by T. M. Smith
He wasn’t one for grand romantic gestures, Rory and Shannon both knew that, but he also understood the gravity of what he was asking. “Hey, look at me.” Rand took Rory’s face in his hands and kissed him. “I love you, Rory Landers. Will. You. Marry. Me?” He enunciated each word, looking into green eyes brimming with tears.
Nodding, Rory kissed him then Shannon. “Yes.”
“Yeah, well you just remember who said yes first.” Shannon quipped, squealing when Rory reached over and pinched his nipple. This was it, this was how life was going to be for the next sixtysomething years. And Rand wouldn’t have it any other way.
Fighter (Book 3)
Dedication and smarts have given Blair Cummings a leg up in the Bureau. His job is all-consuming but rewarding. It doesn’t leave much time for a love life though, not that Blair believes in love. In his early thirties, he’s only ever been in one long-term relationship due to his inability to commit to anything other than his job and his family.
Born into a family that’s as successful as they are hateful, Howard Manning Tullor Junior ran so far away from his last name that he wound up in the arms of Satan himself. Freedom comes at a high price but it’s one Mannie is willing to pay, setting him on a path that leads him to a quiet, laid-back FBI agent.
Their attraction is unexpected, and yet, welcomed. Blair seems to have finally found something worth fighting for, but Mannie, still haunted by ghosts of the past, wonders if he’ll ever be able to move on. The two are working toward their future, but can a budding romance survive when past and present collide?
Copyright
Howard Miller Clocks – Jose Cuervo – CNN – Uber – Whataburger – Dr Pepper (Keurig) – Starbucks – Patrón – Chili’s – Miss Congeniality – Moët & Chandon – Drakkar Noir – 1-800-Flowers – Edwin McCain/ “I’ll Be” – Doc Martens (Dr. Martens) – Coke (The Coca-Cola Company) – Texas Rangers – Atlanta Braves – Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen – Six Flags Hurricane Harbor – Star Wars – David Garrett/ “Clair de Lune” – Journey/ “Faithfully” – Ziploc – Men in Black – Dodge Charger – Mariah Carey/ “All I Want for Christmas Is You” – The Fisherman’s Restaurant and Bar Seattle, WA – Walmart – Judge Dredd – redbox (Apollo Global Management) – Tiki torch (TIKI brand) – Ray-Ban (Luxotica Group SpA) – Town Car (Lincoln, Ford Motor Company) – Styrofoam (Dow)
Definition of terms
diablo – (Spanish) – devil, demon
ay, Dios mío – (Spanish) – oh, my God
dolor en mi culo – (Spanish) – pain in my ass
Dedication
In loving memory of Lucian Liam O’Corvi
If I should go tomorrow,
It would never be goodbye,
For I have left my heart with you,
So don’t you ever cry.
The love that’s deep within me,
Shall reach you from the stars,
You’ll feel it from the heavens,
And it will heal your scars.
If I Should Go – Author unknown
Prologue
Mannie/Junior
Winter 2008
Heart pounding in his chest, Junior rummaged through the small closet in the room he’d come to think of as his cell. “Where are you?” His hands shook as he knocked several shirts from their hangers, sighing in relief when he found his ratty backpack stuffed in a box in the corner. Riffling through the contents, he checked the inside zipper pocket to find the prepaid cell phone and several hundred dollars still safely tucked away. When he bent to pick up the clothes that had fallen, he dropped to his knees. “Breathe Junior, just breathe.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his rapidly beating pulse. “In, out, in, out,” he murmured. Hyperventilating really wouldn’t help his situation, and he knew time was against him. He’d patiently waited the last six months for this opportunity to escape the abuse he’d lived with for years. Knowing the consequences of his plan—being discovered—was no longer a deterrent. Junior could either take his chances by attempting to flee and possibly get caught—or stay and continue to be broken down, beaten, and quite possibly, killed. There really was no choice.
He turned on the phone and pulled up the text thread with his best friend, Pete, the only person Junior had kept in contact with when he ran away from home and moved in with Bruce. Hell, it wasn’t like his family had even looked for him anyway, so fuck ’em. Junior paused, fingers hovering over the screen, and wondered if that was really true. TV was only allowed when he was watching with Bruce—only what his controlling lover wanted him to see—and newspapers were never brought into the condo. But if his family was trying to find him, wouldn’t they be able to investigate his disappearance and figure out where he was? “No. Stop it, Junior. You can think about all that later. Focus!”
There were two messages from Petey, the first asking if they were still a go, the second just three words:
Petey: Where are you?!?!
Hands shaking, he typed out a quick response:
Junior: Walking out in five, will call once the coast is clear.
Junior briefly entertained the still-small voice in his head. “You’re nothing without me. Do you hear me, Howard? Nothing!” His shoulders sagged. Bruce’s hateful banter made him cringe, and the man wasn’t even in the room. Over the past three years, the attorney had made it his life’s mission to figure out new ways to torture Junior. Was it ever love? he wondered. Probably not. More likely, an unwritten script for a horror movie. Emotional abuse and starvation were just the tip of the iceberg for the young lover of Bruce Pearson. From the start, he’d rejected Bruce using his given name, Howard. But the man had said it with so much love and desire, at least in the beginning, that Junior found himself liking the sound of it rolling off his lover’s tongue. Sitting on the closet floor, chest heaving as he fought to regain control of his emotions, he recalled how his dream became a nightmare.
Being the grandson of one of the most powerful judges in Washington wasn’t always a blessing. Junior had learned to defend himself against bullies that taunted him—the skinny, awkward grandson of the no-nonsense judge—before he was even a teenager. So when Bruce slapped him the first time, Junior hit back. The usually coiffed, buttoned-up attorney proceeded to beat the living shit out of him. Adding insult to injury, Bruce banished him to the guest room, which became his cell, for a week. Tuan, Bruce’s henchman, would waltz in a couple of times a day with a sandwich and water, slap him on the side of the head, and call him a dirty whore as he left the room, locking the door behind him. Why had he stayed so long? Why had he allowed himself to be abused both mentally and physically? To be degraded by a man that continually professed his love for him in one breath…then swore to kill Junior if he ever tried to leave with the next?
The Howard Miller grandfather clock in the hall chimed, the sudden noise reverberating off every flat surface in the condo, startling Junior from his thoughts. He was so frightened, he’d almost pissed himself. He hated that damn thing—it reminded him of the nearly identical one that sat in his grandfather’s Seattle estate. Exhaling a shaky breath and blinking back tears, he shook off the seeds of doubt Bruce had planted in his mind. Standing on quivering legs, he quickly made his way through the room, stuffing clothing, his phone charger, and a couple of books into the beat-up backpack. He was forced to face himself in the mirror when he flipped on the light in the bathroom, the fluorescent bulbs making the scratches and bruises on his face seem incandescent against his pale skin. He shoved his toothbrush and electric razor into the side pocket of the bag and hit the switch on the wall, painting the room in darkness once again so he could pretend the pounding in his head wasn’t from Bruce banging it against the headboard the previous evening as he took him from behind, spouting words of love and hatred in the same breath.
Moving quickly to the front door, Junior sucked in a gulp of air and reached for the latch, turning it and holding his breath as he peeked down the hall, only releasing it when he saw the coast was
clear. He sprinted to the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby as if he were an excited child, his pulse hammering in his ears, causing an almost deafening white noise as the numbers counted down excruciatingly slowly. One minute he was staring at the black steel, trying not to hyperventilate, and the next, he was standing on the wrong side of the large glass doors that promised freedom. The prospect of liberation danced through his veins like heroin, the thrill both terrifying and exhilarating. Certain he was mere steps away from deliverance, Junior quickly exited the building, taking a moment to acclimate to the ambient sounds of the city. His heart almost jumped out of his chest when a familiar hand grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the Town Car from hell, toward Bruce.
His life flashed before his eyes—so many avenues and opportunities he would miss. Junior could see the hatred and anger in Bruce’s obsidian gaze. There was no love, no kindness, and there would be no reprieve. “Stupid fucking whore,” Tuan growled into his ear before shoving him face first into the car. Tripping over his feet, he fell onto the floor, looking up at Bruce and praying. Not for forgiveness but for mercy, mercy from God, because there was only one thing Junior knew for certain: his attempt to escape prison had brought him that much closer to hell.
How? Biting down on his bottom lip, Junior cursed internally. He’d been diligent in keeping the phone and money tucked away, changing hiding places daily.
“Imagine my surprise, Howard, when Tuan brought your little stash of money to my attention.” Bruce’s nostrils flared as he snarled, spittle flying from his curled lips into Junior’s eye, causing him to squint. Junior didn’t see Bruce’s hand, but he felt it, the hard slap reawakening the pain still marring his cheek from the night before and knocking him on his ass. “Didn’t I tell you what I would do, Howard, if you ever tried to leave?” And then the fingers that had once gently caressed his cheek wrapped around his neck and squeezed, Bruce’s voice a low, alarming whisper in his ear as spots danced before his eyes. “I warned you, Howard.” It pissed him off that the last thing he would hear on this earth was the name he’d fought so hard to set himself apart from. A niggling thought hammered in his brain like a fucking army of ants. Fight back, you fool! But there was no fight left in him. Bruce had trained all defiance out of him long ago, and now he was going to follow through with his threat to kill him.
Chapter 1
Blair
Spring 2009
Yawning, Blair rolled over and stretched, his muscles protesting the movement, still sore from the nine hours spent working on the deck with his father the previous day. An offer to hire someone to complete the project was declined, his father asking that Blair take the time off and come for a visit so they could do it themselves. “Like old times. As I recall, you used to enjoy our projects around the house.”
The chill in the air prickled his skin and he pulled the blanket up to his neck, tucking one arm under his head as he lay there enjoying the calm, peaceful morning. A fox sparrow perched in the spruce outside his bedroom window sung a crisp, clear song, the rich, whistled notes making him smile. There were no birds making beautiful music outside his apartment back in Dallas. The aroma of black coffee wafted heavily through the house, piercing his senses with the smooth, savory scent of roasted beans. The invigorating odor drew him out of bed, and he threw on a T-shirt before grabbing his thick, flannel robe, pulling it on as he shuffled through the door and toward the stairs. Stopping in the doorway just outside of the kitchen, Blair leaned against the frame, watching his parents as they went about their usual morning routine. His mom’s long, strawberry-blonde hair fell over her shoulders in loose waves. She spoke softly, detailing her plans for the day while his dad nodded every few seconds, his eyes on the newspaper spread out along the wide island Blair had helped to build before they moved into the house. There were no guns or criminals, no chaos which had become the norm in his life since graduation and taking a position within the FBI. It was just a boring, simple day and he welcomed it.
“Blair, sweetie, good morning.” His mom waved him into the kitchen, already pouring him a steaming mug of thick, brown amazingness. She slid the cup over to him, patting his hand before turning back to the stove. “Food’s almost ready—you two need to fill your bellies before you start working on the deck. You should be done today though, don’t you think, Lewis?”
Again, his dad simply nodded, eyes on the newspaper, an almost inaudible “Uh-huh” his only response. Clearing her throat, his mom waited for her husband to look up, giving him a playful but stern glare. “Yes, Judy darling, we are almost finished.” Lewis Cummings snapped the newspaper in his hands, giving his wife a one-eyed, playful glare and receiving a sterner one in response. Judy Cummings, former teacher turned part-time librarian, had mastered the art of the arched-eyebrow stare and could make politicians divulge state secrets, were she inclined to do so.
He held the ceramic mug in his hands, inhaling deeply the delicious aroma before taking a long swig, then sighing. “You make the best coffee, Mama.”
“Thank you, sweetie. Here you go.” She put a plate down in front of him and set his dad’s on top of the newspaper. Apparently, she thought this was their last meal, considering the mountain of food she’d prepared. Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, sourdough toast, and a mix of fresh fruits were piled high on each plate. “I’m headed to the farmer’s market in about an hour and down to the seafood market for some fresh shrimp. You boys need anything while I’m out?”
“Beer,” the Cummings men said in unison.
“Well, that’s a given.” She snorted as she opened the dishwasher and began loading the dishes from the sink.
Lewis whistled, then growled playfully at the sight of Judy shaking her butt as she bent to set a plate in the rack. “Ewwww. No. Stop it, now!” Blair mock-gagged. His parents were on the opposite side of fifty and had been married for more than thirty years, and as far as he could tell, they were eternally in the honeymoon phase. Always affectionate and rarely angry with one another, he found his parents to be role models for a happy marriage.
Cackling, his dad smacked him hard on the back. “Really, Son? You do know how you and your sister got here, right?”
Blair covered his ears and shook his head, trying to erase that mental picture. “Shut up or I’m leaving and you can finish that damn deck by yourself.” Thankfully, before Lewis could form a rebuttal, Blair’s work cell rang.
Pulling the phone from the pocket of his robe, Blair mouthed, Just a sec, and quickly walked into the den, closing the doors behind him. “Agent Landers, what’s up?”
Rory’s nasal West Virginia tone blasted through the earpiece, and Blair winced, pressing the volume button until his partner’s timbre was less of a wailing shout. “How many times must I tell you to call me Rory?”
“Sorry, Rory. What’s up?” Blair stifled a laugh when Rory groaned. The two men were roughly the same age, but the case they were working had Blair taking on the persona of Kian Douglas, an eighteen-year-old high school student that was about to graduate with honors and head off to college with a baseball scholarship. Rory, who was more in the shadows than Blair was, played the part of a flamboyant, eccentric flight attendant.
“I need to go over some scheduling changes with you. There may be some conflicts, so we need to get this ironed out now.” Blair listened as Rory detailed the specifics, pulling his personal cell from his other pocket and opening the calendar app to type in the details and dates Rory gave him. Of course everything he entered into the device didn’t appear as entered; they had an algorithm of number sequences they used for dates and a list of handles committed to memory for people and places—protocol for devices outside of secured channels.
Leaning against the counter, his mother grabbed her mug and eyed him warily when he came back into the kitchen. “A work call? Do you have to go home so soon?” Concern and trepidation were evident in his mother’s voice. Blair circled the island, pulled her into his arms, and hugged her, bending down to acc
ommodate her five-foot frame. She was small and almost fragile to the naked eye. But damn, the woman was scrappy. It had been Judy, not Lewis Cummings, that taught an eleven-year-old Blair how to shoot, the two of them “bonding” at the gun range while his hormones ran wild between the ages of ten and thirteen. At that time, he was still her size, but somewhere between junior high and high school he hit a growth spurt, and in less than a year he went from five foot seven to six foot two. Blair’s body may have bloomed early, but his looks remained youthful. In fact, it was his appearance that initially brought him to the Bureau Director’s office to interview for the assignment he was currently working. Not many twenty-five-year-olds could pass for seventeen—not within the FBI, at least.
“No, Mom. You’re stuck with me for a few more days.”
Smiling, she took a step back and waved him away. “Okay, finish your breakfast before it’s ice-cold, Blair.”
As soon as he was seated beside his dad, he could tell the man was up to something from the sly grin on his face. Looking down at his plate, Blair couldn’t help but notice the bacon he still smelled in the cool, crisp air was missing. Slowly, he turned wide eyes in his father’s direction. “Why you dirty, rotten bacon thief.”
Lewis leaned back in his chair and laughed. The sound was boisterous and oddly calming at the same time; eyes that were somewhere between gray and blue danced with mirth. All Blair could do was shake his head and smile. Once dark-blond hair that used to be tipped in silver was now more white than yellow, Blair noted, studying his father’s features. Deep wrinkles had set in around his eyes and mouth, signs of a man that both squinted and smiled a lot. A loud bang from the front of the house caught him off guard and Blair jumped, body tensing as he quickly stood, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. His three-year-old nephew bounded down the hall, shrieking when he saw Blair, arms wide as the toddler launched himself at Blair. “Unca Bear!” Timothy shouted, clapping his small, meaty hands.