-colored hair covered his neck and chin.
Beneath the cover of blankets, the same pretty color nested around the cock I worshiped as often as he’d let me, spackled the scrotum I so adored sucking on, and left a thin trail from his navel to his dick. He told me once his ex-asshole liked him clean-shaven all over.
I told him I adored his body hair and that he could grow a beard worthy of Duck Dynasty for all I cared if it made him happy. Cole rewarded that comment with a blow job that had my eyeballs rolling back in my head and a lot of nonsense spewing out of my mouth.
In the six-ish weeks since his mother’s hoarded property was sorted and sold at auction, Cole had nightmares maybe once a week. Nightmares, I was certain, of the eight years he’d spent living in fear of his ex, Martin Palone. Nightmares, I was also certain, that were exacerbated by Martin’s sudden appearance at the preauction viewing.
I could never properly explain the rage I’d felt that day at seeing the man who’d caused Cole so much pain for so many years. The man who’d put fear in his eyes and scars on his body. The man Cole had agreed to speak with in private, even though I’d rather cut my own balls off than allow Martin within twenty feet of Cole again. I’d waited outside the shell of Cole’s mother’s house while they talked, silently boiling in my own anger, resenting Martin’s very existence.
Cole never told me exactly what Martin said, only that he believed Martin was out of our lives for good. Only he wasn’t out, not really. He existed in Cole’s tainted memories, in the nightmares, and in the moments when Cole still flinched over a too-fast movement or a dropped dinner plate. Cole was far from healed. Maybe he never would fully heal, but we’d take it all one day at a time like we had so far.
He muttered something, nose scrunching. A hand skated out, seeking something. I slid my hand into range, and soon warm fingers clasped mine. Cole settled, and I smiled against my pillow. His breathing deepened. The lines around his eyes relaxed. Once he’d been asleep for a few minutes, I slipped smoothly out of bed.
The third-floor bedroom was toasty warm, as it usually stayed all year long—a blessing in the February cold, but less so at the height of summer. I put on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt before padding down to the second floor, careful to avoid the creakiest stairs. I had a pot of coffee brewing before I snuck down to the first-floor laundry room and out onto the back porch to snatch up the morning paper.
On my way past the door that led into the antiques shop on the first floor of my house, I reached out to test the knob. I remembered locking it soundly behind me the previous evening after close, but the test was a funny habit I’d picked up after forgetting to lock it one night about six months ago. Nothing had happened, no one had broken into either my house or the store, but it had rattled me because it was the first time I’d forgotten in the four years since I’d moved to Franklin. I’ve double-checked every night since.
I settled on the sofa with the paper and a mug of coffee. I read each section, stopping for more coffee whenever the brown mug bottomed out, keeping the comic page and crossword for last. I was halfway through the crossword when the alarm clock blared overhead. Seven on the dot.
I hadn’t turned it off when I left the bedroom because Cole had volunteered to get up early and join me on today’s pick. He’d never been on a farm pick before, he said last night over dinner, and he wanted to know more about my business. He still hadn’t settled on a career path for himself—starting over completely at twenty-eight was hard for anyone, but especially for someone like Cole, who’d been stifled for so long. He spent hours some evenings poring over different online universities, reading about degrees and job opportunities. Nothing ever captured his attention for longer than an hour.
He had time to figure it all out. I liked having him in my life, and he seemed content to stay—even if he had insisted on giving me rent money on January first, and again yesterday, when the calendar shifted us into February. The need for that kind of independence was in direct odds with the fact that we shared a room and a bed every night like lovers, not like roommates. And Cole only had a set amount of money from the auction, which was slowly supplemented by additional sales of his mother’s collection of items from both online and the shop.
Unfortunately, the original bid for the land fell through, and it had to go up through a realtor, which left Cole without the large windfall he’d been expecting. He had to wait until the land sold to get that money, which could be a day or a year from now, and I didn’t want to take more from him until he had a job.
So I accepted the envelopes of cash and tucked them into a drawer in my downstairs office. I’d get it back to him somehow.
The hundred-year-old floorboards creaked overhead, followed by the rush of water in the pipes. I smiled and went upstairs to join him, telling myself that all the coffee I’d imbibed needed releasing, and it did. The bathroom door was closed to keep in steam, but not locked. I didn’t have to rattle the knob to know that. Cole had spent two years taking five-minute showers behind locked doors. Freeing himself of Martin’s shadow had freed him of that fear.
I knocked loudly so he wouldn’t be startled—I was taking no chances after this morning’s nightmare—then let myself in. I took a minute to relieve myself of the coffee, and then stripped out of my clothes and climbed into the shower.
Cole paused in the middle of rinsing shampoo from his golden hair. He grinned, and the simple beauty of it hit me in the chest. He didn’t smile at very many people, and I treasured each one I received. Looked forward to the next one, too. But the smile didn’t erase the dark shadows beneath his eyes or the weary way he stood beneath the hot spray.
“Morning,” I said, scooting close enough to get a little water on my skin.
“Hey.” Cole finished rinsing his hair before leaning in for a kiss. “Mmm, coffee.”
“You taste like peppermint.”
“Brushed my teeth first. When I woke up, my mouth tasted like ass.”
The flirty way he said that reminded me exactly why his mouth tasted like that, and my dick pulsed with the memory. Last night was only the second time Cole had ever rimmed me, and it had been fantastic. Rimmed me open and then fucked me senseless.
God. I tried to get my rising cock to calm down.
Unlike me—who’d been up for hours and had ingested half a pot of coffee—Cole simply looked tired. He wasn’t very sexual first thing in the morning, and especially not after a night of bad dreams. We washed together, all elbows and arms and wet skin, a comfortable thing I truly enjoyed. My persistent erection hung around until the end, when Cole stepped out and grabbed a towel.
I palmed some shower gel and took hold of the problem, sliding my fingers around my hot skin, feeling pleasure buzz through my body. Sometimes Cole hung around while I beat off, but this morning the nightmares were really bothering him. I dragged back memories of last night, of the way he’d licked and fingered my opening until I was begging him to fill me with his cock. My hand jerked fast, faster, up and down my length. I slid my left hand around to my crease, down past the faint heat of beard burn to my entrance. Pressed a finger inside, and that was it. I groaned and shot against the tiles, steam rising around me while my orgasm rippled down my spine. Fast and fun, but nowhere near as mind-blowing as Cole coaxing an orgasm out of me.
Cole wasn’t in the bedroom when I finally got out. I dressed for the day in old jeans and a flannel shirt over a white undershirt. We’d be outside in the cold most of the day, so layers were a must.
I found him in the kitchen, mixing a bowl of pancake batter while a mug of coffee cooled on the counter nearby. He looked good there in front of the marble countertop, dressed in the same green sweater he’d worn the first day we met.
When I bought this house and set up the store, I ripped the guts out of the second floor. I decided if I was remodeling anyway, I’d give myself the living space I’d always wanted. That included an open floor plan and an enormous gourmet kitchen.
The wide-eyed surprise on Cole’s face the first time he saw the kitchen was among my favorite nonsexual memories of him.
“I thought we’d need a robust breakfast before a long day of picking,” he said.
“Good call.”
I took the two-sided griddle out of the drawer beneath the broiler and put it flat side up over two burners on the gas range. We went through the motions of making breakfast with the ease of a couple who’d done it for years, when it had barely been months. We ate at the counter, side by side on matching stools.
Our first few weeks together, Cole had torn through his food at every meal as though he expected someone to snatch it away at any moment. And after spending two years on the run, terrified his ex-asshole would find him, never sure when he’d be able to stop, the habit made perfect sense. He always finished before I’d get halfway. Lately, though, he’d slowed his pace, taking the time to really taste and enjoy the meals we prepared together or separately. My habit of chewing each bite a careful fifteen times set my own eating pace far behind the average person—a habit burned into me when I was eight years old.
Watching your childhood best friend choke to death on improperly chewed food would put the fear of asphyxiation into anyone.
Cole drank his coffee while I polished off my final pancake. “How early were you up?” he asked.
“Around five.”
“Because of me again?”
I took extra time chewing a mouthful of pancake and syrup, hating that he’d asked and I wouldn’t lie. He always told me he didn’t remember the nightmares themselves, only the fear and dread left over from them. He knew he’d had bad dreams. “Yes, but it’s fine, babe. You know that.”
He put his mug down and scrubbed both hands over his face hard enough to redden the skin. I almost grabbed his wrists, but he stopped and heaved a weary sigh. “I’m sorry I’m still such a mess.”
“Hey, stop it.” We’d had versions of this conversation biweekly since the auction, and I didn’t know how many more times we could have it before my calm disappeared. I dropped my fork and spun my stool to face him, but he’d already slipped off the other side.
He put the island between us, gaze stuck on the marble surface. I froze, unsure if I should chase him or give him the space he’d taken for himself. Despite the huge strides he’d made toward healing in these last two months or so, he still had a long way to go. I knew that. I’d accepted that. But my patience only stretched so far.
“Cole, it was a nightmare.” Obvious, yes, but at least he was looking at me with his wide blue eyes. “You’ve had them before, and you’ll have more. I don’t care. Losing a few hours of sleep once in a while isn’t a big deal for me.”
“It’s a big deal for me.” He didn’t sound upset. Resigned maybe, and tired. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my shit, let it interrupt your life.”
“Nothing about you being here interrupts my life. Hell, I barely had a life before I met you. You being here makes me happy, Cole. You make me happy. Nightmares are simply your mind’s way of getting out all the bad stuff up there. It’ll take time to work through it all.” Words I’d said before. Words he still needed to hear.
Unless something else was bothering him beyond the nightmare and my two-hour loss of sleep. A chill snaked down my spine. “Are you not happy here?” I asked, dreading the answer once my brain had acknowledged the question. We hadn’t known each other very long, and neither of us had ever used the L-word, but things were good.
Weren’t they?
Cole blinked hard several times. “Of course I’m happy here. I love being here. You make me happy too, Jeremy. I promise.”
“Good.” I didn’t know what I’d have done if he’d said anything else. I didn’t want to know that, ever. “Please, no more apologizing for your nightmares. I’d rather have you screaming yourself awake every night than holding all that shit in, letting it eat you alive. You’re too precious for that to happen, hear me?”
He nodded, his angular face softening with the brightness of his smile. He circled back to me, and I stood so I could sweep him into a hug. My arms cinched tight around his waist and he pressed his face into the crook of my neck, leaning in. I took his weight gladly. I’d always been strong enough to stand for us both.
Cole turned his head. “I hear you, I swear, every time you say I’m precious and you’re happy. I do.”
“Sometimes it just bears repeating.”
“Yeah. Hope you don’t get too sick of repeating yourself.”
I pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “Not sick of it yet.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Anything, babe.”
WE HIT the road a little after eight. Tisdale’s farm was a good ninety-minute drive north from Franklin, almost on North Carolina’s border with Virginia. Arthur Tisdale had called me up a few days ago, looking for folks interested in buying off his land. I’d wanted to get into his various barns and outbuildings for over two years now, and I’d been denied access every time I’d asked. The excitement of Arthur’s call had been tempered by the reason for it—he’d been handed a “six months, maybe less” diagnosis from his oncologist after his third battle with lung cancer. He needed to start selling so his children didn’t get stuck with sixty years of collecting.
Cole knew all of this, and he still insisted on going with me to the farm.
Watching Cole clean his parents’ hoarded property back in December had been an exercise in patience with a dash of heartache on the side. The job had been too big for one man, and I’d been selfishly glad when he’d agreed to my business proposal: I’d dig out the treasures and sell them for a fee. We’d both made money, he’d gotten the property clear, and here we were, living together in Franklin over my shop. Cole hadn’t come back intending to stay, though, and sometimes I saw the wanderlust in his eyes—times when he didn’t think I was watching.
I didn’t know what I’d do if he decided he wanted to move on.
The closer we got to Tisdale’s, the tenser Cole got. I saw it in the way he sat up straighter, how he balled his hands in his lap. He still got nervous meeting new people, and I had no idea how he’d react to a farm as full of junk as his parents’ had been. I turned off the highway, and soon we were winding along a dirt road into a deeply wooded area. The only sign I was going the right way was a faded blue mailbox with “Tisdale” printed on it in peeling paint.
“Must be the place,” I said, even though it obviously was. From the moment we cleared the line of trees past the mailbox turnoff, the landscape was dotted with machinery—rusted-out cars, trucks missing doors, parts of farm equipment, bike and motorcycle frames. More metal than I could identify, twisted through with weeds and saplings.
“Holy cow,” Cole said. He leaned forward in his seat, peering out the van’s windshield. He seemed more amazed than horrified, and I took that as a good sign.
The dirt track that served as a driveway wound through the weedy, woody terrain, past two rusting sheds and into a circular parking area in front of a farmhouse that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror film. The two-story structure looked one nor’easter away from collapsing, as did the barn a few hundred yards away.
I parked the van behind an ancient Ford pickup, leaving the keys in the ignition, because who was going to steal it way out here? Cole unbuckled his seatbelt, and I did the same, taking my cues from him. I tried to see this collected property from his point of view—as a scary, hoarded mess—but all I saw out there was potential profit.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded and flashed me a smile I knew he didn’t feel, because it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go meet Mr. Tisdale.”
Positive he wasn’t ready for this and that bringing him had been a bad idea, I climbed out of the van. The air seemed warmer this deep in the woods, but still had a chill that made me hike up the zipper on my coat. Our van doors slamming shut echoed off the porch. I aimed for the front door.
“Here, you!”
The deep voice boomed behind us and Cole jumped a mile. I squeezed his wrist lightly and then let go. Arthur Tisdale limped toward us from the direction of the barn, leaning heavily on a thick, twisted cane that looked like he’d taken it out of the woods and polished it himself. He was average height and thin as a rail, with bushy white hair and eyebrows.
“You Collins?” he asked when he hobbled nearer.
“Yes, sir, Jeremy Collins,” I replied. “This is Cole Alston.”
We all traded handshakes, and I was impressed with Tisdale’s grip.
“Thank you for allowing us to come up and take a look around your property,” Cole said before I could.
“It’s time, son, it’s time,” Tisdale said. “I ain’t lookin’ to gouge you, but I ain’t givin’ it away either.”
“I’m sure we can work things out to both of our advantages,” I said. “Is there any particular area that’s off-limits for picking?”
“Nope. Y’can even look through the house if ya want. Got lotsa stuff in the attic and cellar too.”
“Can we start there?”
“Sure can.”
The best items were often kept close to the owner, so I wanted to get a look at the attic and his home while I had the most money in my pocket. Cole hesitated at the front door for only a moment, and then he followed us inside the old farmhouse.
BY MIDDAY, I’d rooted through the attic, root cellar, two unused bedrooms, and a messy place downstairs that might have been a den at one time. I’d collected a decent pile of items and spent less money that I expected. Tisdale was incredibly reasonable with pricing his antiques. Cole mostly watched and listened, sometimes asking questions about why I wanted a particular piece. He did, however, find my favorite pick of the day so far, which was an 1862 US Bridesburg musket. The nipple and ramrod were missing, but the musket itself was in fantastic shape for its age. I’d had a collector friend on the hook for one of those for years, and he’d be extremely excited to get a photo of this find e-mailed to him.
Tisdale disappeared into his kitchen while Cole and I loaded the van from the house pick. My stomach was grumbling, those pancakes long gone. We’d packed sandwiches in a cooler, and I was about to suggest we eat before hitting the exterior buildings. Tisdale surprised me by poking his head out the front door and yelling, “Got lunch on. You boys get in here and eat.”
A stockpot of something spicy was bubbling on the old gas range in the kitchen. We helped ourselves to bowls of chili and oyster crackers. Tisdale poured us sweet tea in Mason jars.
“Is there meat in here?” Cole asked.
“You one of those veggie-terrians?” Tisdale replied, and I wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating the word on purpose or not.
“No, sir, I just don’t recognize the flavor.”
“Venison, son. Neighbor brings me meat every autumn. I freeze some, make chili with some. Keeps real well all winter.”
“I’ve never had venison. It’s very good.”
It was extremely good. I’d had venison steaks before, but never in chili. The slightly gamey flavor went well with the beans and spices in the sauce, and I was disappointed when I got too full to eat more.
“You boys go on out to the barn,” Tisdale said. “Gonna wash up and rest awhile. I’ll join ya in a bit.”
We thanked him for our very tasty, very filling lunch and then headed outside. In the bright afternoon sunshine, I finally noticed the strained way Cole walked, like he was forcing himself to take each step. His eyes were pinched, his face a little pale even after eating all that hot chili.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked.
He stopped walking and shook his head. “It’s too soon. You haven’t picked outside yet.”
That hadn’t answered my question. He’d gotten very close to his fill of being around junk-piled rooms and layers of dirt. The barn wasn’t going to be pleasant, and we both had heavy-duty work gloves, but not even hard rubber and work boots could protect his eyes or mind. He’d grown up around this kind of collecting (or hoarding, in his mother’s case), and he’d gotten out, left it behind. Today was his attempt at facing those memories, but he could only stand it for so long.
“You tell me if you need a break, hear me?” I said.
“Yeah.”
The kitchen was on the other side of the house, so I leaned in and kissed him. A gentle, supportive kiss I didn’t dare deepen if I’d wanted to. The last thing I wanted to risk was Tisdale running us off his land with a shotgun if he rabidly disliked the fact that we were a couple.
Except for my best friend Bethann, no one in Franklin knew I was bisexual or that Cole was anything other than a rent-paying roommate. Folks knew I was a widower, that I’d moved to town not long after my wife died of anaphylactic shock, and that I didn’t date. So far, no one seemed to have figured out Cole was gay, and he didn’t advertise the fact. Until Cole, I hadn’t been attracted to a man in a long, long time. He brought out a side of me I’d forgotten, a side I embraced when I was with him. But this thing between us was still so fragile, so uncertain. Not yet permanent.
I wouldn’t out either of us without a long conversation. Living in a small town was safer in the metaphorical closet—at least for now.
The kiss put a little color into Cole’s cheeks, and he smiled.
Our initial investigation into the barn didn’t yield much. Holes in the roof had leaked years’ worth of rain and snow into the rotting structure, destroying anything made of paper, leather, or wood. The metal was rusted. Most of it would be better off at a scrap yard. By the time I dug some bicycle frames out of a somewhat protected stall, Tisdale had joined us again. I bought the frames for a steal.
Cole surprised me by asking for a price on a wooden chair with only three legs. Tisdale looked at me like he was crazy, and I had to admit, I was curious what Cole wanted with a three-legged chair. Tisdale said he could take it for free. Cole pressed some money into his hand, and I saw a flash of Lincoln’s face.
After Cole and I lugged the chair and frames to the van, he grabbed my elbow, his eyes pinched. I knew before he said anything. “You mind if I sit here for a while?”
“You want to leave?” I asked.
“No, I don’t want to interrupt this. It’s your business. I just….” He shook his head, frowning like he’d failed an easy test and couldn’t quite believe it. “I can’t handle more today. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m proud of you for all this.”
“The barn’s just too”—his eyes flashed with some dark memory—“smells too much like my parents’ house, you know? The rot.”
“I get it.” Behind the shield the van provided from the barn, I pulled him into a hug. His heart was pounding rapidly, and I held him a minute until it calmed. I didn’t want to let go because he fit in my arms perfectly, but we were burning daylight and it was a long drive home.
“Find something that’ll make you rich,” he said as I headed back to the barn.
I gave a thumbs-up.
No such luck on the first floor of the barn. Tisdale had a handful of outbuildings to inspect, plus all of the things strewn around the land, but I wanted a peek into his hayloft first. He said he’d put a few old railroad lanterns up there a decade or two ago, and those were always collectible, especially with the glass intact.
The ladder up to the loft was broken in several places, the wood soft in others. I scrambled up fast and the boards groaned beneath my weight. My heart jumped. I shone my flashlight into the gloom, sure this was a bad idea. A lump of moldy cardboard boxes sat a few yards away, across a floor littered with straw and old feed sacks. I picked my way to it, sliding my feet, testing for strength like I was crossing a frozen lake in March.
“You okay up there?” Tisdale yelled somewhere down below.
“Sure thing.”
I inched closer. Wood snapped. I froze, listening.
Snap. Pop.
“Shit.”
I started backing up, and then the whole hayloft floor gave out, and I fell.
I inched closer. Wood snapped. I froze, listening.
Snap. Pop.
“Shit.”
I started backing up, and then the whole hayloft floor gave out, and I fell.
A.M. Arthur was born and raised in the same kind of small town that she likes to write about, a stone's throw from both beach resorts and generational farmland. She's been creating stories in her head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long, in a losing battle to make the fictional voices stop. She credits an early fascination with male friendships (bromance hadn't been coined yet back then) with her later discovery of and subsequent love affair with m/m romance stories. A.M. Arthur's work is available from Carina Press, SMP Swerve, and Briggs-King Books.
When not exorcising the voices in her head, she toils away in a retail job that tests her patience and gives her lots of story fodder. She can also be found in her kitchen, pretending she's an amateur chef and trying to not poison herself or others with her cuisine experiments.
Understanding Jeremy #2
Series
Saturday, August 15, 2026
Saturday Series Spotlight: Appleton Falls by Felice Stevens Part 1
Summary:
Wow. I did not expect to run into Brooklyn Kings retired football star Harte McKinney in my hometown of Appleton Falls. It takes me back to my college days when I crushed on him in silence. All these years later, nothing’s changed. Even better, something in his eyes has me thinking he’s not as straight as I’d always believed.
When I find him hurt in a car crash in the snow, it’s my duty as a deputy sheriff to follow him to the hospital and make sure he’s going to be okay. Then we share an unexpected kiss, and I make him a proposal: come home with me to recuperate so we can explore these feelings behind closed doors.
Each day we spend together brings us closer, and we know we want to be together. But small towns have big eyes—we might not be able to keep what we have to ourselves much longer. My partner already suspects Harte and I are more than “just friends.” And when my mom gets an eyeful of Harte in his birthday suit…it’s time.
Let the snow fall where it may—we’re ready to come out.
There’s a fire crackling in the grate, the tree is decorated, and presents are wrapped. We’re all set to huddle together for the holidays and hope that love and magic of Christmas conquers all.
Summary:
I’m finally living the life I want as a deputy sheriff in the small town of Appleton Falls. I gave up my job as a cop in the NYPD to search for the truth about a father I barely know, except finding him brought me no peace.
But I’m happy. Really. I’d love to fall in love, but it just hasn’t happened. Yet.
Then he shows up to join our force.
My old high school nemesis, Dominic Starr. The gorgeous loner and the bane of my existence.
As well as my secret fantasy.
Why did he leave the NYPD? Was he running from his powerful father? Or hiding from him?
It’s not like he wants to forgive and forget and be friends. At every turn he’s in my face, taunting and teasing me with that stupid nickname he loves and knows I hate.
Starr should be careful, because he’s got secrets only I know.
And one of them is mine as well.
But when the past we both want to leave behind crashes into our present—with deadly consequences—neither of us can hide what we’ve been running from all our lives: The future we both seek is in each other’s arms.
If we make it out alive.
Holiday Huddle #1
Chapter One
Harte
It’s said life begins at forty, but not in the NFL. Of course there were other active players my age, but they were the superstars teams wanted. There was no place for older second stringers in the world of football.
At least that was what my ex, Maya, had told me with a curl of her lips. Lips I’d once known the feel and taste of as well as my own, sneered at me with disdain when I sat on the bench week after week. All the years I’d been a starter, she could brag and be that football wife—getting the best tables at restaurants and wearing the top designer clothes sent to her. Then I didn’t make starting quarterback after Devlin Summers retired, and she became restless. Unhappy. Ultimately unfaithful.
If I could be truthful with myself…I probably should’ve never gotten married. I’d wanted to live a little. But I was raised to be a dutiful son. We’d had a quiet, uneventful life in our small town—my mother staying home to take care of me, and my father working as a manager in a big-box store. Dinner on the table at six thirty every night and church on Sunday. I was brought up to listen to my elders and that meant following the path my parents told me I was destined for. School, football, marriage. Mostly, I was a people-pleaser who wasn’t the type to stand up for what he wanted. But at eighteen, does anyone really know what they want, except to live their best life?
I’d known what wasn’t going to happen. In the NFL, there was no room for a man who liked men as much as he liked women. Not that I’d ever had a chance to explore that side of me—my small Minnesota town hadn’t exactly made it easy, and I’d been scared to death anyone would find out, especially my parents. We’d had a good enough relationship, but my mother seemed not to know what to say to me other than “Do well in school and Don’t talk back to your teachers.” My father would take me out in the yard to throw footballs, all the while lecturing me on women. “You’re a good-looking boy. They’ll try and trap you, Harte, ’cause you’re gonna be a football player. Don’t get a girl pregnant, ’cause you’re gonna have to take care of that baby. Make sure you marry her first. And stay away from drugs. You can get to the NFL if you play it smart.”
As quarterback of my high school football team, I’d been a star, a standout. Image was everything. I’d kept my head down, stayed out of trouble, and done as told. I could ill afford to explore a sexuality that would keep me from what my parents and coaches all said was my destiny.
Still, a man could dream.
But when I’d finally gotten there, on the field, surrounded by the roar of the crowd, I’d allowed the hype of potential stardom to sweep me up and carry me on its shoulders. Maya Delman had been the head cheerleader and first runner-up for Ms. Teen Minnesota. And she’d wanted me. She’d pulled me into her dazzling orbit, and I’d willingly given up control.
Maya had wanted to get married after I’d been drafted and had brushed aside my wishes to wait and see how my rookie year turned out. We’d had an expensive, splashy wedding, where teammates I’d barely known came as my guests. My college teammate, David Charles, was my best man.
After that, Maya continued to enjoy the football-wife world and happily spent her time decorating our home, only showing up to division playoff games. If I mentioned having children, she’d brush me off with the excuse that we were too young and there was plenty of time. We should be free to enjoy our lives.
Maybe that should’ve been my first clue. Over the years, there’d always been a reason to put off even a discussion of starting a family. She’d entice me with sex and sweet words of how without kids, we’d get to spend more time only the two of us, and I’d let it slide.
Then I was traded and got to play in the Super Bowl, and though we didn’t win, my star burned bright. I was living the life. The dream my parents had for me, though neither lived long enough to see it happen. My mother died from leukemia the year after I was drafted—three months from diagnosis to death. My father fell asleep at the wheel after he was asked to switch his shifts to nights. He crashed into a tree and died instantly. As an only child of only children, I had no family other than Maya, and I clung to her, wishing we could start our family, but she continued to push me off, and I retreated.
I was traded to the Brooklyn Kings and though they were Super Bowl contenders, I’d had a feeling my glory days as a player were waning—I’d been hurt and sidelined for half a season, but I’d tried my best. I’d expressed my fears to my wife, the person I shared my life with, expecting sympathy. Instead, Maya had yelled at me and said I had a loser attitude and ended our conversation, refusing to take my calls after that. On the bye week, I’d gone home to Minnesota, hoping to see if we could somehow find our way back to each other. Instead, I’d found the house emptied and a note saying she was leaving me. She’d fallen in love with David. My best friend. While I’d been in New York City playing, Maya had flown to California, where David’s team was located, to meet up with him.
We had no prenup, and I wasn’t about to fight for someone who’d cheated and no longer loved me. I had my pride. I wondered if David was the first, but it didn’t matter. Once was enough for me. Maya got her divorce and half of everything per Minnesota law.
With Devlin Summers as the franchise quarterback, I wasn’t ever going to be a starter again unless he got injured. And when he and Brody retired and came out, I had hopes until the Kings acquired Patrick Sloane. I knew then that my days on the team were numbered. I didn’t begrudge Patrick the position because I was realistic and understood the game was a business. He was young, and I wasn’t. I was on my way out.
Foolishly, I allowed my personal unhappiness over my divorce to bleed into playing football. I wasn’t at the top of my game, so it came as no surprise that my contract wasn’t renewed. Cut loose from the Kings, I had my agent make discreet inquiries to see if any other team might be interested. That came up a big fat zero, so I took some time to sit in a hotel room, wondering what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life. Nothing seemed to matter anymore—most of all, me.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Harte,” my agent argued. “You’re a healthy young guy with plenty of money. Start a foundation, get involved in charities. Talk to Dev and Brody—they have a bunch you can work with. I can see if there are any broadcasting positions open, if you want. Honestly, I think you should see a therapist. All the players do after they divorce. The best thing you can do is keep busy.”
I took his advice and joined Dev and Brody’s summer camp for kids in Georgia, and they had me on their podcast, The Huddle.
After the podcast, Dev rested his chin in his hands. “What’s wrong, Harte? I mean, I know it’s hard—your marriage broke up and you retired, but are you okay? Talk to us.”
Unexpected emotions rushed through me. I never talked about myself. There was little to say. My secret would be safe with Dev and Brody—of all people, they’d understand—yet I was uncomfortable in my own skin and wasn’t ready.
My laughter was without humor. “I wouldn’t exactly say I retired. No team was willing to sign me. I’m just…I guess it’s harder than I thought to go home again and start over. Lots of memories, not all of them great.”
“Then move. You can go anywhere.”
“I could. I love the forest and mountains. I’m never happier than being outside, fishing in the warm weather or walking in the snow. But not Minnesota.”
“We have a place in Georgia and a cabin upstate in New York,” Brody said. “Why don’t you come visit us and see? Maybe you’ll wanna get somethin’ nearby.”
These guys were too damn sweet. I hardly knew them, yet here they were, offering me their home and hospitality.
“Thanks. I might take you up on that.”
And I did. I liked their home in Georgia, but I fell in love with the Adirondacks as soon as I drove up to their huge cabin. Within a month I’d found my own home, in Appleton Falls, less than a mile from Dev and Brody’s. Keller Williams, who’d retired after an injury and now coached high school football, lived about twenty miles away, as did Elijah Randolph. It was becoming a regular little retired-footballers’ enclave.
I closed on the house right before Thanksgiving and moved in the first week of December. Appleton Falls was picturesque—it could’ve been the greeting-card standard for small towns—and the residents went all out for the holidays. A huge Christmas tree dominated the town square, and every storefront was decorated like a Christmas present. The iron-filigreed lampposts lining Main Street were draped with evergreen and huge red-and-green bows, and a sled piled high with gift-wrapped packages sat outside city hall, along with a menorah as a nod to Jewish residents. A lit canopy of stars, angels, and reindeer rose above the shopping district.
I passed by large residences set back from the road, their lights twinkling in the night sky. I opened the door to my new home, set my duffel on the wide-plank floor of the living room, and stood for a moment to get my bearings. The wind had picked up, and I smiled in anticipation of a roaring blaze in the big stone fireplace that sat catty-corner in the great room. There had to be a game on somewhere that I could watch on my big-screen TV. My footsteps echoed in the room, reminding me I’d be watching that game alone.
The isolation was my fault—I’d known this day was coming but had never planned for it. Being set for life with money didn’t guarantee happiness if you had no one to share it with and no reason to get up in the morning.
“No black dog tonight,” I muttered to myself. “It’s too beautiful here to be depressed.”
I’d picked out neutral furniture, but the walls remained bare. I’d have to get some pictures and knickknacks to brighten it up. Dark wooden beams offset the pale-yellow walls, and the kitchen had light maple cabinets and a wide marble island. I didn’t cook, but I did like my coffee, and I was happy to see my brand-new machine sitting on the counter, waiting to be initiated.
I left my bag in the hall and wandered about the rooms, grateful for the service I’d hired. They’d set up the furniture I’d ordered, cleaned the inside of any dust, and took care of the outside grounds. Now what I really needed was that beautiful cup of hot coffee. Heat had warmed the cabin nicely, but nothing hit like a jolt of caffeine. And maybe a shot of whiskey along with it.
I fixed the machine and poured a full mug after it brewed. I opened the refrigerator, and my stomach did a nosedive.
Fuck.
No milk.
“Dammit,” I swore and huffed out a sigh. “Better go before the snow gets worse.”
Flakes had begun to fall by the time I’d picked up my rental and driven from the Albany airport. Now, returning to the driveway, I had to brush off an ugly coating of heavy, wet snow from the windshield and rear window. Growing up where the white stuff was measured in feet, not inches, should’ve made driving in it no big deal for me, but these were pitch-black unfamiliar roads in a vehicle I wasn’t used to, and I was a little nervous. I’d already skidded a few times on the drive over. I’d gotten soft and was used to living in the city and being driven everywhere. Back to the regular life for me…
“Just take it slow,” I lectured myself and started the engine. The halogen headlights beamed bright, and the wipers ran at full speed. The signs stated the speed limit was 40mph, but I didn’t dare go above 25.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I pulled into the parking lot of Marvin’s General Store and saw the lights on. Wheeling my shopping cart, I wandered through the aisles, picking up the milk, some bread and cheese, microwaved dinners and frozen pizza, beer and assorted junk food.
“Single man’s paradise, huh?” A tall, good-looking man walked past, tipping his head at my stash.
My grin was wry. “What gave it away?”
“It looks a lot like mine.”
I peered into his wagon, and it was almost identical.
“Guess we have similar tastes,” I said, and the man’s gaze grew intent. I sensed…something. A connection. My face grew warm.
“Maybe?”
Knowing I was bisexual and acting on it were two entirely different things. I’d been faithful to Maya, and even after our divorce, I hadn’t dated much. I’d never had the guts to do what Patrick Sloane had—come out while playing and stay in the game. While we were teammates, I’d had a little crush on him, but he’d been busy fighting his own inner battles and had never noticed. I’d sensed he’d had a secret and was happy he was now able to live his true life with the man he loved.
A shiver of fear ran through me. I wanted to know what it would be like with a man, yet I was scared to death. Of what, I couldn’t say, because I’d watched Dev and Brody, then Patrick and Fallon, so in love and simply living their lives.
“I’d better get going. Snow’s getting heavier, and I’m not familiar with the roads yet.” I wheeled my cart toward the checkout line.
“You just moved here?” the man asked, following and standing behind me. I was a pretty big guy at 6’2 and 220 pounds, but he was slightly bigger.
“Yeah. Off Deer Run Drive.”
“Nice area.” His lips kicked up for a moment under a neatly trimmed beard, and I caught the whiteness of his smile. Laugh lines fanned out from his blue-gray eyes. The zipper of his parka was partly pulled down, revealing a broad chest, and while I couldn’t see the rest of his body, I imagined he was muscular and strong and…
Shut up, Harte. Mind out of the gutter.
I pushed my cart to the register and began to take the items out and put them on the belt. The cashier rang them up, chatting all the way. She wore a bright-red sweater with reindeer and peppermint candy-cane earrings dangled from her lobes. It was like a scene from a holiday movie with the store all decked out in Christmas kitsch. The holiday was only weeks away. Gloom descended over me as I realized I had no one to decorate a tree or even share a Christmas dinner with.
“That’ll be eighty-five dollars and sixty-three cents.” She took my credit card. “You’re new, ain’tcha?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Just moved in.”
She glanced at the name on my card. “Harte McKinney. Why does that sound familiar?” She handed it to me.
“I used to play football,” I answered with a slight pain in my chest. It still hurt saying that.
“Damn good quarterback too,” the man behind me said, and my stomach sank.
“Well, thanks, but those days are gone.” My lips curved upward briefly. “Good night.” I wheeled my things outside, where the snow was now coming thick and fast. I loaded up the back, brushed off the snow, and started for home.
My hands clutched the wheel in a death grip as I crept along the snowy road. Other drivers, way more comfortable with the lousy weather, swept past me, spraying slush on my windshield. The wipers swished at a furious pace, but I was freaking out.
“I can’t see a damn thing. I’m going to kill myself, all because I needed some fucking milk.” My heart hammered, and I breathed in short pants. Headlights blinded me from the opposite side of the road, I skidded and spun out, but instead of gently tapping the brake and steering into the skid, panic overrode my senses, and I jammed my foot down. Hard. I sat helpless as the fence off the side of the road came up to greet me.
I smashed into the wall of wood, and the airbag deployed, squashing my face. Pain rocketed up my cheeks and the side of my body, and I couldn’t move. Trapped, I moaned, my head against the airbag covering the steering wheel.
I don’t know how long I sat there—long enough for the numbness from the cold to creep through me. My toes grew numb. A faint siren wailed in the distance, and in my peripheral vision, red-and-blue lights flashed.
“Don’t move,” a voice called out from the snowy darkness. “We’ve got an ambulance coming.”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I mumbled. “And I don’t really want to.”
Soon, a team of firefighters arrived at the same time as the ambulance. They opened the car door.
“Can you move your legs?” one of them asked.
I struggled to wiggle my toes, then moved the rest of my lower extremities. “Yeah. They’re just very cold.”
“Good.”
They cut off the seat belt, and searing, red-hot fire raced up my side. “Ow, fuck, that hurts.” I couldn’t draw a deep breath without pain.
One of the paramedics steadied me. “You might have broken some ribs. Try not to move. We’ll put you on a board, secure your neck to make sure, and take you to the hospital.”
“Great.” Blood ran down my face, and my head pounded. Probably a concussion. I’d been sacked often enough in my career to recognize the signs.
Another car pulled up, lights flashing on the roof. I heard murmured voices but couldn’t concentrate. Everything hurt, and all I wanted was to stop the pain.
“Okay, sir, can you tell me your name?”
“Harte,” I whispered. “Harte McKinney.”
“The football player?”
“Yeah,” I responded, hoping I wouldn’t have to talk about the game. I loved the fans but not with my blood splattered everywhere.
“Okay, Mr. McKinney. Hold still, and we’ll get you out of there in a minute.”
They brought a stabilizing board, which I’d only seen on the field whenever a player was badly hurt. As horrible as it might seem, I’d always been glad it wasn’t me. Maybe karma had come to bite me in the ass.
With care, the two paramedics slid me onto the stretcher and put a neck brace on me.
“Oh God, that fucking hurts.”
“Once we’re in the ambulance, we’ll take your vitals and give you something for the pain. They’ll take you to X-ray once we get to the hospital.”
“Thanks.”
The thickly falling snow coated us as I was loaded into the ambulance, and I shivered violently under the blanket they threw over me. I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering.
“Wh-what’s wr-wrong with me?”
“Shock and adrenaline crash.” A blood-pressure cuff squeezed my arm.
The sirens whooped, and we were off. I might’ve passed out, because I had no idea where I was when I next opened my eyes. I blinked and attempted to raise my hand.
“Ow, ow, fuck,” I cursed. Machines beeped, and I discovered IVs attached to my arm. Nurses and doctors rushed past, treating other patients. My lips felt swollen, and my nose hurt. Maybe that was broken as well. I sighed deeply.
“Glad you’re finally awake,” a somewhat familiar voice said. “You were beginning to worry us.”
“Who’s there?” I asked, irritated that, because of the neck brace, I couldn’t move my head to see. Maybe it was a fallback from my years as a player, but I hated not knowing who was to my right or left.
“Sorry.” A tall, broad figure stepped in front of me, and I squinted. Short, golden-brown hair, a rugged face with a neat beard. My head throbbed from trying to remember. And then it clicked.
“Wait…aren’t you the man I spoke to in the supermarket?”
His lips kicked up in a faint smile. “I am. So we can say there’s no fear of memory loss.” He drew up a chair and settled his bulk next to my bed. Concerned blue-gray eyes met mine. “What happened?”
“It was the snow. It’s been years since I’ve had to drive in such bad weather, and I thought I was taking it slow, but a truck barreled past and his lights blinded me. I skidded and…well…” I waved my hand. “Here I am. But what’re you doing here? And what’s your name, anyway?”
“My name’s Jet. I’m a deputy sheriff, and when I heard on my radio about the accident, I called for an ambulance and drove here. I had no idea it was you.”
Exhausted, I closed my eyes. “Thank you.”
“So. Harte McKinney from the Brooklyn Kings.”
Surprising tears blurred my vision. Embarrassed, I winced, pretending it was from the pain of my injuries and not the fact that I was lost and alone.
“Yeah. That’s me. Except I’m no longer part of the team.”
“You were a good player. I watched you. I played college ball, but not well enough for the pros.”
With a bit of effort, I turned my torso slightly and eyed him. “What position?”
“Quarterback.”
Two men, one in a white coat and the other in blue scrubs, stopped by my bed. “Mr. McKinney?” the shorter man in the white coat verified, gazing at the clipboard he picked up from the base of my bed. “I’m Dr. Lewis. We’ll send you up to X-ray now and see what’s happening with you.”
“Good. I’d like to know myself.”
The man in the scrubs smiled at me. “I’m Mark, your nurse. Can I get you some water?” He wheeled the tray table bedside; on it a plastic pitcher sat along with a cup. “Finest vintage available.”
The attempt at humor failed with me. The aches and pains had coalesced into one big agonizing misery from my head to my toes. “No, I’m fine, thanks.” I shifted and winced. “How long have I been here?”
“About an hour,” Jet answered and took out his phone. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Wife, girlfriend? I’m sure they must be worried, and I can have them picked up in a squad car and brought here for you.”
Did I sense more than a work-related interest in my living arrangements? I hadn’t forgotten the vibe I’d picked up from him in the supermarket. If I were interested in taking that step, I suspected he would be happy to help me. Although, now it would be more like a limp.
I met his eyes. “No. There’s no one.”
Hide and Seek #2
Chapter One
Emerson
In a small town, tours could go two ways—either there was nothing going on and you’d have eight long hours of listening to your partner chew their bagel while talking continuously about girlfriend problems, or all the bad guys decided that night was the time to let loose and give us trouble.
Tonight was the former, and I almost wished for some excitement.
My partner and best friend, Jet, was away on vacation with his boyfriend, Harte, and I was paired up with Krasinski for the week. He and I usually worked different shifts, so I didn’t know him well but since we’d come on duty, he’d rectified that. Nonstop. I’d heard about Sara, the high school girlfriend who’d dumped him the night of their prom; about Kasey, the Blue Bird Diner waitress he’d dated for a while; and about all the other women he’d been out—and struck out—with over the past three years. The latest was Leslie, a cashier at Marvin’s General Store.
“I dunno, man. I haven’t heard from her.” His dispirited sigh fogged up the window, even with the air conditioning. “I thought I did everything right—brought her flowers, took her to the Cutting Edge—”
“Damn, dude.” The Cutting Edge was the top steak restaurant in the area. A meal there could easily set you back a few hundred dollars without drinks or dessert. Deputies at Krasinski’s level didn’t make more than fifty thousand.
“What?”
“That’s a lotta bucks on a woman you hardly know. How many times have you gone out?”
“Once. But I wanted her to know I liked her.” His mouth drooped. “You think I came on too strong?”
“Yeah, for sure.” I nodded with vigor. “That’s like a meal you take someone for when you’re celebrating an anniversary or a special event. What happened to sushi and a movie?”
I took the road up to Lookout Point. In the summer, the local kids liked to hang out there, and with school starting soon, they’d be trying to squeeze in every last bit of fun. We were pretty lenient in what we let them get away with, like congregating and playing music, but we drew the line at drinking, smoking weed, and especially having sex in cars. I’d grown up in the city. I knew what could go wrong.
“I guess you’re right.” Krasinski’s shoulders slumped.
“I know I am. Listen. If a lady really wants to be with you, popcorn on the couch and Netflix is enough. Know what I’m sayin’? Be yourself. Now, if you like her, call her again and see if she wants to go blueberry picking. That’s big up here, isn’t it?”
His brown eyes lit up. “Yeah. That’s a great idea. Thanks, Emerson.”
“No problem.” I cut the lights and slowed our roll as we turned the corner. Lookout Point had a parking lot, and you could see the mountaintops in the distance, with the lights of Appleton Falls, Overlook, and Harmony Rock sprinkled like diamonds, the stars twinkling above in the night sky. Growing up in the city, the beauty of the mountains never failed to make me catch my breath.
As expected, I spotted a crowd of teens—some had brought chairs and were playing music. A few cars were parked in the farthest corner, and I stopped the patrol car at the entrance.
“Let’s do a walk-around.”
Krasinski nodded. We exited and strolled up the path. We weren’t there to agitate, but we couldn’t turn a blind eye to what we saw when we came close: coolers filled with beer, the scent of weed in the air, and the rocking and rolling of those faraway cars in the shadows.
“Come on, guys. Party’s over. You know you can’t be drinking and getting high here.”
“Aw, man, why you ruining our vibe?” a tall kid I knew called out, a smirk on his face. He was going into his senior year and was a star running back on the Appleton Falls football team. The girl snuggled in his lap jumped away from him and fixed her disheveled clothing.
“That you, Craig?” I folded my arms. “Just ’cause it’s summer doesn’t mean your coach would be okay with you pulling this kind of crap. Plus, I’m betting you’re counting on a football scholarship. You think underage drinking is gonna help you with that?”
Craig’s grin faded, and the smartass shut his mouth. The music cut off, and a bunch of the kids had already run to their cars and were leaving. Krasinski walked to one of the parked cars and tapped on the window with his flashlight. I heard a faint shriek and bit my lip to prevent a snicker from escaping. Imagine you were getting it on with your girlfriend, only to find a deputy sheriff staring at you in the window, shining a bright light in your face. Talk about a buzzkill.
“All right. We don’t care if you wanna hang out, listen to music, and look at the stars. But you all know better than this other stuff.”
A young woman approached. Petite and curvy, she was definitely older than the high school kids. Her friend stayed several paces behind her.
“I’m sorry, Deputy. I’m not from here, and my friend and I just came to stargaze. We’re not with this group of kids.” Her laughter was musical. “I graduated high school a long time ago, thank goodness.”
“I couldn’t tell,” I responded gallantly. “And I’m sure you weren’t doing anything foolish like them.”
Her smile broadened. “We’re a little afraid to drive on this road in the dark. It’s so twisty, and there aren’t any lights. Would you let us follow you into town?”
By this time, Krasinski had rejoined us and was chatting it up with the woman’s friend, who hung on his every word. Naturally, Krasinski ate up the attention. I checked my watch and saw that we only had about half an hour left on shift.
“Sure. But you’ll have to wait for the kids to clear out first.” I glanced around at the last few cars pulling out of the lot. “Okay. We’re parked just past the exit. We’ll wait for you.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Thank you. I’ll feel much better knowing you’re close by. Can I give you my phone number, in case we get separated and I need to find you? My name is Daphne, by the way.”
“Uh, Deputy Emerson Kane. My partner, Deputy Krasinski, is talking to your friend.”
I hadn’t been this blatantly hit on in a long time, and even if she was only into the uniform, I had to admit it was a nice ego stroke. I’d been feeling pretty negative about the dating scene for a while.
Back in our patrol car, Krasinski was a happy camper. “I’m meeting Hayley after our tour. She lives in Harmony Rock, and I told her I’d drive her home, since she came in Daphne’s ride. Dude, her friend was all over you. You gonna hit it?”
I winced and checked the rearview mirror to make sure the women were still following me.
“Don’t say it like that. But…I don’t know. I guess we’ll see how it goes.”
It went as I’d suspected. Instead of going on her way once we made it to town, Daphne followed us to the station house and pulled into a visitor parking space. I cut the engine, and Krasinski and I left our car, but I lectured him on our way inside.
“We have reports to write up for the log. Simms wouldn’t like you shirking your duty to hound-dog after a woman. Let’s do our jobs. If she’s really interested, she’ll wait.”
Walking to the door of the station, I heard my name called.
“Excuse me, Deputy Kane?”
I waited for Daphne to catch up to me.
“Yes?”
“Your partner said he’ll drive my friend Hayley home, so I was wondering if maybe you’d like to have a drink or a cup of coffee after you’re finished here?”
It was stupid for me to sit around an empty house when I had a beautiful woman eager to be with me. I might as well see where the evening would lead.
“Sure. I’d love to. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour. We could meet at the Blue Bird Diner, or you could come in and wait.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I’ll wait.”
She and Hayley followed us into the station house, and we got them each a coffee and settled in the waiting area. After changing into our civilian clothes, we sat in the office to fill out our paperwork. Other deputies walked in and pressed us for details.
“Hey, who’re the hotties in the waiting room?” Shaw asked, and I stopped typing to stare at him.
“Excuse me?” I gave him the stink eye. “How long have you been married?” But Shaw didn’t look the least bit sorry.
“I’m married, not dead, Kane. Twenty years, and me and Rosie are great. We love each other, but we can still have our own little fantasies. So? Who are they?”
“Me and Kane broke up some high school kids drinking and doing the nasty at Lookout Point,” Krasinski chattered, only too happy to tell the story. “Then, after most of them left, these two women came over, and the blond made a beeline for Kane. I mean, she sashayed up there to him.”
My face grew warm, and I huffed. “They’re not from here, and she was a little scared to drive to the town center in the dark. That’s all.”
“Uh, yeah, except they followed us here, and now I’m going out with Hayley.”
“What about you, Kane?” Dylan Ross, Shaw’s partner, questioned.
“What about me?” I resumed typing.
“Gonna go out with her?”
I shifted in my chair. “I dunno.” There was nothing preventing me, and Daphne was beautiful and, from everything I’d seen, ready and willing.
“Well,” Ross said, “if you’re not and she’s a uniform bunny, I’ll take her off your hands. Wouldn’t be too much of a hardship.”
I made a face at Ross’s poor excuse for a joke. “I’m almost done, so if you’re all finished planning my love life, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I sent all my reports and logged off.
Of course, they all followed Krasinski and me to the waiting area. The women jumped up.
“Oh, wow, I didn’t know there were so many of you.” Daphne only had eyes for me. She hooked her arm through mine. “Ready to go?”
Her head reached to the middle of my chest, and I gazed down at her. Daphne was definitely my type—curvy and petite, and her assertiveness was a turn-on. I liked all that blond hair streaming past her shoulders and wondered if it was as silky as it looked. My pulse quickened.
“Let’s boogie.” I peered over my shoulder at the guys crowded in the doorway. Krasinski had already left with Hayley. “Catch you later.”
She tucked herself into my arm, and as we walked to the exit, Starr and his partner, Bradford, tramped in. “Kane,” Starr grunted. “Tour ended early, or are you slacking off since Jet’s not here?”
As always, I ignored Starr and kept walking to my car. “How about I buy you that espresso martini?” I asked Daphne. I wasn’t about to take her to Sweeny’s, but there was a nice little bistro where I’d taken a few of my dates that would be appropriate.
“Sounds good to me.”
“Leave your car here and I’ll drive us, then bring you back.”
We found a little table in the corner, and she had her martini while I had a beer. I discovered that she worked in a bookstore in Harmony Rock and was saving to return to school to get her master’s degree in library science.
“If I had librarians who looked like you in high school, I would’ve studied more.”
“Why did you decide to become a sheriff? Aside from looking great in the uniform.” She twirled a long strand of blond hair around her finger. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“No, I’m from the city. I moved up here to get away from all the noise and people. I love the peace and quiet and friendliness of a small town.” A story I told everyone, and so far it was working. The guys on the force didn’t bother delving into my past, and I wasn’t about to reveal anything more than the surface story of needing a change from living in the big, bad city.
“Well, you sure found it. Nothing much really happens up here.”
I smiled into her pretty eyes. “I don’t know. Sometimes it does.” Aside from her looks, Daphne was smart and easy to talk to. Harmony Rock was only about twenty miles away, and we could see each other on the weekends. The dating scene in Appleton Falls wasn’t robust, and hard as I tried, I’d yet to find a woman to capture my heart.
She ducked her head, the long curtain of hair hiding her face. She tucked a shining swath behind her ear. “How about we go find someplace more private?”
I laced our fingers together. “I can make us coffee at my place.”
“Sounds perfect.” She ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip.
**
I watched as she slipped into her dress. “You don’t have to leave. Stay, and we can have breakfast together.”
“I can’t. I have to get home and feed my cat.”
Wow. Okay. That was a new one. The sex had been pretty good, and I thought we’d had a nice time getting to know each other. She’d seemed interested in me, and there was never a lull in the conversation. I’d been planning on asking her out. But with each passing moment, I could feel her withdrawal. The total opposite of her attitude on Lookout Point. Guess it was the uniform after all. Still, I tried one more time.
“Okay. How about Saturday night? We could do dinner, maybe a movie?”
Daphne twisted her hair into a messy bun and leaned over. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” Her warm lips brushed my cheek. “You said you’d take me back to my car?”
She stood waiting, and I sighed. “Sure. No problem.”
God, was I that much of a fool to think for once, something might click?
After dropping her off at her car, I didn’t really want to go home—I was wound up from the night and figured a stop at Sweeny’s for a beer would settle me down. It was close to eleven thirty, and the parking lot was full. I walked in and Theo waved hello.
“How’s it going, Emerson? What can I get you?”
“Just an IPA on draft.”
“You got it.”
He went to fill my glass, and I surveyed the crowd. There were some deputies I waved hello to, and a bunch of townspeople. A hell of a lot different from the clubs I’d hung out in when I lived in the city. There, I’d rarely see the same people twice.
After I joined the Academy, I decided it was the perfect time to remake my image, and I became a cop, joined a gym, and got my tattoos. I’d gone from the scrawny, lonely kid in high school, to a guy who was never without a date on a Saturday night. The women loved my look but never me.
“Here ya go.” Theo placed the cold glass of foamy beer in front of me. “How’s Jet?”
“On vacation with Harte, so I’m assuming he’s great.” I spotted a few women I’d taken out, now with other men, enjoying themselves. Why couldn’t I find that one person like so many others had? I sipped my beer, wondering why I was at loose ends lately. Times like these, I used to walk in the city and lose myself in the teeming anonymity. Only in the city could you be shoulder to shoulder with a million people yet completely alone. Here, in a small town, everyone knew everybody’s business. There was no place to hide.
I even missed my mom. Kind of. I loved her and we had a great relationship—except for her overprotectiveness and stubborn refusal to talk about my father as I’d grown older and begun to question why they divorced. She’d rebuffed me every time until I’d turned sixteen and demanded to know.
Amid tears, she’d told me of his drug use and arrest. How, even after he’d been released on parole, he’d been in and out of rehab for years, sometimes relapsing and living on the streets. Afraid he’d be a bad influence, after the divorce, she’d kept me away from him. Not that he tried to see me but I still loved him. I’d understood her fear yet still had memories of him holding my hand when we went for pizza, and the one Yankee game he’d taken me to. His mistakes weren’t hers, I’d tried to tell her, and I wasn’t ever going to use drugs, but my arguments would always fall on deaf ears. She’d considered his problems her personal failure and overcompensated as a single parent. I’d grown up smothered with love and her fear that I’d fall in with the wrong crowd. I’d never been allowed to go to parties or sleepovers.
After I graduated from the Academy and without my mother’s knowledge, I’d searched for my father and discovered he’d been arrested yet again—and involved in multiple prison altercations. He’d been moved several times but my persistence—coupled with a few contacts in the Department—led me to finding him in an upstate prison. All during our first face-to-face, he’d cried. The hard edges of my pain had softened because of all the years we’d lost. He might have been locked up, but at least I’d had him in my life. I made a vow to come every month but never told my mom. She wouldn’t have understood.
In the course of my visits, we’d talked, and he was filled with regrets for his actions but had never blamed my mother for keeping me away.
“I was stupid and made mistakes, and your mom had enough of my screw-ups. It’s not her fault. Don’t be angry with her. I wouldn’t have wanted you to see me this way. I put her through enough. But I swear, Emerson, I wasn’t using at the time they arrested me. I swear on my life. There’s lots of stuff I never told you, and I still can’t. It’s too dangerous—powerful people are after me. I don’t want you to get involved. But please don’t ever forget I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Chest tight, I drank my beer. The main impetus for my moving upstate had been to be closer to him, yet only a year after I’d started working in Appleton Falls, he’d gotten shanked in the showers and died. I’d barely known him, yet I’d felt as though I’d lost a piece of myself. I’d never be whole again.
The door opened, and my heart sank. Starr and Ross walked in, followed by Teegan and Bradford. Who the hell had I pissed off that I’d have to suffer more this night? I must’ve had a damn spotlight on me because despite the bar being packed, they all immediately noticed I was there. Alone.
“What the hell, Kane? What happened to your date?” Bradford asked. “She looked like a sure thing.”
“We had fun, and she went home.” I drank more beer.
Starr swung himself on the barstool next to me. “Too much woman for you to handle, Emmy? No surprise there.”
God, I wanted to smack that smug look off his face.
“Fuck off,” I growled and took out my wallet. “Theo, here you go. Thanks.” I handed him a bill.
“It’s all right, Emmy. You’re still making up for lost time.” Starr’s eyes danced.
That fucking nickname. I couldn’t outrun it. I’d tried, but now it had followed me here. But I wouldn’t tell him to stop. If Starr knew something bothered you, he’d only turn up the heat. And if there was one thing Dominic Starr knew how to do, it was push my buttons. He’d been getting under my skin since high school.
Burning with a combination of humiliation and anger, I kicked my stool away, sending it clattering to the floor. The bar quieted as I challenged Starr. “I told you to fuck off. Stop talking to me. Don’t even look at me.”
Nose to nose, I stood close enough to see the thin black rim circling the irises of his cold eyes and the faint scar that ran from below his cheekbone to his jaw. I was the only one in Appleton Falls who knew how he’d gotten it, and that pissed him off.
He reached for his beer, took a drink, and wiped his hand over his lips. “I’m not. You’re the one in my face.”
I wanted to punch him in that perfect jawline. He knew it too, and something dark and dangerous brewed in those bright-blue eyes I’d been seeing in my dreams since high school.
My cheeks hot, I left the bar without another word and sat in my car, too wound up to drive. I gripped the steering wheel so hard, my hands cramped. I struggled for control. Of all the damn towns in the state, why did Starr have to end up in mine? From the moment Starr had appeared in Appleton Falls, I’d considered leaving, but I loved it here. Jet was like the brother I’d always wished for, and except for Starr, I enjoyed the camaraderie of the other guys in the sheriff’s department. Coming from a small apartment where I could never escape the noise of the neighbors, the city outside my window, or the ugly shit inside my head, I relished the quiet and peace of Appleton Falls. I’d found my place.
Then that bastard Dominic Starr had arrived and screwed it all up for me. He’d forced me to remember the inadequacies of my teenaged years, when he’d been the prince of our high school while I’d been the joke. Why he’d ended up where I’d moved to remained a mystery to me, especially with what I knew about his past. Since I was seventeen, Starr had taken up residence in my head, and by moving away, I thought I’d finally excised his presence, until he walked into the station house and my life became a tangled mess.
In the rearview mirror, I watched as a crowd spilled out onto the deck. Starr had his arm around Jeanette, the hairdresser, while Lila, a paralegal in the DA’s office, held hands with Bradford. A bunch of other people from the bar were also in their group, listening to Bradford and Starr talk—something those two loved to do, especially if it was about themselves.
“Probably making a simple traffic stop into the takedown of a major criminal ring, knowing them,” I muttered to myself.
A huge roar of laughter rose, and with that, I started the engine and drove out of the lot. I’d had enough of the Dominic Starr Show for the night.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Appleton Falls
Felice Stevens writes romance because what is better than people falling in love? Her favorite part of a romance novel is that first kiss…sigh. She loves creating stories of hopes and dreams and happily ever afters. Her stories are character-driven, rich with the sights, sounds and flavors of New York City and filled with men who are sometimes deeply flawed but always real.
Felice writes M/M romance because she believes that everyone deserves a happily ever after. Having traveled all over the world, she can safely say that the universal language that unites people is love. Felice has written in a variety of sub-genres, including contemporary, paranormal and has a mystery series as well.
Felice is a two-time Lambda Literary award nominee, and Lambda award winner for Best Gay Romance for her book, The Ghost and Charlie Muir.
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