Cost of Repairs #1
Samuel Briggs moved to small-town Stratton, Pennsylvania, to escape his tragic past and try to start over. When he's not out walking his beat as a police officer, all he wants is peace, a manageable routine, and time to fix up his newly-purchased project home. And Samuel absolutely does not have room in his new routines for a relationship. Except a chance encounter with a handsome diner cook unexpectedly shakes his resolve.
Rey King lives for his work as a short-order cook, part-time hardware salesman, and full-time handyman. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs, so he isn’t looking for complications. And the gorgeous blond cop who comes to Rey’s rescue is a complication he definitely doesn’t need. Lucky for him, Samuel feels the same way.
But what starts as an afternoon of no-strings sex inevitably complicates itself, as the two men learn how deeply each other’s emotional damage goes. When Rey is seriously injured protecting a friend, their already shaky foundation cracks a little more. Samuel barely pulled his life back together after his first lover's death and falling in love again isn't part of his recovery plan. He knows renovations are always a gamble, but this one isn't about risking money—it's about Samuel risking his heart.
NOTE: This book was previously published under the same title. This new edition has been lightly edited to address minor continuity problems, but the overall story is the same.
Original Review October 2013:
Such a well written story with characters that you really fall for. My heart just is so divested in both Sam and Rey's lives that it just pains when they find themselves at odds, usually from either miscommunication or no communication.
RATING:
Part 1
Samuel
Chapter 1
“ Officer!”
Samuel Briggs pivoted neatly on his heel, seeking the owner of the voice shouting at him. A dozen people littered the sidewalk, coming and going, most paying him no more attention than they might a parking meter or newsstand. He was a beat cop, after all, a fixture they expected to see walking around the neighborhood.
Not him in particular, of course. He’d just moved to town a month ago and was new enough to the force to get second looks from most strangers. Today, it didn’t matter that the short, brunette woman frantically waving at him from halfway down the block didn’t know him. She knew the uniform; she knew he could help her.
He strode down the sidewalk, noting that several folks scurried out of his way, and he struggled to hide a smile. He knew his size could be somewhat intimidating—six-foot-two of solid muscle from years of football in college. His older sister Joanne used to tease him that his glare could part the Red Sea. He’d joked back that it worked wonders for crowd control.
The brunette shifted her weight from foot to foot, which looked uncomfortably squeezed into a pair of narrow, high-heeled sandals. She clutched a small mongrel dog to her chest. Her head tilted back as he approached—good grief, she was short.
“What’s the—?” Samuel couldn’t even get the question out.
“In Dixie’s there,” she said in a reedy, irritating voice, pointing at the building in front of them. It was a coffee shop, if he recalled his route correctly, tucked quietly in between a local bank branch and church-run thrift store. Dixie’s Cup was open twenty-four hours a day, which made it one of the few businesses still active when Samuel’s third-watch shift ended at eleven.
He’d stopped in to introduce himself his first night on the beat and met the owner. Dixie Foskey was a trip and then some—flighty, flaky, prone to bastardizing the English language, but she had a good heart. He saw it in the ten minutes they interacted, simply by the way her customers spoke to her and kept coming back. Trouble at Dixie’s had all of his senses on full alert.
He didn’t ask the brunette for further information. He peered in through the glass front door, one hand resting loosely on his holstered service revolver. The shop was long and narrow, with a counter running most of the length of the right side, the small grill and coffee bar completely exposed to the dining area. Booths lined the left wall, with eight tables set up down the center. Samuel counted six people inside, three clustered together in the middle of the room, and the other three on the perimeter, watching.
No one was close to the cash register—that canceled out his first instinct, which was robbery. His hand fell to his side and he pushed open the door. A small bell tinkled, drawing the attention of everyone in the shop. Samuel let his senses fan out, as his father had taught him, taking in the coffee shop and its inhabitants. The important details leapt out first, as they always did.
The long mirror that covered a good third of the left wall was broken in the middle, with several chunks missing. Some of the broken pieces had landed on the booth beneath the break. The man standing closest to the booth was tall, narrow as a willow tree, with a bald head and scraggly gray beard, and a stained pea coat too warm for the day’s weather. He was also the angriest person in the room, judging by his clenched fists and flaming cheeks. A man and woman flanked him on either side, seeming more worried than alarmed.
The thin man was the threat.
Samuel pulled out his gee-whiz voice and asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No, not really,” the woman said. “Just a misunderstanding.”
“Yeah, misunderstanding,” the thin man said.
Nodding, Samuel narrowed his focus, shifting it to the two people in blue Dixie’s Cup aprons. The woman was actually more of a girl—late teens, her blonde hair streaked with pink, her sneakers bright orange. Orange-polished nails picked at the front pocket of her apron, something she didn’t even seem aware of doing.
Past her, partially hidden, was a young man in a green T-shirt and jeans. He had dark eyes, wide with something—surprise, fear, Samuel couldn’t be certain—and a lean, runner’s body. Dark brown hair hinted at a once-popular Caesar-cut, grown out and allowed to dry in whatever odd direction it landed. His shirt had a red smear across the side, and Samuel followed its angle down to the man’s right hand. It was wrapped in a bloody towel.
The man—waiter? Cook?—followed his gaze down to his wounded hand, and then clutched the towel tighter.
“A misunderstanding,” Samuel repeated when the injured man wouldn’t look at him. He shifted his attention to the cause of the trouble. “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me about it?”
“Can’t, can’t do it today, Officer,” the thin man said. He pulled a dented pocket watch out of his jacket and looked at the face. “Late, got a schedule to keep. Just a misunderstanding with old Sandy, that’s all.”
“Right.” Samuel took a few long strides forward, effectively bringing him to within arm’s reach of the waitress. She stood almost to his armpit and, like the brunette outside, her gaze went up, up, up. The thin man—Sandy, he presumed—was his height, and he noted the wounded man was a few inches shorter. “How’d he hurt his hand, Sandy?”
Sandy cast about, confused. “Who?” Samuel pointed, and Sandy’s eyes widened. “Holy cats, Rey, what did you do to yourself?”
“It’s nothing, Sandy,” Rey replied. His voice was soft, placating, and he wouldn’t look at Samuel. “Just a scratch. Remember what we talked about before Officer”—he glanced over at Samuel’s nametag—“Briggs came in? Remember what Dixie said last week?”
Sandy sucked in his lower lip and screwed up his face, thinking. He didn’t reek of alcohol, which had Samuel wondering about mental illness. Then Sandy’s face lit up like a child who’s just seen Santa Claus in the mall for the first time.
“Yes! Dixie said Mondays is when I come and wash the windows, but today’s not Monday. I’m early.”
“Yeah, a little early.”
Three days early. Samuel easily believed Dixie would hire a man like this to clean her windows, probably paid him with food as well as cash. Sandy was likely another neighborhood fixture, much like Dixie’s Cup. Samuel was surprised he hadn’t seen him before today.
“Does someone want to tell me about this mirror?” Samuel asked.
Rey shot him an irritated look. “It was an accident resulting from the misunderstanding about Sandy’s window-washing job.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Sandy said.
“We know, buddy. Dixie will understand.” Rey angled his body to face Samuel head-on, a posture as defensive as it was a challenge. “Situation’s under control, Officer Briggs, but thanks for the check.”
It was as close to a dismissal as Samuel had ever received from someone stone sober. “It’s not a problem,” he said, keeping his tone as polite as he could manage. “Sandy, my name is Officer Samuel Briggs. You’ll be seeing me around the neighborhood now, so I’m glad we had a chance to meet.”
“Yes, definitely, Officer, glad to meet you,” Sandy said. “I can’t chat about the case now, because I have an appointment. I have to go.”
Part of Samuel hesitated to let Sandy wander around town, when his mental faculties were not completely intact. However, he was new and he wasn’t the only cop who walked this particular stretch. If Sandy was a danger to others, he’d have been handled. And the Dixie’s Cup locals seemed okay with today’s behavior, marking it par for the course, and that made the decision for him.
“Don’t let me keep you, then,” Samuel said.
Sandy breezed out of the coffee shop without a backward glance. Samuel scanned the room, noting the three observers had returned to their tables. A young couple sat in a rear booth with plates of food and sodas, and a single man in a baseball cap occupied the last stool at the counter, hunched over a mug of coffee.
“Wow, Dixie’s gonna freak,” the blonde girl said.
“She’ll be fine with it, Jennie,” Rey said. “She’s wanted to tear that mirror down and have Schuyler paint a mural for months. Now she’s got an excuse. Hell, she’ll probably pay Sandy extra for the favor.”
“I guess.” She spun around, blonde hair whipping wildly in its ponytail, and flashed Samuel a blinding smile. “Thanks for stopping in, Officer Briggs. I’m Jennie Walsh. I work here part-time.” She stuck her hand out and he shook it gently. “So I guess you’re Todd’s replacement.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied gamely. Todd Darling had had this particular beat for close to thirty years. His retirement last month had been a stroke of luck for Samuel, in that its timing worked with his desire to move and stay in law enforcement. “I met Dixie a few weeks ago. She seems great.”
“Dixie’s a doll, she’s great people.” She tucked her order pad back into her apron. “I should grab the broom and clean up that glass.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Rey said.
“Forget it, not with that hand. Shouldn’t you be keeping it elevated or something?”
Rey raised his wounded hand high above his head like a kid seeking his teacher’s attention. The by-play made Samuel smile.
“I’m guessing Sandy got upset when he realized today wasn’t Monday,” Samuel said. “And he broke the mirror.”
“Excellent detective work, Officer,” Rey said. He spoke with such a deadpan delivery that Samuel couldn’t tell if he was being mocked or not. Then a small spark of amusement seemed to light Rey’s dark brown eyes from the inside out and he knew it was “or not”. Teased, maybe, but not mocked. “Look, my hand’s fine, okay? Sandy had a piece of mirror on his coat when I grabbed his arm and I cut myself. It’s not that deep.”
Samuel quirked his right eyebrow, a habit he’d picked up ages ago and his sister loved complaining about not being able to emulate. “Not that deep. Is that why you’ve nearly soaked that towel through? It might need stitches.”
Rey stared at the bloody towel and frowned, his lips twisting into more of an S than an O. He appeared close to Samuel in age. “Yeah, maybe. Fuck.”
The anger in that single epithet surprised Samuel. “Do you want me to take a look at it?”
“Why? You hiding a doctor under your uniform?” That playful tone was there, walking a fine line between teasing and sarcasm. It surprised Samuel in its…flirtatiousness.
He planted both hands on his hips, adopting his all-business stance. “No, but we are trained in basic emergency care. Does Dixie have a first aid kit?”
“Yeah, there’s one in the back room,” Jennie said. She poked Rey’s chest with a finger and he winced. “Let him fix your hand, you big wimp. I’ll clean up out here.”
Big wimp must have done the trick. Rey squared his shoulders. “Fine. This way, Officer.”
Samuel followed him to the rear of the shop and a doorway framed by half panels like an old-fashioned saloon. He slowed long enough to offer polite nods to the other patrons. The couple gave him nervous smiles. The lone man at the counter remained fixated on his coffee.
The back room was a catch-all of storage shelves, a walk-in refrigerator and office, all cramped into one tiny space. Samuel wasn’t prone to claustrophobia, but with stacks of supplies so close to the room’s only chair, he thought working in a place like this could make him susceptible. The desk was cluttered with stacks of folders and receipts, bills of lading and other order forms, and several more teetering stacks littered the floor. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was in violation of the fire code. After meeting Dixie, the disorganization didn’t really surprise him.
Two doors separated the various piles of supplies—one marked Restroom and the other with a glowing Exit sign above.
Rey tugged open the bottom desk drawer. Hinges squealed as the old metal protested. He pulled out a rusted green box with a faded First Aid symbol painted on the front. It looked as though it had been rescued from World War II.
“Wow,” Samuel said. “Are the supplies newer than the box?”
“Definitely,” Rey said. He put the box on the desk and popped the latches with one hand. “We used to have a temp cook who was a grease-splatter magnet. Dixie should have taken stock in burn ointment those three months.”
“Ouch.”
Rey flipped the lid open then sat down in the desk chair. It groaned under his weight, and Samuel had a brief, comical flash of the entire thing collapsing. Samuel rifled through the box, producing sterile bandages, a roll of cotton, tape and antibacterial salve. He also fished out a few butterfly bandages, just in case.
“So you cut your hand grabbing Sandy’s coat,” Samuel said.
“Yeah.” Rey started unraveling the swaths of bloody towel. “Sandy’s mostly harmless. Every now and again he loses it, but not too much. He’s kind of the neighborhood mascot. Gets odd jobs all over the place. This is the first time he’s ever gone off here.”
“There’s a first time for everything, right?”
“Some first times are better than others.”
The teasing tone was back, and Samuel felt a warm prickle on his skin. Not quite a blush, but something very close. “This is true. All right, let’s see the damage…”
Rey didn’t seem to notice that he was expected to produce a full name. He dropped the soaked towel into an overflowing wastebasket and presented his hand, palm up, head turned away. Samuel mentally noted the squeamishness as “interesting, but not useful”.
The cut went diagonal across Rey’s palm, about two inches long and deep enough to still be oozing blood. It was a clean slice, though, no ragged edges. “Can you wiggle all of your fingers?” Samuel asked.
He did, waggling the fingers of his uninjured hand, as well.
Samuel cupped the hand against his own, holding the wound closer to the desk lamp. Rey’s hand was warm, which surprised him, and smooth. “It’s pretty deep. You may need stitches to get this to heal right.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because stitches cost money. Can you fix me up, or not?” The tease was gone, replaced by weariness and a sharp edge of annoyance.
“Yes, I can.” And he did, in complete silence.
Jennie shuffled in and out twice, with a broom and dustpan. Voices and the sound of hissing steam drifted in from the diner. Rey sat quietly the entire time, staring anywhere but at his hand while Samuel salved, butterflied and bandaged his cut. He secured the cotton wrap with several strips of tape, absently wishing the first aid kit had one of those nifty, disposable hand guards. He doubted he could persuade Rey to stop by a pharmacy and get one on his way home. Money was obviously a sore subject.
Confident the bandaging would hold, Samuel released Rey’s hand, then scooped up the trash and added it to the overflowing can. “So try to keep that as dry as possible and have someone change the dressing for you tomorrow.”
Rey finally looked at the white swath and flexed his fingers. “Had to be my right hand, didn’t it?”
“It’ll be sore for a couple of days, so you may want to practice being left-handed.”
“Easier said than done.” He slapped his left hand against his thigh. “Fuck, Dan’s going to kill me.”
Samuel knew he was speaking metaphorically, but he couldn’t stop a flare of protectiveness at the assumed threat. He didn’t know who Dan was or why he’d be upset about a cut. He could guess, sure, but he didn’t know Rey and wouldn’t make assumptions when he’d just met the man fifteen minutes ago. He’d battled enough assumptions about himself to last into the next lifetime.
Rey shook his head, snapping himself out of his troubled thoughts, and flashed Samuel a friendly smile. “Listen, thanks, man. For the hand.”
“It’s not a problem, just doing my job.”
“You have to get back out there or do you have time for a cup of coffee on the house?”
Samuel hesitated. Accepting favors from local business owners was not only frowned upon by the department, it was a lesson ground into his head long ago by his father. Just say no went for more than drugs. Granted, today he’d actually done something that could warrant a favor. He was just doing his job, though. A cup of coffee was no huge loss for Dixie’s Cup, but accepting it still felt wrong.
“Thanks, but I should really get back to my beat.”
“Okay.” Rey stood and stretched. “If you’re on this side of town when your break comes up, stop in. The tuna salad’s fresh.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
Rey shadowed him out of the back room. Samuel noted the broken shards were cleaned up and duct tape covered the jagged edges on the wall. Jennie was behind the counter, cooking something on the flattop. The couple was still there, the single man was gone, and a trio of teenage girls had taken over a booth near the front. They tossed him open, assessing grins that dissolved into giggles. He tipped his department baseball cap at them, which made the trio giggle louder. One of them blushed.
At the door, Rey held out his left hand. He shook it, both of them a little awkward. “See you around, Officer Briggs.”
“Yeah. Rey, was it?”
“Yep.”
Rey released his hand and wandered back to the counter. Samuel hesitated, then left the cool coffee shop for the warmth of the spring evening. If he went back on his dinner break—and it was looking like a very real possibility—he’d have to work harder to get Rey’s full name.
Something told him the mystery was worth solving.
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.
EMAIL: AM_Arthur@yahoo.com
Cost of Repairs #1
Series
