Summary:
Death brought him home, will love keep him there?
Agent Adam Klay is home to bury his father, not fall in love.
Micah Ryan's been running on remote for years; the arrival of Adam Klay brings emotions to life Micah thought he'd never feel again.
When a series of sinister incidents leave Micah vulnerable to an unknown killer, Adam vows to protect him.
Can Adam safeguard Micah without losing his heart?
Storm Season is a dual POV about a terminally grouchy Federal Agent who discovers his softer side and a sweet man who thought he had nothing to live for. The Shielded Hearts series follows a different couple in each book as they try to stop killers, unravel a human trafficking ring and find family of their own.
(Formerly published as Accidental Roots)
Summary:
Home is where the heart is…unless your life is in danger.
When an anonymous note threatens Joey’s family, he springs into action. Family means everything; he will anything to keep them safe, even break the law.
Buck’s had crush on Joey for years, but he’s never acted on his feelings—for any man.
Fate seems intent on pushing Joey in Buck’s direction. Clearly, Joey needs somebody at his back.
As Joey is drawn further into intrigue the demands become more sinister. Will Buck listen to his heart and throw caution to the wind, protecting Joey at all cost?
No Pressure is a dual POV about an irrepressible male nurse and a quiet man who breaks out of his shell to protect those he loves. The Shielded Hearts series follows a different couple in each book as they try to stop killers, unravel human trafficking rings and find their own family.
(Formerly published as Accidental Roots)
Summary:
The spark between them is undeniable, unless they’re careful somebody’s going to get burned.
An FBI investigator, a permanently single bartender. The men meet by chance; converging weather patterns creating a private storm of their own.
Agent Carroll Weir wants to escape dreary damp Skagit for a warmer climate, instead he’s assigned to a cross-agency smuggling case and working 24/7 to find a killer.
Sterling Bailey tends bar and considers his customers and employees as family since he doesn’t have one of his own. Weir wanders in his bar one night exhausted and tense…and one thing leads to another.
Will the two men weather the storm? Maybe, but in order to change the course of tomorrow they’ll have to accept their pasts and admit they want a future together.
Convergence Zone is a dual POV about two men discarded by their biological families who fall in love despite their differences, finding family in each other. The Shielded Hearts series follows a different couple in each book as they stop killers, unravel a human trafficking ring and fall in love.
(Formerly published as Accidental Roots)
Original Review May 2017:
Sometimes going home is the last thing you want but is exactly what you need. Well, that's what Adam Klay is facing when he returns to Skagit to sort out his father's estate. Micah Ryan on the flipside hasn't left Skagit since losing his family in a car accident nearly ten years prior. When fate, destiny, or just plain dumb luck puts these two on the same course their lives will never be the same.
Storm Season is a wonderful blend of romance, drama, mystery, comedy, and it's all tied up together in a great big bow of heat and chemistry. I always find mysteries to be a very hard genre to review because I don't do spoilers and with a mystery every little detail can be a huge spoiler so all I will say is that I was hooked from page one and dreaded when I had to put my kindle down when my need for sleep overwhelmed my want to read.
Storm Season is a wonderful blend of romance, drama, mystery, comedy, and it's all tied up together in a great big bow of heat and chemistry. I always find mysteries to be a very hard genre to review because I don't do spoilers and with a mystery every little detail can be a huge spoiler so all I will say is that I was hooked from page one and dreaded when I had to put my kindle down when my need for sleep overwhelmed my want to read.
No Pressure #2
Original Review May 2017:
No Pressure is much like book one, Storm Season, not because its a copy or too formulaic but because it's jam packed with a little bit of everything and the author meshes it together perfectly. Joey James is a nurse we met in book one who finds himself in a position he never dreamed possible, and it's not a pleasant one. Bucky Swanfeldt, who we also met in the first installment, has found that destiny has given him a second chance to get to know his youthful crush. Just like Adam and Micah from Storm Season, Bucky and Joey are facing a situation that could change their entire existence, good and bad.
The chemistry between Joey and Bucky may not be instantaneous since Joey didn't even remember Bucky when Bucky stopped him and said hello in the store but you just know its lurking in the shadows, kind of like when the bad guys are preparing to spring a trap. That's not so say I'm comparing Bucky and Joey's connection to bad guys just the "around the corner" feel.
The chemistry between Joey and Bucky may not be instantaneous since Joey didn't even remember Bucky when Bucky stopped him and said hello in the store but you just know its lurking in the shadows, kind of like when the bad guys are preparing to spring a trap. That's not so say I'm comparing Bucky and Joey's connection to bad guys just the "around the corner" feel.
Convergence Zone #3
Original Review June 2017:
**Blogger Note: When I original read this the title was Spring Break not Convergence Zone**
**Blogger Note: When I original read this the title was Spring Break not Convergence Zone**
Carroll Weir can't wait to leave soggy Skagit behind now that everything that brought him there is wrapped up but as we all know life doesn't always work how we want, Skagit is not done with Agent Weir. Sterling Bailey sees so much as the bartender of The Loft but nothing surprises him because of his past and the love he has for his little sister is what brought him home to Skagit. When their paths cross in a late night hook-up, we all know it's going to become more and boy does it ever!
The mystery and drama that fills the pages of Spring Break may have nothing to do with what was in books one and two, so it is readable by itself and not necessary to have read them first. Personally, I am glad that I read Storm Season and No Pressure first, the main characters from those two stories pop up as secondary characters and it just made it flow better having known their story. But I will admit that had I not, I wouldn't have been lost.
Weir and Bailey's journey is a wonderful tale of lust, fighting, friendship, mystery, but mostly it is filled with heart that had me hooked from beginning to end. With Spring Break, Elle Keaton has cemented her place on my author's to watch list and I can't wait to see what she brings next to the Accidental Roots series.
RATING:
Author Bio:
Shielded Hearts Series
The NorthStar
The mystery and drama that fills the pages of Spring Break may have nothing to do with what was in books one and two, so it is readable by itself and not necessary to have read them first. Personally, I am glad that I read Storm Season and No Pressure first, the main characters from those two stories pop up as secondary characters and it just made it flow better having known their story. But I will admit that had I not, I wouldn't have been lost.
Weir and Bailey's journey is a wonderful tale of lust, fighting, friendship, mystery, but mostly it is filled with heart that had me hooked from beginning to end. With Spring Break, Elle Keaton has cemented her place on my author's to watch list and I can't wait to see what she brings next to the Accidental Roots series.
Storm Season #1
1
Adam Klay pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was cold. He was irritable. He was incredibly tired. Of bureaucratic excuses, cold coffee, and things that made his heart hurt.
A crime scene like this one often started with some variation of “Woman Walking Dog.” It was a little-discussed yet widely experienced phenomenon that a perfectly good walk would be ruined by a gruesome discovery. Today, “Woman Walking Dog” featured a dead body just off the artist’s canvas, but viewers would sense its macabre presence nonetheless.
Staring down at what remained of the tiny body (birds, small animals, and insects had all arrived more quickly than he had), Adam visually cataloged everything he could without further disturbing the scene or the photographer who had arrived only five minutes earlier. Anger, sadness, and weighty futility threatened his normally calm demeanor. Young children weren’t supposed to end up dead in deserted fields.
As he turned his back to the photographer in an attempt to block out the dispassionate snicking sound of the camera lens logging evidence, a flash of color caught his eye. Crouching in the viscous mud and dense bramble, he spotted a single grubby pink athletic shoe peeking from a tangled blackberry thicket threatening to overgrow the crime scene. Adam wished he smoked so he would have an excuse to step further away.
The dog-walker had trudged into this blackberry jungle in pursuit of Rufus or Spot, only to discover the rotting corpse of what had once been a human child. She had known this because the tattered remains of clothing were still attached to the victim.
The body appeared to be that of eight-year-old Rochelle Heid. Rochelle had last been seen three months earlier, playing outside her home in Muncie, Indiana, sixteen hundred miles to the east. Adam had been working the case since almost the beginning. Her identity hadn’t officially been confirmed yet, but Adam had bought his ticket to Ringling, Montana, immediately. Ringling, eighty miles or so from Montana’s capital, Helena, had never been on his bucket list. Hell, he had never even heard of the place before. Most of the places he traveled to were not on his bucket list.
Rochelle’s case had made the news because a neighbor boy saw her getting dragged into a car and gave chase on his bicycle for several miles before he was knocked down at an intersection by another car and lost the trail. By the time the police got his story and verified it via a panicked call from Rochelle’s mother, the snatcher had been long gone.
Adam hated this kind of case, and not just because of the nausea establishing a stronghold in his gut. Monsters who killed children reserved themselves a one-way ticket to a special circle of hell. Adam’s reputation as an unemotional investigator and exacting partner was hard-won. He would see this case through regardless of the deep sense of discontent he’d been experiencing recently; would still hate every minute of it. Closure for victims’ families was satisfying, but he could do without the bodies of children haunting his dreams.
When Adam arrived in Ringling that morning, rampant rumor and wild speculation had a trucker serial killer who trafficked in women and children using Ringling as his dumping ground. Adam disagreed. In his experience, traffickers held onto their inventory; they were in it for profit. Time spent getting rid of bodies was time and money lost. Besides, Ringling was not on a major highway. He’d looked up its history, and the town’s last claim to fame was when it had been a station stop on the transcontinental main line of the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul and Pacific Railroad in the 1800s. He seriously doubted they had a long-distance trucker using a flyspeck on I-89 for a human dumping ground and not one of the nosy citizens had noticed him coming and going. Plus, there were no other bodies. Cadaver dogs had been brought in; Rochelle’s remains were the only human ones in that meadow.
The file he’d flipped through on the plane had been brief, but Adam felt that Ringling had merely been convenient. He’d learned a long time ago to pay attention to his gut. Details on the initial disappearance were vague; not unusual. Rochelle’s mother had been ambiguous about why the child was outside so late at night; follow-up revealed Rochelle also had spotty school attendance. Judgmental eyebrows were raised. When the boy on the bicycle had finally been interviewed by police, they had all but accused him of the crime, and the kid had clammed up. Adam didn’t blame him. Adam and his agency were brought in because the City of Muncie was getting its ass sued for racial profiling and generally being high-functioning douchebags.
The Muncie police had had a chance to catch this guy and blew it, then blew it more by trying to deflect blame onto the mother and the kid who’d tried to save Rochelle. Who the fuck cared if Rochelle didn’t always get to school? Her mother had a hard time making ends meet and worked a lot of nights. As a janitor, the American dream.
The dog-walker, Jeannette Graves (the irony), had recognized Rochelle’s clothing from the media coverage after the kidnapping. Rochelle disappeared after the news coverage of a huge plane crash but before the big push to defund Planned Parenthood. The media had grabbed her story and run with it for a few days, saturating viewers with clip after clip of her with a sweet, gap-toothed smile and pink tennis shoes that lit up when she walked.
His slight headache erupted into a full frontal-lobe throb.
Less than a day in Ringling and Adam officially loathed the town. To be fair, he hated small towns on general principle; in his experience they lived down to their reputation. Small-minded people living in a small world thinking small thoughts. Reactions were ludicrously predictable: They prejudged victims, they failed to keep privacy protocols, and inevitably someone would complain about the investigation’s cost to the taxpayers.
“Ya think you got anything?” The sheriff’s voice pulled Adam away from his pessimistic thoughts.
“Sheriff Woods, no, not really a lot to go on. I can’t comment anyway.” Woods was glad Adam had flown in. That was nice. Usually there was a big pissing contest about who was top dog. They should understand, Adam was always top dog.
They’d both been at the damp crime scene for hours before retreating to the sheriff’s office. Between the dog rooting around, the dog-walker tossing her cookies, and the deputies tromping over everything before he’d arrived (didn’t they watch CSI out in the boonies?), there had been nothing to be found other than the small corpse and pink shoe.
It had rained on and off while they were processing the scene, and Adam had stood around in his dress shoes and third-best suit waiting for Weir to show up. For some reason Mohammad thought fit to assign the both of them to this case. Adam was not pleased; Weir wasn’t such a bad partner, but he was just a kid. As Weir liked to point out, he was so young they’d had to bend the rules to bring him aboard. As if that made him a better investigator.
Carroll Weir was young, cocky, and sensitive: a terrible combination. On their last case together, Weir had made some rookie assumptions—the kid was too smart for mistakes. When Adam had called him out in front of their team, Weir had felt publicly humiliated and asked to be partnered with someone different. Wonder boy had never been called on the carpet before. Adam had felt a little remorseful; he didn’t hate the kid, after all.
Adam shouldn’t hold it against him, but Weir fit a certain stereotype. Didn’t help that he’d grown up in SoCal and had mannerisms that ticked Adam off. Adam could never tell whether the kid was taking him seriously or not. Weir needed to decide if he was going to be an investigator or king of the boards. “Dude” was not a word Adam associated with a fed.
Adam’s phone buzzed against his thigh. Again. When he fished it out of his pocket, the screen showed the same unknown number it had the last three times. Also a call from his mother, no message there, and a call and voice mail from Mohammad. Adam needed coffee before he dealt with any phone calls.
Leaning tiredly against the huge metal desk in Sheriff Woods’s rumpled office while Woods went to grab them coffee, Adam was ready to put Ringling behind him. Woods seemed like a decent person, but Adam didn’t have anything to tell him that the guy didn’t already know.
He’d be leaving tomorrow or the next day, unless Weir did some data magic and discovered a link between trucks and pink tennis shoes. There was nothing else to find in Ringling. The cute retro (but the real thing) ice-cream parlor and new golf course for retiring boomers held no undiscovered clues related to Rochelle Heid. The ladies’ knitting circle was not a hive of septuagenarian killers.
His phone buzzed again. Fucking relentless. Woods came back into the little room with a mug of steaming coffee in each hand.
“You gonna get that? Mr. Azaya just called my phone and said to, and I quote, ‘encourage’ you to answer your phone.”
It had been a long time since Mohammad had circumvented Adam’s phone to get in touch with him.
“Yeah, I’m going to step outside for this,” Adam grumbled.
The late-afternoon gloom pressed against Adam’s shoulders while he huddled under the peeling eaves of the Meagher Springs County Sheriff’s Department building. Pulling his phone back out, he called back a number he knew by heart.
Later, on the tiny tin-can plane carrying him to Skagit, Washington, he worried about who was going to take care of Rochelle.
No Pressure #2
One
“Hi.”
Joey turned toward the deep, tentative voice coming from behind him. It was a distraction from his tropical-paradise daydream in front of the tidy display of seasonal oranges, starring imaginary cabana boys and fruity drinks. One of the oranges was rotten; he could smell it from three feet away. The odor ruined his excitement for mandarins, but not for a sandy beach with toned men in tiny swim trunks.
A guy he didn’t recognize was hovering a few feet away. Was he talking to Joey? Maybe Joey did recognize him? He saw so many patients every day, but he rarely forgot a face. This face he didn’t think he’d have forgotten. No way. The guy was tall. A high percentage of guys were taller than Joey, but this guy was practically a tree. Joey would get a crick in his neck looking up at him. He had a nice body, Joey couldn’t help noticing, like he spent a lot of time at the gym or just worked hard. Dark blond hair, with long loose curls that swept the collar of his shirt. Yum. Joey smiled. Smiles don’t cost anything, his mom always said.
“Joey James, right? Buck Swanfeldt.” The silence was awkward. “We went to Franklin at the same time.” Okaaay, so the guy was talking to him. Wow.
Wracking his brain for a memory of a younger-looking person than the man who was standing in front of him, Joey failed. Because if that had been at the same high school as Joey, no way would he have missed it.
“Oh. I’m usually pretty good with faces, sorry. It’s nice to meet you again, though.”
This was becoming more and more awkward with each passing moment. Funny, it was normally Joey who was making a fool of himself. It had become something of a pastime.
“No, it’s cool. I was a couple years behind you. Anyway, I just wanted to say hi.” The guy rushed the words out in a jumble, then disappeared so quickly down the cereal and baking supplies aisle Joey could almost pretend the interaction had never happened. What the hell had that been all about? He walked over, peering down the aisle, but Buck Swanfeldt had already vanished from sight.
Suffering from a merciless case of terminal curiosity, Joey dug out one of his old yearbooks when he got home. Oh, lord, he hated being reminded of his senior picture. His stick-straight, reddish-brownish hair had been past his shoulder blades like some sort of wannabe rock star. He looked like a refugee from the 1970s. With the additional shame of pimples and braces.
Buck Swanfeldt had been in the class two years behind him; who knew? Light-years apart during high school, of course; rarely did juniors and seniors mix with the younger students. Joey still had no idea who Buck was, much less who he’d been back then. Buck’s tiny black-and-white picture looked nothing like the mountain of man who had stopped him by the oranges.
Joey spent the rest of his evening flipping through his yearbook, snickering at his schoolmates’ bad haircuts and wardrobe choices. Recalling the scandal when another senior had tried to submit a senior portrait of himself dressed up as Harry Potter. Brady Jones and he had argued heatedly about whether Harry had actually graduated or not, and thus was the portrait even valid as a senior picture. He finished off the rest of a bottle of red wine, totally forgetting to make himself dinner. Oops.
It wasn’t until the next afternoon, after a brutal shift at St. Joe’s, that he thought about Buck Swanfeldt and wondered if he would see him again. His ER shift had been pure misery. He’d started the day sleepy from the wine and hungry from not eating, and like any good Murphy’s Law-abiding hospital, all hell had broken loose: several car accidents, an accidental poisoning, and an entire girls-under-eight soccer team complaining of stomach pain after a team trip to the local pizza parlor. By the time he checked out for the day, he’d been on his feet over eight hours without even a coffee break. He couldn’t wait to get home and pour himself into bed.
Even though he was beyond exhaustion, Joey stopped on his way out to the parking lot to chat with his fellow nurses. He loved his job, for the most part, and especially the diverse community he worked with. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. After promising Hasanna, the newest nurse staffing the information station at the front entrance, he would bring something for the staff party the following week, he finally escaped, slipping outside into the bitter cold late December had brought to the city of Skagit.
A flimsy slip of paper was fluttering against his windshield. His beloved car was twenty years young and an unusual shade of orange, except for the driver’s side door, which a previous owner had replaced with a dark-blue one at some point. He had a sneaking suspicion he was going to be in the market for a new-to-him car soon, but hoped that was a few months away.
No way did he have a parking ticket; this lot was employees-only. Probably some college kid had been paid to drop flyers on all the windshields. It must have been there for a while. He leaned across the hood and tried snagging it with his numb fingers, but half of it ended up still frozen to his windshield, the other half in his hand. What the hell?
He’d been staring at it for a while before one of the EMTs he knew walked up behind him, scaring the ever-loving crap out of him.
“You okay? You look like you saw a ghost,” Robert, his name was Robert, asked.
Joey hastily crumpled the paper, sticking it in his coat pocket. “Yeah, fine, thanks.”
He scraped off the other half of the paper before getting into his cold car. Even cranking the heat and blasting the defrost could not dispel the cold Joey felt. Based on a quick glance around, his seemed to be the only car with a flyer on it.
Convergence Zone #3
One
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Carroll Weir bellowed, then slammed the connecting room door shut behind him. Tried to slam it. Fucking unsatisfying. The damn thing was on a pressure arm, which meant it continued hissing to a gentle close until the lock engaged with a quiet snick, mocking Weir’s DEFCON red–level anger.
After working his ass off for months, he was rewarded by being stuck in this backwater fuck-town longer? “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Just when he thought he was escaping the soggy, mossy shithole of Skagit, a Fish and Wildlife detective goes and gets himself killed. Murdered, even. “Goddammit!”
The Department of Fish and Wildlife was down to bare bones, only having had three detectives on staff for the whole state before Peter Krystad’s murder. Weir was overreacting, but he had the nearly overwhelming urge to lie on the floor kicking and screaming like a toddler.
Couldn’t the killer have waited until Weir had escaped back to a warmer, drier climate? Back to the beach? He was starting to feel itchy and closed in, what with the clouds pressing down from the sky and the mountains looming from the east.
Itchy was the wrong descriptor; moldy was more accurate.
He had been separated from the sun for far too long.
Late last fall Mohammad Azaya had assigned him to a child kidnapping case, partnering Adam Klay. Weir continued to have mixed feelings about Adam, who could be an ass but was also a dedicated and talented investigator. When Adam had gone on leave, Weir stepped in and took over, following the trail of evidence until it petered out. Only picking it up again when a neighbor made the connection between where the body was discovered and her creepy cousin, the one who drove a truck and had visited close the time of the disappearance.
There had been no time for a trip to LA and his stretch of beach before he had been sent to Skagit to partner with Adam again. They’d brought down a human-trafficking ring that resulted in an internal affairs investigation of the entire Skagit Police Department. Led by Weir. A team of investigators was still trying to untangle all the details, but Weir’s part was finally done. He had been released from that special assignment two days earlier, and he was ready to go. His bags were already packed, for crying out loud. He’d been on the road so long the plastic plant in his living room was going to die from neglect.
He wrenched open the bathroom door, really wanting something to slam, but was interrupted by his cell phone. He bristled at the cheerful ring tone. Answering it five minutes ago had put him in this crappy mood. Stalking over to the desk where it rattled along like it was possessed, he glanced at the screen. Mohammad. Great.
“Weir.” He closed his eyes and practiced some deep-breathing tactics. He liked and respected his boss, but right now he was afraid he might say something stupid. His mouth got him in trouble more often than not.
“I was hoping to talk to you before Adam did. My apologies.” Weir pulled the phone away from his ear so he could stare at it and confirm that Mohammad was on the other end. Yep.
Well, damn, that took the wind out of his sails. It was hard to remain mad when his boss was apologizing to him. He sat on the edge of his unmade, uncomfortable hotel bed.
“This case is a bit tricky.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Yes, but this one is especially problematic. Normally, Fish and Wildlife would investigate this themselves, but they are down manpower. Then it would most likely fall to ICE investigators. However, because we have been in Skagit for months now on the Matveev case, we are in a unique position for it to appear that you are still part of that investigation, while in reality you are on loan to Fish and Wildlife.”
“So.” Weir stopped to consider his words. Maybe the deep breathing was helping? “So, am I undercover? Why all the secrecy?”
“In a manner, yes, you will be undercover. Whoever had Detective Krystad murdered believes they have gotten away with it.”
“All right, what are you not telling me?”
“You will continue to act as if you are dotting i’s and crossing t’s on the Russian case, but in fact we need you to start researching gooey-duck smuggling and anything associated with Peter Krystad.”
“Gooey what?”
“G-e-o-d-u-c-k. A large bivalve, often smuggled from the Pacific Northwest to Asia. China specifically. A Canadian company was caught poaching them and was banned from fishing in US waters several years ago. Start there. Start with the locals who were suspected of working with them. The Fish and Wildlife files will be coming your way soon.”
After clicking off the call, Weir did a quick Google search on the geoduck. Jesus Christ, the thing looked like a giant cock. It was kind of disgusting, and Weir liked cock.
Maybe that was why he was out of sorts. He liked cock, and it had been forever since he’d gotten any. Skagit wasn’t exactly bursting at the gills with gay bars, though there was one. He sighed. The Loft was… well, it was okay, but there wasn’t a lot of inventory to go around. Plus Sterling, the regular bartender, got on his nerves.
He couldn’t put his finger on what it was about Sterling that bothered him. They’d run into each other a few times since Weir had come to town, at the Booking Room and even at Buck Swanfeldt’s New Year’s party—where Sterling had been caught semi-cheating at some card game that seemed to involve sex and bluffing. Weir had forgotten about that.
Weir left their encounters generally irritated. He decided that, like most people who didn’t know him, Sterling didn’t take him seriously. They saw a young guy with an even-younger-looking face and dismissed him. Most people did, to their detriment. It was one of the many reasons why he was so successful at what he did.
After spending the remainder of the day researching the giant clam and those who sought it, he found himself heading for the Loft anyway. What could he say? He’d had a long dry spell. He ditched his suit, because nothing screamed “trying too hard” more than a man in a suit after five o’clock in Skagit. Actually, a man in a suit in Skagit any time of day stuck out like a sore thumb.
Weir normally didn’t mind wearing suits for work. For one thing, he knew he looked damn hot in one. Tonight, though, he’d prefer if people would forget he was a federal agent. Hopefully his favorite olive cargos, a gray hoodie paired with a red flannel shirt, and a pair of Vans wouldn’t be too much for the locals. Grabbing his card key and wallet, he debated for a minute before deciding to walk.
He knew not being able to get out and exercise on a regular basis was central to his frustration. When he didn’t get outside, away from everything, his brain tended to ambush him. Running was more enjoyable and cheaper than therapy, although he’d done that, too.
The Loft was packed.
It was a Tuesday night, for fuck’s sake. All he wanted was a couple drinks, see if anyone caught his eye. He had supplies tucked in his back pocket. If something happened, nice; if not, eye candy would do.
Standing in the entryway debating wasn’t helping his mood. People bumped into him from all directions. After making it in the door, he thought he might as well grab a drink before leaving to sulk in the silence of his hotel room.
When it wasn’t packed to the gills, the Loft was a pretty cool place. It had a kind of speakeasy vibe. An exquisite mahogany back bar stocked with glittering bottles of liquor dominated the space. A long mirror behind it reflected the multitude of bottles, making patrons’ choices appear endless. Three light fixtures hung over the bartender’s workspace, beautifully wrought stained glass with art deco touches. The dance floor, currently hidden under a sea of bodies, was parquet. Weir thought someone had mentioned it had been recycled from an old dance studio in town. Along the other side, booths catered to casual diners and there were tulip-shaped wall sconces, the lights kept low, adding to the atmosphere.
Semi-politely elbowing his way through the throng, he still couldn’t see why the place was so full. Was it possible that every gay man in Skagit was in the same building tonight? Seriously, what was going on? As he drew closer to the bar he spotted a clue, a banner reading: Happy Birthday to the Loft! Ten years old!
Crowds had never been his thing. Too many people, too much noise and he got twitchy—his skin started to feel tight. He had a vague memory of being at Disneyland and having some kind of epic meltdown; he didn’t recall the details now. These days, usually, as long as he knew in advance, he could handle it.
Squeezing into the last open spot at the bar, he ordered a drink from his least-favorite bartender in Skagit and proceeded to brood. If he had turned around and left, the detachment he generally wore like a shield wouldn’t have failed so spectacularly. It would have stayed where it belonged: simmering, lurking, protecting him. Mostly unacknowledged, but still providing a modicum of safety from the world at large. Instead, a heavy melancholy snuck up on him while he sat nursing his drink, stripping his defenses.
It was a peculiar kind of self-torture to sit and listen to a bunch of strangers interact. Day-to-day emptiness was one thing, but he was generally busy, and work was a good distraction. It was different when he was suddenly faced with every gay couple in Skagit. Jesus, even non-couples were paired up; he recognized Seth Culver sharing a beer with a guy Weir didn’t recognize.
He found himself engrossed in watching Sterling work. As busy as it was, he never lost his stride, preparing one specialty drink after another. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off his sinewy forearms as they flexed while he shook the cocktail mixer or used a hand press for fresh orange or lime juice. The show was hot and well choreographed. Weir upgraded Sterling on his inner ranking system from a four to about a seven. The jury was still out on his personality, but there was nothing wrong with the sense of authority he exuded. Surely he had all the boys at his beck and call.
Weir decided to call it a night, tossing back the remains of his vodka-cran before pushing his empty glass forward to try to get Sterling’s attention and the check. The guy was slammed with orders but was managing to chat with a sweet-looking man at the other end of the bar while he mixed drinks. Irrationally, Weir felt his temper rise.
When the strip-o-gram guy walked in “wearing” a tunic measuring no more than one inch by one inch, carrying a bow and arrow, his body covered with rainbow glitter, Weir deduced something else. It was fucking Valentine’s Day. He wanted to put his head down on the bar top in surrender. How had Valentine’s Day slipped by him, even if it was his least-favorite holiday? What an amazing investigator he was proving to be.
A second drink landed in front of him. Weir didn’t question it, even though he had been planning on leaving. He nodded semi-gratefully in Sterling’s direction. He needed another drink before he fought his way out through the throng.
A tingling he hadn’t felt in years sizzled between his shoulder blades, slowly making its way up the back of his neck. Damn. His muscles tightened, and he twitched his shoulders and cracked his neck to try and stop the sensation.
The crowd had grown exponentially since he’d sat down. He regretted turning around to see how many people were between him and the front door. Crap, he really should leave. He’d known more revelers had arrived, because he was getting jostled and bumped as patrons moved from the bar to the seating area and dance floor, but he hadn’t actually seen the writhing mass. Fuck.
Weir had to be the only single person in the bar. Even the strip-o-gram was getting some love. Cupid was being passed above the crowd on the dance floor, like an old-school grunge crowd jumper.
As he took another gulp of his drink, he realized his hands were shaking. Enough that cool liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass onto his fingers. Deep breathing, he reminded himself. His shoulders clenched again, and he hunched closer to the bar, fighting the familiar yet unwelcome sensation of everything being too much. The back of his neck was hot and pinched, the top of his scalp tight. The sensation of being trapped increased. He needed to get outside or risk a full-blown panic/anxiety attack. Shutting his eyes against the crowd, he concentrated on his breathing and the glass of alcohol cool and damp against his palms.
A noisemaker screamed into his right ear, the high-pitched sound taking him completely apart.
👀Formerly published as Accidental Roots👀
Elle hails from the northwest corner of the US known for: rain, rain, and more rain. She pens Shielded Hearts, Veiled Intentions, and West Coast Forensics series all set in the Pacific Northwest. Elle's books feature hot mm romance with the guarantee of an HEA. The men start out broken, and maybe they end up that way, but they always find the other half of their hearts.
While Elle often claims she was raised by wolves, she was in fact raised by her mom and step-dad in a little village called Seattle. When she grew up there were still lawn darts and pull tabs on pop cans, and she went to the park with just her trusty dog (who once went home without her) as company. Later in her life she tried adulting and found it wasn't "all that". She loves both cats and dogs, Star Wars and Star Trek, pineapple on pizza, and is known to start crossword puzzles with a ballpoint pen.
EMAIL: elle@ellekeaton.com
Storm Season #1
No Pressure #2
Convergence Zone #3
Shielded Hearts Series
The NorthStar
Volume 1
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