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As my mother's 24/7 caregiver, November being National Family Caregiver Month has always been important to me. Not because I want personal recognition for what I do but to help show people that caregiving is more than just medical assistance, it can also be emotional, physical, psychological, that it effects every aspects of a person's life, it can be temporary, short term, long term, chronic,. I would give anything to make it so my mother did not need the assistance but that isn't possible so I do this so she can have the best quality of life and still live in her own home. So I realized that there are stories out there that have caregivers and whether it's a big or small part of the plot doesn't matter, they help show people what caregivers provide all within very entertaining romances and reading experiences.
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Summary:
Wood Ranch #2
From acclaimed author A.M. Arthur comes a tender, sexy new novel in the Woods Ranch series.
He thought his cowboy days were behind him. But life—and love—had other plans.
Michael Pearce left the small-town life of Weston and cattle ranching for the hustle of Austin, and never looked back—until his father suffers a stroke and requires in-home care.
Josiah Sheridan became a certified nursing assistant after seeing how wonderful his single mother's in-home aides were before she died. He wants to help people, and he does his best with the work he can find in small-town Weston, Texas. He also lives a complicated life with his lover—to the rest of the world, they’re just roommates. Behind closed doors, their life is…strained.
Meeting Michael, a kind and openly gay—not to mention much older—man, gives Josiah a glimpse into a brighter, happier world. He loves Michael’s self-confidence and plethora of life stories. But it will take patience, planning, and more courage than Josiah thinks he has to finally break free from his old life and find real love with Michael.
Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts by Charlie Cochet
Summary:Julian “Quinn” Quintero, a gruff, tough Miami SWAT officer, has been injured on the job, and all he’s looking for is a little peace and quiet to recover—difficult to achieve with his large Cuban family. An adventure in picking up his prescriptions puts him in the path of his geeky, brownie-baking neighbor, Spencer Morgan. Spencer sweeps into Quinn’s life like a tropical storm of sunshine and rainbows. Not surprisingly, it’s chaos at first sight. Quinn’s in need of a little tender loving care, and Spencer decides he’s just the man for the job. Their very different lives might clash, but they might also find some common ground—and maybe more.
How did I miss this? It is going on 3-1/2 years since Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts was released and somehow it has missed my radar till now - I have no words other than Ooops! I'm sure I would have eventually discovered Beware but it came to my attention recently after reading Charlie Cochet's Valentine's Day free read, In the Cards(#4.5 in her Four Kings Security series) where I learned Ace & Lucky's cousin Quinn & his partner Spencer had their own story. I immediately went and "1-clicked" but was unable to read right away but it went to the top of my TBR list.
Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts is rom-com at its best. How can you not cheer for Spencer and Quinn? On the surface you couldn't find two more polar opposites but once Spencer finally takes the leap to introduce himself(BTW his flustered moment of slapstick clumsiness is one of the cutest nice-to-meet-you scenes ever) you realize they really are quite suited. They balance each other out and it was easy to understand how they got from Beware to In the Cards.
Now, just because I said its rom-com at its best don't think its cliche. Oh no, Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts is a genius blend of humor, romance, and heat with just the right amount of drama to kick them in the butt too realize how deep their hearts have gotten. Simply put Quinn & Spencer's tale is a delightful gem from beginning to end.
RATING:
His Reluctant Cowboy by AM Arthur
Chapter One
Two things became incredibly clear to Michael Pearce as he regained consciousness: first, his left cheek was stuck to the faux leather cushion of his living room’s sofa, probably from drool; and second, he was clutching a half-chewed rawhide close to his chest like a safety blanket.
The first thing kind of made sense. In the two weeks since Kenny had left him and taken their dog, Rosco, with him, Michael didn’t always sleep in their bedroom. At first, it had hurt too much to sleep in their room, which had still smelled like Kenny’s cologne. Now Michael was just used to the couch. But he usually remembered a pillow and blanket. What had he done last night to fall flat on his face?
Oh yeah. The finalized divorce papers had shown up. The booze came out. Michael had gone out and found company, fucked his sorrows away, and then drunk more before passing out in the living room.
Classy. Real classy, asshole.
He peeled his face off the couch cushion and attempted to sit up. His stomach sloshed dangerously, and he contemplated whether the bathroom or the kitchen sink was closer. Fortunately, last night’s booze fest stayed put for now. He stared at the rawhide and more bits of last night came back to him. Stumbling home wasted. Tripping and falling on the expensive Persian rug, kind of hoping he barfed all over it because Kenny had picked it out and Michael had never liked it. Seeing the rawhide under the couch. Missing his dog so much he’d started bawling.
Apparently, he’d crawled onto the couch and cried himself to sleep with the rawhide in his hands. Definitely not his finest moment. Oh well. Not as if it was the least dignified thing he’d ever done in his forty-one years on earth. He and Kenny had hosted some insane parties in this house over the years, but that was all over now. Most of Michael’s friends here in Austin had been Kenny’s friends first, and they’d all taken Kenny’s side during the separation.
Didn’t matter that Michael’s creativity and experience had made them their fortune. Money they spent lavishly on this fucking house and their fucking friends. Money Michael no longer had access to, thanks to his idiot, in-love self not paying attention to the contract he’d signed with Kenny when their app first took off. A contract that cut Michael out of the profits if their partnership ever dissolved.
Which it had, about a month ago, when he caught Kenny cheating on him. For as much as Michael had loved Kenny once, and for as amazing as it had been being rich after growing up on a failing ranch, Michael missed his dog the most.
He put the rawhide on a side table and stood, his target the bathroom and a nice hot shower to wash last night’s funk off his skin. He also kind of had to pee and his mouth tasted like ass—and not in the good way—so his toothbrush was a priority. Naturally, his cell phone rang somewhere in the house.
Michael always thought of not answering a call—or at least looking at the number—as leaving work unfinished, so he abandoned the bathroom trip in favor of searching out his phone. He found it on the floor of the kitchen. County Hospital, with a Texas exchange. His old home county.
With a wiggle of dread in his gut, Michael answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Michael Pearce?” a feminine voice asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Mr. Pearce, my name is Susan, and I’m a patient advocate at Claire County Hospital. I have you listed as Elmer Pearce’s emergency contact.”
Oh God, the old man’s kicked it. “Yes, I’m his son. Is he dead?”
“No, he’s stable at the moment. Mr. Pearce, your father had a stroke early this morning. He was found by a neighbor and rushed to our emergency room, where we were able to stabilize him. He’s been briefly conscious, but we still don’t know the extent of the damage from the stroke.” Michael stared at a pretentious portrait he’d never liked, but Kenny had insisted they buy. Honestly, for a flaming gay man, Kenny had the worst taste in home decor, but Michael had indulged him. Why hadn’t he taken the damned painting and left Rosco?
“Mr. Pearce?”
“What? Sorry.”
“I understand this can be upsetting news.” She rattled off a few things Michael’s hungover brain couldn’t make a lot of sense of, until she got to: “He has some paralysis on his right side, so he will need help at home once he’s discharged. At least for a little while.”
His gut clenched and he moved closer to the kitchen sink. “Paralysis?”
“It’s not uncommon with stroke victims, but as I said before, it’s early hours and we’re still assessing him. He can, of course, receive visitors. I can give you the address if—”
“No, I grew up there, I know where it is. I’m, um, in Austin, so it’ll be a while before I can get up there.”
“Of course. He’ll likely be out of the ER and in a room by the time you arrive, so you can ask at the main desk.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
He ended the call and put his phone on the counter, brain whirling with too many things he needed to do. Pack a bag. Figure out how to get there. Flying into Amarillo was obviously faster, but by the time he found a flight with enough time to get through TSA, he’d probably be just as well off driving the eight or so hours to his home county. He’d have his own car, instead of driving around in his father’s dusty old truck.
A dusty old truck Michael had tried to replace more than once over the years, but Elmer wouldn’t take his money. And not because the money had come from a gay dating app. Elmer was just too proud to accept financial help from anyone, even his own estranged son. So he made his metal folk art and clung to a huge piece of land he really didn’t need, out of stubbornness and spite. And Michael had stayed in Austin, living the life he thought he wanted to live.
Until everything had come crashing down.
Michael gazed around the huge chrome and white kitchen and no longer saw himself in it. Having and spending money was wonderful when you were used to being poor, like he’d grown up back in Weston. Having a refrigerator that talked to him seemed like the best thing in the world. Every new gadget, every great invention was scattered around this house. A house Kenny had abandoned for another man with even more money and an even bigger house.
Michael hadn’t wanted to contest the divorce. Between the cheating he could prove and the intellectual property theft he couldn’t, Michael simply wanted things over as quickly and cleanly as possible, so they’d filed no fault and let their lawyers divide up their (shockingly meager) assets. Michael got the house and half their joint account, which hadn’t amounted to much in the way of cash after the mortgage, car payment, and lawyer fees. And with the way Kenny had fucked him over on the business side of things, his personal account wasn’t going up anytime soon. Not until he sold the house.
Maybe a week or two back home in Weston, taking care of his father for a while, was what he needed to clear his head and stop cuddling with a dog’s rawhide toy. Take a break from the life he thought he wanted and get his priorities back in order. His only real issue, though, was money. Until the house sold, he had a couple of hundred in his personal account to last him. It would get him to Weston, though. And stretch further there than here in the city.
If worse came to worst, he could get a job. A regular, working-class job and forget his lavish, rich man lifestyle for a while. Figure out who he wanted to be in this new chapter of his life. Maybe even rebuild his relationship with his father. If such a thing was possible.
After a quick shower, two rounds of puking, a piece of dry toast, and throwing a bunch of clothes and toiletries into three suitcases, Michael packed up his Audi and hit the road. He’d left a handful of sentimental items behind, including a bottle of one-hundred-year-old Scotch given to him as a gift two Christmases ago, but once the house sold he’d either be back in Austin for good, or he’d fly down to clear things out. Whatever. He’d think about it later.
All he could think about right now was his dad. A man he hadn’t seen in twenty years and rarely spoke to, but still loved and admired for his tenacity. His ability to live life as he saw fit, no matter what others thought of him. Growing up, Michael had tried not to care how others perceived him, but that had led to a lot of bullying in high school for being gay. He’d wanted to be accepted and wasn’t, so he’d fled to a big city as soon as possible. Made a lot of money. Made a lot of friends.
Friends who’d dumped his ass the moment he lost both Kenny and the fame and notoriety that came with their app’s success.
Assholes.
With two ginger ales from a local convenience store and a box of saltine crackers, Michael hit the highway and drove north. He drove past exit signs, trucker plazas, dry land, green foliage, hills and flatlands, and all manner of things. One pit stop when the ginger ale needed to be released, and he tempted his still-queasy stomach with a plain hamburger that stayed down.
Hangovers were the worst any day, but on a day spent driving? Ugh.
Signs for Amarillo began popping up, and on the outskirts, Michael took the exit toward the county hospital and Weston itself. His eyes were sandy, his back hurt, and all he wanted was a nap, but he got his tired ass to the hospital around five that evening. Parked. A lady at the front desk told him where to go.
It was a small hospital and he found Elmer’s room pretty easily. The first bed was empty, but Elmer snored away in the second. The wires and leads disturbed him less than seeing the way his dad had aged in the last two decades. More wrinkles on his face, more gray in his hair. Michael’s heart ached for his dad and for himself, because they’d both lost so much. And that loss had separated them for a long, long time.
Existing together with that pain had been too hard, too stifling. Separation had been for the best—or so he thought.
Seeing Elmer again in person shifted something inside of him. Even if they never forgave each other for the awful things they’d both said that last, fateful night, Michael would make sure his dad got through this. He’d come out of it the same independent, stubborn old man he used to be, period.
Michael would do everything he possibly could to make sure that happened.
***
Josiah Sheridan unlocked the front door of the house, heart galloping in his chest, even though his was the only car in the driveway. More than once over the last year or so, Seamus had parked his car elsewhere in order to surprise Josiah, usually when Seamus thought Josiah had done something wrong and needed a lesson. But Josiah had been on his best behavior these last few months; he’d been careful ever since the big blowup the night Brand Woods was stabbed.
As the county sheriff, Seamus McBride couldn’t have just walked away without stepping in, no matter how much he disliked the Woods family. Even though Josiah was a CNA and had an ingrained need to help people in trouble, Seamus hadn’t liked him meddling.
He’d shown Josiah how much the next day.
But Brand was alive, recovered, and apparently living with one of the other hands on his family’s cattle ranch. Josiah was secretly happy for the pair and wished them all the best. Openly, he pretended to dislike their “chosen lifestyle” as much as Seamus did, because that’s the lie they told the world. Even though Seamus had been regularly—and not always permissibly—fucking Josiah for nearly two years now, Seamus was firmly planted within the “gay is evil” Sunday crowd.
Some days Josiah longed for the freedom to simply be himself, but he had nowhere else to go and no money to get there.
He went down the hallway to the guest room he still kept his things in for appearances’ sake and changed from his scrubs to shorts and a T-shirt. Seamus didn’t like him sitting around the house in his scrubs. “They make me think of sick people,” he’d often said, “and I don’t need that after a long shift.”
Josiah didn’t particularly need most of Seamus’s shit after a long day at work, either, but Seamus was bigger, stronger, and knew where to hit so Josiah didn’t have visible bruises. It was safer to keep his snark and complaints to himself. After a quick glance into their bedroom, the bathroom, and the tiny closet of a room Seamus used as an office, Josiah relaxed a bit. No Seamus.
As the sheriff, Seamus’s hours were sometimes all over the place, since he was always on call for emergencies, which worked well with Josiah’s own flexible work hours. Today had been his last day tending to Mrs. Wellington, who was being moved into a nursing home as they spoke. Her family had decided it was best for her final few months of care, since she was dying from cervical cancer and had signed a DNR.
Josiah eyeballed the cabinet where Seamus kept his favorite liquors, tempted to take a shot of whiskey in Mrs. Wellington’s honor. He cared about all his patients, but the end-of-life ones got to him the most. He was simply glad she had a lot of family around to support her in her final days and weeks.
Not like me. If I was dying tomorrow, no one would be there.
Those thoughts didn’t hurt like they used to. He’d simply adapted to being isolated and lonely, and to putting up a front for his clients so they didn’t see how desperate he was to get out. To get away and start over. To be someone else, anyone else for a little while. To know what it felt like to be truly wanted and loved.
He hadn’t felt like that since Andy. A lifetime ago.
Unwilling to wander down that particular stretch of memory lane right now, Josiah checked on the slow cooker meal he’d prepped that morning. He’d mastered those kinds of foods so there was always a hot meal waiting for Seamus, even if he got home before Josiah. It saved bruises later. The food looked undisturbed, so Seamus hadn’t been home recently, and it was already close to seven. Josiah scooped out a bowl of meat and potatoes, and he ate alone at the kitchen table in the silent house. Silent save the faint tick of the kitchen’s wall clock. For as lonely as he was most days, even with someone else in the house, Josiah treasured these quiet moments alone.
He ate his dinner, then put his bowl and fork in the dishwasher. Drank a glass of water, even though he really wanted one of Seamus’s beers. Eyeballed the liquor cabinet once more before going into the bathroom to shower and clean himself out. Seamus was erratic in when he wanted sex, but he was also, well, anal about cleanliness, and it was easier to stay ready than to worry about Seamus using the enema shower attachment on him.
After getting squeaky clean inside and out, he checked his phone. A text from his boss about a possible new client, a stroke patient who’d be in hospital for a few more days but who might need extra care family couldn’t provide. Josiah texted back that he was interested, especially now that his schedule was open. Seamus frequently said that Josiah didn’t have to work, but Josiah loved what he did. He needed the distance and distraction from the nightmare of his home life too much to give up his career. And he refused to be wholly dependent on Seamus if he ever hoped to escape.
For now, he was stuck here and it was no one’s fault but his own.
With nothing left to distract himself, Josiah settled in the living room and kept streaming an Australian medical show that had aired over a decade ago. He couldn’t even remember how he’d stumbled onto it, but he’d been intrigued by a show in a setting where patients just...received care. No worries about insurance or bankruptcy or co-pays. Plus, the accents were sexy as hell, even on the female characters.
He was about to learn the diagnosis for one particularly tricky patient when tires crunched the gravel outside. Lights flashed in the windows before shutting off. Dread tightened Josiah’s stomach. Seamus was home. He paused his show and fled for the kitchen, got a bowl and fork, and he was scooping food into it when Seamus strode inside.
Once upon a time, Josiah had considered Seamus handsome. Now his smiles always seemed sinister, his touches one small squeeze from painful. To the residents of this county, he was a hero and the man in charge of keeping them safe. To Josiah, he was a walking time bomb.
“Smells good,” Seamus said. “You eat?”
“A little while ago. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home.”
“Okay.” He calmly put his service weapon in the lockbox he kept inside one of the cabinets, every motion smooth and without malice. As if he was in an actual good mood for a change. “Give me a beer.”
Josiah deposited both the bowl of food and a chilled, open beer on the table at the same time as Seamus sat to eat his dinner. A very late dinner, but Josiah wasn’t going to mention it. He hovered nearby, unsure if Seamus wanted company or to be left alone. Some nights he simply couldn’t read the man or his intentions. Not in the last few months. Not since the stabbing. It was almost as if Brand Woods openly living his life in a gay relationship was personally offensive to Seamus.
Or it made him feel trapped in his own environment. Josiah had been out of the closet for years before Seamus shoved him back inside and slammed the door. Locked it. And he wanted to get back out again, but deep down he knew that wouldn’t happen while he lived here. While he let Seamus...use him. Seamus had to come to terms with his own sexuality and stop hiding. But Josiah had a funny feeling that was never going to happen.
Right now, they shared the same closet and it was slowly suffocating him.
A stifling closet was, most days, better than the street, though.
“Do you need salt or pepper?” Josiah asked after Seamus took his first bite of dinner. Seamus preferred to season his own food, so Josiah was sparse in adding too much of either when he cooked. Having to chew on a mouthful of black pepper for thirty seconds because he’d accidentally overspiced a steak was an experience he would never, ever forget.
“No, it’s good,” Seamus replied. “Get yourself a drink.”
That was not a question, so Josiah fetched himself a glass of water to sip while Seamus ate. “I might have a lead on a new job coming up. Elmer Pearce had a stroke early this morning, and he’ll likely need home care for a while. Hayes asked if I’d be interested.”
“And you said yes.”
Again, not a question. “I did. I’ve met Mr. Pearce, and now that Mrs. Wellington is going into a nursing home, my schedule is clear. I’d like to take the job.”
“Nights or days?”
“I’m not sure. Everything happened today, and Hayes is coordinating with a social worker. Apparently, Mr. Pearce has a son who is coming into town but I don’t know how long he’ll stay.”
Seamus forked a bite of meat. “Okay. Keep me informed.”
“I will.” The low-key reaction surprised Josiah and lowered his alertness level a few degrees. “How was your day?”
“It was a day. Broke up a brawl over at the Roost this afternoon, which is why I’m so late. Ramie insisted she hadn’t overserved either of them, so they probably just got into it over a woman. Got ’em both cooling off in lockup overnight.”
Ramie was one of the main bartenders at the Red Roost, and she knew better than to overserve her guests. A night in the drunk tank would probably do those two brawling idiots a world of good. “At least no one was stabbed this time.” As soon as the statement slipped out, Josiah regretted the reminder of that night.
Seamus didn’t seem angry, though. He simply kept eating, paying more attention to his phone than to Josiah, so Josiah sipped his water and watched his “roommate” eat. He wasn’t sure what to call Seamus anymore. Roommate was real to the rest of the world. Lover had been right for a very brief period of time before Josiah realized Seamus didn’t actually love him. Seamus used him for his own needs, Josiah’s needs be damned. Once in a while, Seamus was sweet and doting like a proper boyfriend, but it never lasted.
I’m an object, something to use, and I need to get out before he destroys me. But I have nowhere else to go.
No family, no real friends to rely on. He’d kept up a very casual text friendship with Hugo Turner ever since Brand was stabbed, but that was it. He was isolated here, exactly how Seamus liked him. Existing without really living.
“If Elmer ends up needing care,” Josiah hedged, “do you mind if I take the job?”
“No, I like the man. And it’s not too far from home. I can think of worse people to care for.”
Josiah swallowed back a comment about judging who deserved health care based on their background or whatever and sipped his water. No sense in provoking a fight, especially when Seamus seemed to be in a good mood. “Do you want coffee? I can make a pot.”
“Coffee sounds great. Make enough for yourself.”
He wasn’t a huge fan, especially this late at night, but Josiah did as asked. He waited by the brewing pot while Seamus continued eating, and he had two mugs on the table by the time Seamus’s bowl was empty. “Do you want more?” Josiah asked.
“No, that’s fine.”
Josiah exchanged the bowl and fork for the mug of coffee, still slightly unnerved by how calm Seamus was tonight. No yelling, no blustering, no demands. He reminded Josiah of the man he’d first met two years ago. The man he thought he was renting a room from. Nothing like the man he eventually turned into. The man Josiah both cared about and feared.
“Sit,” Seamus said. “Drink your coffee.”
The quiet demands sent Josiah into autopilot. After putting Seamus’s bowl and fork in the dishwasher, he sat across from him with his own mug of black coffee. Josiah used to prefer sweet drinks with syrups and whipped cream to black coffee, but Seamus had disabused him of that habit quickly. Cheap and simple were two of Seamus’s favorite words.
Didn’t matter that he had both of their incomes at his disposal. “Do you want a toothpick?” Josiah asked.
“Sure.” Seamus was busy reading something on his phone, so Josiah took his time getting a toothpick from the box in the cabinet. Walking back to the table with it. Placing the toothpick next to Seamus’s coffee mug. Sitting in the chair opposite Seamus at the round table.
Josiah sipped at his coffee while Seamus drank his, did something on his phone and picked at his teeth. Familiar things, sure, but it was all almost too easy. Too quiet. Josiah was braced for an explosion of some kind.
An explosion that never happened. After finishing his coffee, Seamus quietly went into the living room to watch TV. Josiah cleaned up their mugs, wiped down the table, put all leftovers away, including a portion for Seamus to take for lunch tomorrow, and then set the dishwasher to run. After thirty seconds of talking himself into it, Josiah followed Seamus into the living room.
Some science fiction movie they’d seen before was playing on the television, which relaxed Josiah even more. Old favorites meant Seamus was in a good mood, unlikely to lash out or demand anything from Josiah tonight. When Seamus raised his arm and beckoned Josiah to join him, Josiah did, settling on the couch next to his...boyfriend? Roommate? He never knew what word to apply to Seamus.
Whatever the label, they existed together in peace that night.
Precious, fleeting peace Josiah clung to for as long as possible.
Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts by Charlie Cochet
Chapter One
“OYE, CABRÓN, those aguacates your mami gave me have been sitting in my oven for weeks, and they’re still hard as bricks.”
Here we go. Quinn shook his head in amusement as his teammates bickered. Why did every conversation his team had on the way to a scene involve avocados?
Their commander had already briefed them on the situation, one that they’d dealt with a hundred times over and that unfortunately seemed to be happening far too often lately: armed subjects barricaded inside a house. Quinn had been on SWAT seven years now, and in that time he’d watched his beloved city slowly sink into the swamps it was built on. He used to love Miami, loved the part he played in keeping it safe. It was once a beautiful city filled with people relieved to see him, thankful for the service he provided. Now they spit at his boots and cursed him out in several languages. Things had changed drastically in ten years, and lately he was having trouble keeping himself from getting caught up in its downward spiral.
Santana kicked at Javier’s boot. These two were going to drive him crazy.
“What do you want me to do about it, bro? Sit on them?”
“Fuck no,” Javier growled, and kicked back in retaliation. “Keep your stank ass away from my food.”
“Bitch, then stop complaining about my mom’s aguacates.”
Quinn braced himself as Manny replied. “You can ask Quinn to sit on your aguacates.”
“Don’t,” Quinn warned, refusing to laugh when Manny put his arms up and did a little ass wiggle on the bench, his bottom lip between his teeth, followed by a moan.
Javier’s grin made Quinn want to punch his friend in the face. He knew what was coming. It was always the same. “Yeah, you like sitting on hard things, don’t you, Quinn?”
Quinn returned his friend’s shit-eating grin. “You know who else likes sitting on hard things, Javi? My cousin Miguel. But you already knew that, didn’t you.”
“Oooh!”
Manny and the rest of the team broke into laughter and catcalls, with the exception of Javier, who always got pissed whenever Quinn brought up Miguel. His cousin used every opportunity he had to intimidate Javier with his “gayness,” as Javier put it. Quinn enjoyed Javier’s discomfort far more than he should.
“Fuck alla you. Dude was dressed like a chick, and I was drunk.”
Quinn did his best to hold back a laugh. “Yeah, okay. You keep telling yourself that.”
“Fuck you and your tutu-wearing cousin, man. Who the fuck wears drag to a quinceañera party?”
Manny pursed his lips in thought, but Quinn saw the gleam of mischief in his eyes. He turned his attention to Quinn. “Didn’t the same thing happen at your brother’s birthday last year?” He turned back to Javier, a wide grin on his face. “Guess you were drunk then too.”
Quinn joined the others in laughing while Javier pouted and continued to curse them out in Spanish. Matthews and Moore kept to themselves, and Quinn couldn’t help the pain still left in his heart. He did what he always did and pushed the annoying ache aside.
Two years after joining SWAT, Quinn had come out to his team. Two years of constant excuses about why he didn’t have a girlfriend, pretending to be straight, and earning a reputation for being a ladies’ man despite never doing anything to garner the title besides talking to women at bars when out with his team. Two years of pretending he was only interested in one-night stands so he wouldn’t have to come up with excuses for his lack of girlfriends or why he wasn’t bringing a woman along to any of the numerous barbecues or parties. It had eaten away at him, turning him into someone he wasn’t. He’d been through enough with his family, and even they had accepted him after his mother had shed tears and mourned the loss of grandbabies that never existed. He’d fought to tear through his claustrophobic closet, through his fear and all the shit that came after. It was still a struggle sometimes with family members, but he continued to move forward. One thing he hadn’t been able to do was carry on the charade at work.
Quinn had done his best to prepare himself for the fallout. It took a while for his team to come to terms with it, and some of the guys on their rotation refused to so much as acknowledge him. That was fine. Quinn could deal with the asshattery of the others. They were teammates but not his friends. He’d already lost some old high school and college buddies over it. If they couldn’t get over him being gay or recognize he was still the same guy he’d always been before coming out, then he didn’t need them in his life. His commander didn’t approve, but he was professional and continued to treat Quinn as a viable member of the force. He also did his best to smooth things over with some of the other officers.
Moore and Matthews had taken it the hardest on their team, and both refused to come around. They had his back but wanted nothing to do with him outside of work. It hurt, but he respected their decision. Javier was an asshole, but aside from the stupid jokes and comments, his attitude toward Quinn hadn’t changed. Manny was Quinn’s closest friend and said he didn’t give two shits. Santana, Cooper, and Joseph eventually came around; they just needed time to process. Cooper wasn’t down with Quinn being into dudes, but as the only black guy on the team, Cooper remained brothers-in-arms with Quinn, their camaraderie one of respect and mutual understanding of the stupid shit they had to put up with on a daily basis because of who they were. Five years later and with the exception of Matthews and Moore, everyone had moved on.
They arrived on scene, and everyone pulled down their goggles while some of Quinn’s teammates said a quick prayer for everyone’s safety. No one knew better than they did how ugly these things could turn in the blink of an eye. When they jumped down from the back of their BearCat, the negotiator was already there, along with a dozen or so Miami Gardens police cruisers. They’d secured the area and cut off incoming traffic for blocks on all sides. News helicopters circled above them, a police helicopter soon joining in. It was eighty-six degrees out, but the humidity made it feel more like ninety-six. He was used to it by now, but fuck, it was still hot as balls.
Quinn and his team stood back as their commander spoke to several officers, the negotiator, and their supervisor before returning to brief them.
“Area’s been secured and neighbors evacuated. Negotiations have fallen through. They’re not listening. Shots have been fired, and police have identified one of the subjects. There’s a warrant out for his arrest. He fled the scene a few months back when Team One busted that grow house on First Street. Looks like he set up shop here. These guys are heavily armed.”
Quinn glanced over at the house where the perps were hiding before he noticed a brightly colored children’s day care center located at the end of the block. What the fuck was wrong with people? Then again, these bastards didn’t care who got hurt in the course of their illicit business ventures. They set up shop where they thought the cops were least likely to look. Residential areas, close to schools, churches, across from police stations. With every one of these houses they took down, another two popped up, bringing more violence and bloodshed. With a sigh Quinn turned his attention back to his commander.
“We’ve got six windows, all secure with burglar bars. Three points of entry: front, back, and side. The front and back doors have bars. The side belongs to the efficiency. No bars on that one.”
“Do we know if there’s anyone inside the efficiency?” Quinn asked.
“Efficiency’s secure. We have confirmation. Neighbors said the couple renting it moved out a few months ago after the husband got into a fistfight with the owner. Owner threw one too many parties, tenant got fed up, went to call him on it, things heated up. You know how it goes. The guy had no idea what was really going on in there.”
Cooper chimed in. “Did the guy call it in?”
The commander adjusted his Ray-Bans, the sun’s rays glaring off them. “My guess is the tenant didn’t want to draw attention to where he was living. From the looks of the efficiency, it’s nowhere near up to code, much less legal. I’m surprised it hasn’t collapsed during a thunderstorm.”
Quinn took a quick look at the addition on the side of the house. His commander was right. The roof was a strong summer breeze away from flying off. Luckily, unless there was a heavy rainstorm, strong breezes were usually smothered by the humidity.
“What’s the plan?” Javier asked. They all gathered close to the commander, with Matthews swapping places with Manny so he wasn’t pressed up against Quinn. Quinn ignored it, though a little smile crept onto his face when Manny gave Matthews a dirty look, the word “asshole” coming across clearly without having to be said. Manny was a champion at cursing someone out without saying a word and often with a smile on his face. Apparently he’d learned it from his mother.
“Matthews, you hook up the bars on that door to the BearCat. Pull that shit off. Moore, you’re breaching the front with Cooper and Joseph as backup. Quinn, you and Manny breach through the efficiency. Javier and Santana, you take the rear. Watch your backs.”
Quinn nodded his acknowledgment with the rest of his team before taking off with Manny beside him. Once the assessment was made and the commander gave his orders, it was go time. Everything moved at breakneck speed. Quinn checked the efficiency through the window. With the area clear, he checked the door. Luckily for them, the homeowner had chosen the cheapest piece of crap he could find. A couple of strong kicks from Quinn and the flimsy door splintered. He tore through the broken door and climbed through with Manny at his back, their rifles aimed and at the ready. Over his radio he heard his teammates’ shouts and orders for subjects to lower their firearms.
Gunfire broke out, and Quinn hurried toward the main part of the house with Manny close by. Moore, Cooper, and Joseph had the subjects secure, and the rest of the team scurried around, checking each room.
“I’ll check the bathroom and closets,” Manny said.
“Copy that.” Quinn checked a bedroom, which was empty except for a couple of filthy mattresses on the floor. Broken and crushed tiles crunched beneath his boots as he moved swiftly around the room. The closet and en suite bathroom were just as filthy and empty. He moved toward the next room.
Quinn edged up to the doorframe. He made a quick assessment of the small room before slipping inside. The room was a shithole, with only a small bed containing a filthy mattress. Mounds of dirty clothes were stacked around the room along with grocery bags full of discarded food containers and wrappers from various takeout restaurants. Quinn breathed in through his mouth to keep the stench of rotten food out of his nostrils. Carefully he checked the room and the garbage bags, grateful for his gloves. The wallpaper was peeling, the tiles on the floor cracked, and the fan on the ceiling hung precariously from its exposed wires, sadly displaying one burned-out lightbulb.
He declared the room clear and was about to leave when he heard it. A tiny sniffle. Walking to the foot of the bed so he could keep an eye on the door, he got down on his hands and knees. There was no way an adult could fit under there. He stared at watery big brown eyes.
Fuck.
“Hi,” he said softly to the small boy flattened against the tile floor, his dirty cheeks stained by the trails left from his tears. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you, okay? My name’s Quinn. I’m here to help. I’m a police officer.”
The young boy shook his head, his eyes wide and filled with terror.
“What’s your name?” Quinn asked, listening to his earpiece for any signs of an incident. If things took a turn for the worse, he’d have to get the child out, even if it meant against his will or scaring him. His safety was a priority. Again the little boy shook his head and shrunk farther away from him. Slowly Quinn reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and smiled. Inside it he kept a photo of his sister’s kids. After taking it out, he returned the wallet to his back pocket. “My nephew’s about your age. His name’s Julian.”
Quinn gingerly slid the photo toward the boy. “That’s him there with his sister, Teresa.”
The boy looked at Quinn, then the picture. He slowly reached out and then snatched it. He looked down at the picture and put his small finger to it, a smile coming onto his face.
“Gatito.”
“Sí,” Quinn replied with a smile. “A Julián le encantan los gatitos. A ti también?”
It looked like the small boy loved kittens as much as his nephew. It also looked like he didn’t speak English. Quinn continued to speak in Spanish. He asked the boy for his name. It was Paolo. With a warm smile, Quinn extended his hand, telling Paolo he wanted to help him. Paolo said he didn’t have a mommy and didn’t know where his daddy was. His uncle was taking care of him. After a few words, Paolo finally came out from under the bed. He gave Quinn the photo, and Quinn returned it to his pocket.
Lifting the small boy into his arms, Quinn was informed the house was clear. All the subjects were cuffed and on the ground.
“I’ve got a little kid. I’m bringing him out.”
He left the room, holding the boy close to him, one gloved hand covering his head as he quickly headed for the front door.
“Hijo de puta!”
Quinn spun on instinct, hunching his body and using it to shield Paolo. The kick from the AK47’s bullets hitting his vest sent him reeling just as a searing heat tore through his calf in several places. He called out, twisting his body as he fell so as not to land on Paolo. The side of his body slammed against the tiled floor, his helmet immediately following.
The room burst into a symphony of noise and gunfire. Paolo’s uncle. Quinn rolled over, covering the boy’s ears. He fought the encroaching darkness, refusing to give in until he knew Paolo would be safe. His ears were ringing, but he could hear someone’s muffled voice shouting his name. His calf was burning, or so it felt like. The sudden pressure had him crying out. Someone dropped to their knees beside him, frantically calling his name. Manny?
“Quinn? Can you hear me?”
Quinn’s vision blurred, but he struggled with a fierce growl when someone gripped his arm and attempted to remove it from around Paolo. It was only when he saw Manny nod to him, his nearly inaudible words assuring Quinn, that he released the child in his arms, and then the darkness came for him.
“OYE, CABRÓN, those aguacates your mami gave me have been sitting in my oven for weeks, and they’re still hard as bricks.”
Here we go. Quinn shook his head in amusement as his teammates bickered. Why did every conversation his team had on the way to a scene involve avocados?
Their commander had already briefed them on the situation, one that they’d dealt with a hundred times over and that unfortunately seemed to be happening far too often lately: armed subjects barricaded inside a house. Quinn had been on SWAT seven years now, and in that time he’d watched his beloved city slowly sink into the swamps it was built on. He used to love Miami, loved the part he played in keeping it safe. It was once a beautiful city filled with people relieved to see him, thankful for the service he provided. Now they spit at his boots and cursed him out in several languages. Things had changed drastically in ten years, and lately he was having trouble keeping himself from getting caught up in its downward spiral.
Santana kicked at Javier’s boot. These two were going to drive him crazy.
“What do you want me to do about it, bro? Sit on them?”
“Fuck no,” Javier growled, and kicked back in retaliation. “Keep your stank ass away from my food.”
“Bitch, then stop complaining about my mom’s aguacates.”
Quinn braced himself as Manny replied. “You can ask Quinn to sit on your aguacates.”
“Don’t,” Quinn warned, refusing to laugh when Manny put his arms up and did a little ass wiggle on the bench, his bottom lip between his teeth, followed by a moan.
Javier’s grin made Quinn want to punch his friend in the face. He knew what was coming. It was always the same. “Yeah, you like sitting on hard things, don’t you, Quinn?”
Quinn returned his friend’s shit-eating grin. “You know who else likes sitting on hard things, Javi? My cousin Miguel. But you already knew that, didn’t you.”
“Oooh!”
Manny and the rest of the team broke into laughter and catcalls, with the exception of Javier, who always got pissed whenever Quinn brought up Miguel. His cousin used every opportunity he had to intimidate Javier with his “gayness,” as Javier put it. Quinn enjoyed Javier’s discomfort far more than he should.
“Fuck alla you. Dude was dressed like a chick, and I was drunk.”
Quinn did his best to hold back a laugh. “Yeah, okay. You keep telling yourself that.”
“Fuck you and your tutu-wearing cousin, man. Who the fuck wears drag to a quinceañera party?”
Manny pursed his lips in thought, but Quinn saw the gleam of mischief in his eyes. He turned his attention to Quinn. “Didn’t the same thing happen at your brother’s birthday last year?” He turned back to Javier, a wide grin on his face. “Guess you were drunk then too.”
Quinn joined the others in laughing while Javier pouted and continued to curse them out in Spanish. Matthews and Moore kept to themselves, and Quinn couldn’t help the pain still left in his heart. He did what he always did and pushed the annoying ache aside.
Two years after joining SWAT, Quinn had come out to his team. Two years of constant excuses about why he didn’t have a girlfriend, pretending to be straight, and earning a reputation for being a ladies’ man despite never doing anything to garner the title besides talking to women at bars when out with his team. Two years of pretending he was only interested in one-night stands so he wouldn’t have to come up with excuses for his lack of girlfriends or why he wasn’t bringing a woman along to any of the numerous barbecues or parties. It had eaten away at him, turning him into someone he wasn’t. He’d been through enough with his family, and even they had accepted him after his mother had shed tears and mourned the loss of grandbabies that never existed. He’d fought to tear through his claustrophobic closet, through his fear and all the shit that came after. It was still a struggle sometimes with family members, but he continued to move forward. One thing he hadn’t been able to do was carry on the charade at work.
Quinn had done his best to prepare himself for the fallout. It took a while for his team to come to terms with it, and some of the guys on their rotation refused to so much as acknowledge him. That was fine. Quinn could deal with the asshattery of the others. They were teammates but not his friends. He’d already lost some old high school and college buddies over it. If they couldn’t get over him being gay or recognize he was still the same guy he’d always been before coming out, then he didn’t need them in his life. His commander didn’t approve, but he was professional and continued to treat Quinn as a viable member of the force. He also did his best to smooth things over with some of the other officers.
Moore and Matthews had taken it the hardest on their team, and both refused to come around. They had his back but wanted nothing to do with him outside of work. It hurt, but he respected their decision. Javier was an asshole, but aside from the stupid jokes and comments, his attitude toward Quinn hadn’t changed. Manny was Quinn’s closest friend and said he didn’t give two shits. Santana, Cooper, and Joseph eventually came around; they just needed time to process. Cooper wasn’t down with Quinn being into dudes, but as the only black guy on the team, Cooper remained brothers-in-arms with Quinn, their camaraderie one of respect and mutual understanding of the stupid shit they had to put up with on a daily basis because of who they were. Five years later and with the exception of Matthews and Moore, everyone had moved on.
They arrived on scene, and everyone pulled down their goggles while some of Quinn’s teammates said a quick prayer for everyone’s safety. No one knew better than they did how ugly these things could turn in the blink of an eye. When they jumped down from the back of their BearCat, the negotiator was already there, along with a dozen or so Miami Gardens police cruisers. They’d secured the area and cut off incoming traffic for blocks on all sides. News helicopters circled above them, a police helicopter soon joining in. It was eighty-six degrees out, but the humidity made it feel more like ninety-six. He was used to it by now, but fuck, it was still hot as balls.
Quinn and his team stood back as their commander spoke to several officers, the negotiator, and their supervisor before returning to brief them.
“Area’s been secured and neighbors evacuated. Negotiations have fallen through. They’re not listening. Shots have been fired, and police have identified one of the subjects. There’s a warrant out for his arrest. He fled the scene a few months back when Team One busted that grow house on First Street. Looks like he set up shop here. These guys are heavily armed.”
Quinn glanced over at the house where the perps were hiding before he noticed a brightly colored children’s day care center located at the end of the block. What the fuck was wrong with people? Then again, these bastards didn’t care who got hurt in the course of their illicit business ventures. They set up shop where they thought the cops were least likely to look. Residential areas, close to schools, churches, across from police stations. With every one of these houses they took down, another two popped up, bringing more violence and bloodshed. With a sigh Quinn turned his attention back to his commander.
“We’ve got six windows, all secure with burglar bars. Three points of entry: front, back, and side. The front and back doors have bars. The side belongs to the efficiency. No bars on that one.”
“Do we know if there’s anyone inside the efficiency?” Quinn asked.
“Efficiency’s secure. We have confirmation. Neighbors said the couple renting it moved out a few months ago after the husband got into a fistfight with the owner. Owner threw one too many parties, tenant got fed up, went to call him on it, things heated up. You know how it goes. The guy had no idea what was really going on in there.”
Cooper chimed in. “Did the guy call it in?”
The commander adjusted his Ray-Bans, the sun’s rays glaring off them. “My guess is the tenant didn’t want to draw attention to where he was living. From the looks of the efficiency, it’s nowhere near up to code, much less legal. I’m surprised it hasn’t collapsed during a thunderstorm.”
Quinn took a quick look at the addition on the side of the house. His commander was right. The roof was a strong summer breeze away from flying off. Luckily, unless there was a heavy rainstorm, strong breezes were usually smothered by the humidity.
“What’s the plan?” Javier asked. They all gathered close to the commander, with Matthews swapping places with Manny so he wasn’t pressed up against Quinn. Quinn ignored it, though a little smile crept onto his face when Manny gave Matthews a dirty look, the word “asshole” coming across clearly without having to be said. Manny was a champion at cursing someone out without saying a word and often with a smile on his face. Apparently he’d learned it from his mother.
“Matthews, you hook up the bars on that door to the BearCat. Pull that shit off. Moore, you’re breaching the front with Cooper and Joseph as backup. Quinn, you and Manny breach through the efficiency. Javier and Santana, you take the rear. Watch your backs.”
Quinn nodded his acknowledgment with the rest of his team before taking off with Manny beside him. Once the assessment was made and the commander gave his orders, it was go time. Everything moved at breakneck speed. Quinn checked the efficiency through the window. With the area clear, he checked the door. Luckily for them, the homeowner had chosen the cheapest piece of crap he could find. A couple of strong kicks from Quinn and the flimsy door splintered. He tore through the broken door and climbed through with Manny at his back, their rifles aimed and at the ready. Over his radio he heard his teammates’ shouts and orders for subjects to lower their firearms.
Gunfire broke out, and Quinn hurried toward the main part of the house with Manny close by. Moore, Cooper, and Joseph had the subjects secure, and the rest of the team scurried around, checking each room.
“I’ll check the bathroom and closets,” Manny said.
“Copy that.” Quinn checked a bedroom, which was empty except for a couple of filthy mattresses on the floor. Broken and crushed tiles crunched beneath his boots as he moved swiftly around the room. The closet and en suite bathroom were just as filthy and empty. He moved toward the next room.
Quinn edged up to the doorframe. He made a quick assessment of the small room before slipping inside. The room was a shithole, with only a small bed containing a filthy mattress. Mounds of dirty clothes were stacked around the room along with grocery bags full of discarded food containers and wrappers from various takeout restaurants. Quinn breathed in through his mouth to keep the stench of rotten food out of his nostrils. Carefully he checked the room and the garbage bags, grateful for his gloves. The wallpaper was peeling, the tiles on the floor cracked, and the fan on the ceiling hung precariously from its exposed wires, sadly displaying one burned-out lightbulb.
He declared the room clear and was about to leave when he heard it. A tiny sniffle. Walking to the foot of the bed so he could keep an eye on the door, he got down on his hands and knees. There was no way an adult could fit under there. He stared at watery big brown eyes.
Fuck.
“Hi,” he said softly to the small boy flattened against the tile floor, his dirty cheeks stained by the trails left from his tears. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you, okay? My name’s Quinn. I’m here to help. I’m a police officer.”
The young boy shook his head, his eyes wide and filled with terror.
“What’s your name?” Quinn asked, listening to his earpiece for any signs of an incident. If things took a turn for the worse, he’d have to get the child out, even if it meant against his will or scaring him. His safety was a priority. Again the little boy shook his head and shrunk farther away from him. Slowly Quinn reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and smiled. Inside it he kept a photo of his sister’s kids. After taking it out, he returned the wallet to his back pocket. “My nephew’s about your age. His name’s Julian.”
Quinn gingerly slid the photo toward the boy. “That’s him there with his sister, Teresa.”
The boy looked at Quinn, then the picture. He slowly reached out and then snatched it. He looked down at the picture and put his small finger to it, a smile coming onto his face.
“Gatito.”
“Sí,” Quinn replied with a smile. “A Julián le encantan los gatitos. A ti también?”
It looked like the small boy loved kittens as much as his nephew. It also looked like he didn’t speak English. Quinn continued to speak in Spanish. He asked the boy for his name. It was Paolo. With a warm smile, Quinn extended his hand, telling Paolo he wanted to help him. Paolo said he didn’t have a mommy and didn’t know where his daddy was. His uncle was taking care of him. After a few words, Paolo finally came out from under the bed. He gave Quinn the photo, and Quinn returned it to his pocket.
Lifting the small boy into his arms, Quinn was informed the house was clear. All the subjects were cuffed and on the ground.
“I’ve got a little kid. I’m bringing him out.”
He left the room, holding the boy close to him, one gloved hand covering his head as he quickly headed for the front door.
“Hijo de puta!”
Quinn spun on instinct, hunching his body and using it to shield Paolo. The kick from the AK47’s bullets hitting his vest sent him reeling just as a searing heat tore through his calf in several places. He called out, twisting his body as he fell so as not to land on Paolo. The side of his body slammed against the tiled floor, his helmet immediately following.
The room burst into a symphony of noise and gunfire. Paolo’s uncle. Quinn rolled over, covering the boy’s ears. He fought the encroaching darkness, refusing to give in until he knew Paolo would be safe. His ears were ringing, but he could hear someone’s muffled voice shouting his name. His calf was burning, or so it felt like. The sudden pressure had him crying out. Someone dropped to their knees beside him, frantically calling his name. Manny?
“Quinn? Can you hear me?”
Quinn’s vision blurred, but he struggled with a fierce growl when someone gripped his arm and attempted to remove it from around Paolo. It was only when he saw Manny nod to him, his nearly inaudible words assuring Quinn, that he released the child in his arms, and then the darkness came for him.
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.
Charlie Cochet is the international bestselling author of the THIRDS series. Born in Cuba and raised in the US, Charlie enjoys the best of both worlds, from her daily Cuban latte to her passion for classic rock.
Currently residing in Central Florida, Charlie is at the beck and call of a rascally Doxiepoo bent on world domination. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found devouring a book, releasing her creativity through art, or binge watching a new TV series. She runs on coffee, thrives on music, and loves to hear from readers.
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AM Arthur
EMAIL: AM_Arthur@yahoo.com
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