by T. M. Smith
Now, whereas many a twink would take offense to being called Tinkerbell, Shannon fucking loved it. It stemmed from a conversation they had one night over pizza a couple of months after they’d met:
“What the hell is that supposed to mean—I remind you of a three-inch flying fairy?”
Taylor choked on the beer he was drinking. “I’m not calling you a fairy, you ass. All I meant was, Tink is this tiny little bundle of energy, a ball of light that lights up any room she’s in. That describes you perfectly, Shan.”
“Oh, well, that’s…kinda sweet, Taylor.” He grinned.
As much as Shannon longed for someone to make him feel the way Taylor did the night they hooked up, honestly, it wasn’t Taylor that he wanted that type of relationship with. He’d listened to his friend talk about the man he was in love with on more than one occasion. What Shannon wanted was for someone to love him the way Taylor loved his cop. All he’d ever known was the abuse Bruce tried to disguise as love and the guys he’d met either online or at school.
When they exited the club, Shannon turned left only to be jerked back to the right. “I’m parked over here, Shan. Come on, I’ll drive you back to campus—unless you want to stay at my place?” Taylor clicked his key fob to unlock the doors, and Shannon climbed in.
That was another thing that slowly evolved between them: Taylor sharing his past, his parents’ murder, and the recurring nightmares he often had about that night. It only strengthened their bond, and with time, helped Shannon to share some of his troubling past with Taylor. “Yeah, your place sounds good.” He yawned.
When they walked into the apartment, Shannon saw a pillow and a blanket sitting on the couch, and he laughed. “Wow, so certain I’d be coming home with you, Pretty Boy?”
“Oh you wish, Tink. Now shut the hell up, get on the couch, and get some sleep. I’m exhausted.” Taylor yawned, scratching his belly as he walked into the kitchen, coming back out to the living room with a couple of bottles of water in his hand. He tossed one toward Shannon, thankfully hitting the sofa cushion and not his head. After spending ten years playing baseball, Taylor had a wicked throw. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Taylor waved before heading into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
“Nightie, night.” Shannon plopped down onto the couch, pulling first his boots then his jeans off, finding the pajama pants and comfy shirt he kept at Taylor’s tucked between the pillow and blanket. His skin held a sticky layer of bar sweat, and his hair was slicked back with product, so he decided to hop in the shower to wash the remnants of their night at the club off his body, rather than painting the sofa with mousse and musk. The hot water felt amazing, relaxing him and soothing his aching back. Between finals, dance class, and a quick workout at the campus gym earlier in the day, his muscles were layered with knots of tension.
When he’d arrived in Austin three years ago, Shannon was scared and alone but far from desperate. The complete change in lifestyle was comforting and welcome. Living in a swanky penthouse prison, wearing the finest clothes, and having an Amex with no limit had never appealed to Shannon. He’d left his family and moved in with Bruce on the promise of love and a life with a man that longed to care for him. Or so he’d thought. What Shannon had gotten instead was an abusive, domineering, controlling man with a hair-trigger temper that believed he could decimate Shannon’s self-worth one day, then buy him a fifteen-thousand-dollar watch the next and make it all better. Of course, the watch and the few other expensive baubles Bruce had gifted him with over the years didn’t sell for what they were truly worth. Shannon had sold them to a very shady character he met through a coworker back in Seattle. But the money he got at the time was worth millions to him.
Unable to plan his trip out—for fear his captors would literally chain him to the bed—Shannon spent the first week in a hotel close to the college while he found work, signed up for classes, and searched out a reasonably priced apartment in a safe building. The city was amazing, especially the campus, and it was refreshing not to have to live his life constantly second-guessing every decision he made, terrified there would be repercussions. Still, looking over his shoulder and jumping at his own shadow were bad habits that took longer to break, even with the counseling he’d received on campus. And every once in a while, he’d wake up covered in sweat, throat hoarse from screaming, pulling free from a nightmare where Bruce and Tuan had found him.
Turning off the water, Shannon reached for a towel, dried off, then knotted the cloth at his hip. Wiping the steam off the mirror, he stared at his reflection, eyes lingering on the slight indentation above his left cheekbone—just one of many scars left behind to remind Shannon of the three years he’d spent with Bruce. “Stop it, Shan. Don’t go there.”
He quickly dressed, shuffled into the kitchen, and filled the electric teakettle with water, flipping it on and pulling a mug from the cabinet and the tin of chamomile tea. It seemed to take forever for the water to boil—probably because he stood over it, so he could flip it off the second the water started rolling, certain the loud beep that came with the heat would wake Taylor. Steaming mug of put-me-to-fucking-sleep goodness in hand, Shannon curled up on the couch with the latest copy of OUT magazine, flipping through the pages until his eyes started drooping. The lethargy came on so quickly that he didn’t even bother turning the lamp off, just curled up under the comfy blanket and drifted toward a memory he wished he could forget.
***
Shannon heard the key in the door, but he didn’t dare move. Legs locked, he stood staring out at the lights of the city, so alive and vibrant with the deep, blue background that shrouded Seattle as the sun set. The view from the penthouse was spectacular, but it was hard to see beauty when he was almost constantly locked up in his gilded cage. He could hear the faint sounds of revving engines, the blare of horns, life continually moving around him while he stood still, almost dormant.
He could see Bruce’s reflection in the glass as the man closed the space between them, a bouquet of black magic roses in one hand, a small, gold gift bag in the other. A slight shift of his eyes showed his reflection and the bruising on the left side of his face. The color of the fresh, stinging wound vied with the deep crimson that bled into the black-tipped petals of the flowers in the same hand that had knocked him on his ass the night before.
Deep, even breaths kept him steady on his feet. The pain inhabiting almost every inch of Shannon’s body kept his mind clear. How much longer could he endure the sharp sting he’d come to equate with love? Hell, he could fade into the wallpaper, being seen but not heard, and probably still draw his lover’s wrath. Lover, my ass! Shannon nearly forgot himself and snorted.
His attempt to remain still, almost lifeless, was thwarted when Bruce stepped up behind him and reached around his body, holding the stunning arrangement of roses in front of him. Shannon shivered involuntarily, his body remembering the pain from the previous night, his muscles quivering from fear where once, not so long ago, his limbs had shaken with anticipation. Bruce’s reflection smiled at him tenderly. “I know darling. I missed you today as well, and I’m sorry we quarreled last night.”
Somehow, Shannon managed a small smile, taking the offered flowers. “Thank you. They’re beautiful,” he whispered, his throat still sore, the skin around his neck still carrying the imprint of Bruce’s fingers from their “quarrel” the night before.
“Here, this is for you as well.” The gold gift bag dangled from Bruce’s fingers. As soon as Shannon took the bag, Bruce snapped his fingers. “Tuan, come put these in water.” He snatched the bouquet, turning and walking across the room.
Shannon’s eyes met Tuan’s in the glass, the look of contempt he saw in Bruce’s henchman’s dull eyes not surprising. Taking the flowers, Tuan disappeared down the long hallway. “Put them in the antique red Baccarat Crystal vase,” Bruce called out, turning and winking at Shannon.
Shannon averted his gaze, concentrating instead on the bag, moving the tissue paper aside and g
ently lifting the black, felt box out. Pushing the lid back, he gasped. An exquisite black and gold watch sat nestled on a tiny black pillow. “Bruce, I…wow, it’s…” He didn’t know what to say. Part of him truly loved the gift—the part of him that still truly loved the man that gave it to him. Or at least the man Shannon had thought he was. Then there was the part of him that was disgusted and repulsed, something deep inside him trying to claw its way out.
“Here, let me.” Bruce removed the watch from the box, sliding it onto Shannon’s wrist. When he looked up and their eyes met, he saw fresh tears in Bruce’s obsidian gaze. The man was a world-class actor. Gently, with more tenderness than he’d shown Shannon in months, Bruce brushed his knuckles over his cheek. Ironically, it was the same hand that had caused the damage to his face. “I really am sorry, darling. I promise you. It’s the last time, okay?”
Shannon nodded, though he knew it was a damn lie. And when Bruce pushed him back onto the bed, entering him slowly, playing his body like a broken-in guitar, Shannon hated himself for enjoying it.
***
Jolting awake, Shannon sat up quickly, his hand going to his wrist, certain he could still feel the weight of the watch there. He held his breath for a moment, listening to see if he’d woken Taylor up, but all he heard was a soft hum coming from the fridge. Lying back, he stretched his long legs out, resting them on the arm of the couch. He sighed, closed his eyes, and remembered that night. It was the beginning of the end for them—the last time he could remember feeling any love from or for Bruce. His promise that it wouldn’t happen again lasted for six whole days, just long enough for Shannon to stupidly start to believe him and let his guard down. After that, there were no reprieves, no more empty promises.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever said this, but…thank you, God, for giving me the strength to break free,” Shannon whispered. He hadn’t prayed in…he couldn’t remember how long. But it was only by the grace of God that he’d managed to keep his wits about him long enough to get away from that life in Seattle. And his guardian angel had been working overtime, keeping him safe in his new home. By now, Bruce must have moved on, found someone new to break. He sent another thought up to the heavens, a silent one, praying that whoever was stuck under his abusive ex’s thumb would find some peace like he did.
Chapter Four
Rory 2014
“I am so done with all this rain. It’s like a goddamn Twilight movie, minus the sparkling vampires and the hot wolf shifters usually running around half-naked.” Rory kicked his black rain boots off, dropping the matching raincoat onto the floor beside them. They were soaked, as was he, to the bone, shivering and dripping on the carpet.
Connie shoved past him, ignoring his cursing protests at being manhandled. “Forks isn’t far from here, ya know. You could drive up and do one of those Twilight tours they do there.”
“Fuck. You.”
She snorted. “Unless you grew a pussy since I last checked, ain’t happening, partner.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Consuela?” Her head snapped up and if looks could kill, he’d be lying on the floor beside his sopping wet rain gear, lifeless. A string of curses the likes of which would make a sailor blush flew from her mouth, a mangled mess of English and Spanish, followed by a purple Wellie that hit the wall when he ducked into the bathroom to shower. He and Gonzales had been in Seattle for a few weeks now, and he was pretty damned sure that it’d been raining nineteen of the twenty-one days.
Another missing persons case had caught Connie’s attention, the details eerily similar to the unsolved murder back in 2005 that had been linked to the 2006 disappearance of Howard Tullor Junior.
Eight years later, young Howard was still missing, and Grandpa Dickweed was still halfway up the director’s ass, pissed because the FBI hadn’t found his grandson yet. So all Rory and Connie had to do was say the words “Tacoma” and “Tullor” in the same sentence, and they were on the next plane to Washington.
Cummings was shadowing both Frank and Taylor, and an agent that just came back off maternity leave was covering Gonzales with Valerie and Charles Stone. As far as Taylor and his parents knew, Marta was visiting her family in Mexico through the end of the year. The three of them had been assigned to Frank, Taylor, and the Stones for eight years, and there hadn’t been any problems. Rory was starting to think that the unsub responsible for murdering Taylor’s parents was in the wind for good. There’d been talk around the office back at Quantico of them being reassigned, but the director assured them that it wasn’t happening. The orders came from higher up the food chain, and that was disconcerting as well.
Three years into the assignment, Rory had approached the director to try and obtain more information from the guarded, secretive man. At the very least he, Connie, and Blair wanted more detailed information as to why they were shadowing the Langford family and Frank Moore. They weren’t politicians or high society; not one of the four led any kind of life that would warrant protection from the FBI. The director would only tell Rory everything he’d said before: Emily and Sean Langford had popped up in certain circles that were monitored by the Bureau and had thus drawn the director’s attention. Their killer could still go after the surviving son, and therefore, anyone close to Taylor Langford was in danger as well. It was the same response Rory had been given since the day he, along with Connie and Blair, had been given the assignment. The director glaring at him and telling him to shut the fuck up and do his goddamn job caught him off guard—he didn’t know where the anger was coming from. A quick, “Yes sir” and a nod of his head had appeased the man. Stalling was a man of few words, something Rory was used to by now. The flash of anger in his eyes and harsh tone, however, were not the norm for his boss. Unanswered questions still brimmed beneath the surface that Rory vowed to uncover eventually.
He was in and out of the shower within five minutes, beyond done with being wet—so done in fact, that he blow-dried his hair. Dressed in sweats, a hoodie, and thick, wool socks, he headed toward the kitchen of the house the Bureau had rented for him and Gonzales, the smell of fresh coffee making him smile.
“Puto gilipollas,” Gonzales snarled at him when he entered the kitchen.
“I am truly amazed that some classy broad hasn’t snatched you up and made an honest woman of you yet,” he teased, filling a mug and taking a few moments to inhale the rich aroma before sliding into the chair at the long dining table across from Gonzales. “What’s all this?”
She was scribbling something onto a notepad, holding up a finger, thankfully not the middle one. “Okay.” She set the pen down and rummaged through a stack of files, pulling three out and handing them to him. “I put in a request a few days ago for any case files that held similarities between the Tullor and Helms cases. Officer Mills delivered them while you were in the shower.”
Rory took the files and set them down, taking a sip from his mug and sighing contentedly. Connie shoved the papers in front of her aside, pulling a laptop from her messenger bag and flipping it open. “Are these the only three you think might be linked to Tullor and Helms?”
“So far, yes, but I’ve got about a dozen more files to go through.”
“Holy shit, really? How many did Mills bring over?” He opened the file on top of the few she’d handed him and skimmed through the report.
“Twenty. And that’s just the ones that he got hits off within the parameters I gave him. I’m quite certain there’d be more if I broadened the descriptives we’re searching for.” She sighed.
By the time they’d gone over each file in the box, there were nine that could possibly be linked to the ongoing investigation. There were nine young men: four unsolved murders, and five missing persons, their pictures spread across the hardwood table. “Jesus, Connie. There is a very real possibility that there is a predator here in Washington, preying on young men.”
“Or in Oregon. Remember, the body of Mitchell Helms was found in…” She reached for her notepad, flipping through
the pages. “Ah, here it is. Macleay Park in Portland, Oregon,” Connie reminded him. “Wait a minute.” Brows furrowed, she reached for her laptop, typing furiously.
“What, did you find something?” Rory circled the table, coming up behind her. He leaned over her shoulder to read what she was typing into her Internet browser search engine. “Sauvie Island, what’s that?”
“It’s in Oregon—the largest island along the Columbia River. There was something—back in 2010, I think it was—a boy went missing.” She hammered at the keys, screens popping up left and right as Gonzales navigated through them quickly, and Rory did his best to keep up with her.
“ ‘Portland man, 18, drowns near Sauvie Island.’ Interesting. I’ll bookmark this one and come back.” Connie exited the screen, pulling up the next one.
“ ‘Stepmother of missing Portland boy, Kyron Horman moves to California.’ Yes! That’s the one, but where’s the story on his disappearance?” She skimmed through the article, clicking on a link at the bottom of the page.
“ ‘Kyron Horman search expands to include Sauvie Island.’ ” Rory read the title of the article. “Okay, so do you think a four-year-old case involving a missing second-grader is tied to our two cases?”
She shook her head, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest. “No, I honestly don’t think the Horman case is our unsub. Our guy likes them a smidge older. But it’s odd and worth more than a cursory look, when you think about it.” Unfolding her arms, Gonzales went back to the previous article about the drowning. “Now, this one—I’ll call for the files on this case because he’s the right age. It may or may not link back to our unsub, but the geographic location and age of the victim fit our parameters.”