Table of Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Don’t miss the first CalPac Crew novel
About the Author
Also from Dreamspinner Press
Also from Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
382 NE 191st Street #88329
Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Tipping the Balance
Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Koehler
Cover Art by Paul Richmond http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-61372-146-9
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
September 2011
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-147-6
To my parents,
because while they may
not have always understood,
they’ve always believed.
Acknowledgments
My husband, Burch Bryant Jr., continues to support my work and believe in my writing, and I’ll always be grateful for that. Our son thinks it’s pretty cool that his “Daddy made a book,” even if he won’t be old enough to read them for years to come. My parents, Paul and Roberta Koehler, were excited about Rocking the Boat enough to read it, even though they skipped certain scenes. My mom, as well as my sister-in-law, Beth Ward, liked it well enough that they keep asking about the sequel. Here it is. Writing would be a lot harder without my family’s love and support.
Various people generously shared their expertise with me, and once again, the rowing mafia came through. I’d like to thank Shep Harper for information about arson investigations and Erik Spiess, RN, for information about traumatic injuries and recovering from them. Any factual errors are entirely mine and in no way reflect on the information they gave me. Likewise, I’m pleased to acknowledge Brian Todd and the Gay and Lesbian Rowing Federation for their enthusiasm for my work and help promoting it to the rowing community.
Thanks, too, to Aimee Hasson and Matt Fuller for their information about what it is a real estate agent does besides “just sell houses.” Whatever errors and mischaracterizations there are belong to me alone.
Dahlia Adler Fisch and Burch Bryant Jr. read various drafts of Tipping the Balance and helped me catch all kinds of typos, plot holes, and inconsistent characterization. It would be a far poorer book without their efforts.
I talk shop almost every day with Z. A. Maxfield and Ellis Carrington, and our various conversations have taught me a lot about writing. Far more important than that, talking to them and to dear friends like Analisa Bevan, Matthew Carlton, and William Kilfoyle help keep me grounded in the world beyond Romancelandia’s borders.
Finally, I’d like to thank Elizabeth, Lynn, Gin, Mara, Ariel, and everyone else at Dreamspinner Press for their help, as well as Paul Richmond for his gorgeous cover art.
Author’s Note
The story starts not long after CalPac College let out for the summer, overlapping slightly with the end of Rocking the Boat.
Chapter One
“Are you sure you can’t get a general contractor’s license?” Drew said, wiping sweat out of his eyes.
“Did you just whine?” Nick said, grunting as he muscled a cherrywood cabinet into place. “Besides, what about the one you already work with?”
“Shut up. Bob’s great, but I’m getting tired of hiring an outside contractor so this work passes inspection, and anyway, you’d be cheaper,” Drew said. He set a level on the cabinet Nick had just installed and squinted at it as the bubbles moved sluggishly in the yellow fluid. “It’s not… quite… plumb.”
“How come you don’t have a contractor’s license?” Nick said, squatting down to tap a shim into place under the cabinet. Sweat soaked his shirt, as portable fans cooled the kitchen in theory only, but with the HVAC unit out, fans were all they could get in the summer heat.
Drew looked up from the level, struck once again by just how attractive his best friend was. Coaching the men’s crew at California Pacific College certainly encouraged Nick to keep himself fit—that, and his smokin’ hot boyfriend, Morgan. Some coaches let themselves go, but not Nick. Not for the first time, Drew found himself wishing they could’ve worked out, but they’d given that a whirl as undergraduates and both agreed they made better friends than lovers.
And what friends they were, pulling each other through hard times and celebrating the good. Drew had helped Nick win and keep Morgan. Nick worked like a dog all summer for Drew’s home renovation business. He was one of the few people Drew trusted besides himself to supervise each project from start to finish, the only other person whose eye for detail and quality touches matched his own. Nick treated the jobs done by St. Charles Renovations like it was his own name on the line, not Drew’s.
“Because getting my real estate license took all my time and money when I was younger, and now selling houses takes all my time,” Drew said. “The flipping was just a sideline, and now reno work for other people? It’s killing me, I tell you.”
“A sideline.” Nick snorted. “The best home flip in the area. Isn’t that what Sacramento Magazine named you this year? Spend the time on this it deserves and the St. Charles property empire could grow by leaps and bounds.”
“It still will. I like a challenge,” Drew said, grinning wolfishly. “Besides, sleep is for sissies.”
“You would know from sissies,” Nick said, watching Drew carefully to gauge the reaction, faintly disappointed when Drew barely even rolled his eyes. “Is it level?”
“Yes,” Drew said, straightening.
“Good, now you can use those over-gymmed muscles for something besides filling a polo shirt and help me hang the next cabinet. That’ll be the last of the uppers on this side of the kitchen. The guys can help me hang the rest later.”
“I can’t get too sweaty. I have to s
how houses this afternoon,” Drew said.
“Don’t worry, princess, you’ll still be the prettiest girl in the room,” Nick laughed. “I just need someone to steady it and hold it while I get it bolted to the cleats. The pilot holes have already been drilled.”
“Seriously, Nick, how am I going to replace you?” Drew said. “You’ll go back to coaching and your grad work all too soon, and I’ll lose my best crew leader.”
“I’m your only crew leader,” Nick pointed out.
Drew made a face. “Don’t remind me.”
“You and Renochuck have me for another two months, so make the most of it,” Nick said, “because after that I go back to just being your friend.”
“Renochuck?”
“That’s what Octavio and the guys call it,” Nick said.
“Some of them barely speak English, and they still came up with Renochuck,” Drew said, shaking his head. He wiped a speck of dirt off the rich red wood.
Nick eyed Drew askance as he bent over. “Bend from the hips, not your lower back.”
“Yes, Coach,” Drew sighed.
“Did you enjoy throwing your back out last fall?”
Drew smirked. “Oh hell yes, I had a fabulous time throwing my back out.”
Nick didn’t reply. He just glared at Drew, warm brown eyes to merry blue ones. “Did you enjoy the aftermath? No? Then do it my way. I do know something about bodies in motion, thank you very much.”
“Yeah, that’s what Morgan tells me,” Drew said.
“Hands on,” Nick said, loftily ignoring his friend. He squatted down and put one hand under the cabinet and used the other on top to steady it. “In three. One, two, and up!”
“Now I know,” Drew grunted out, “where that coxswain of yours gets his abrasive tone from.”
“No, that’s totally Stuart’s,” Nick said. “Besides, we’re crew. We’re not real bright, but we can lift heavy objects. Now, put those muscles to some use, Muscle Mary, and hold this steady while I drill it.”
“I’m sure you’re very good at drilling, seeing how much practice you’ve been getting,” Drew said, muscles of his arms and back straining to hold the cabinet in place as Nick hurried to secure it to the wall. Then he noticed something. “Why is the taller of the two of us the one who’s not holding this up?”
Nick grinned at him. “Because I’m the drilling expert, remember? There,” he said as he put the last bolt in. “That’ll hold it while I finish up. You can let go.”
Drew lowered his arms. “Seriously, how’s it going with you and Morgan?”
He pretended to listen as Nick rattled off a list of his boyfriend’s virtues, but Nick’s syrupy smile actually answered the question well enough. “I’m sorry, what’d you just say?”
“I asked if you were going to be around this weekend,” Nick said. “I’m meeting his parents for the first time, and I’m scared shitless. I’m hoping you’ll be around so I can send panicked text messages from the bathroom.”
“Meeting the parents? It must be serious,” Drew said, smiling.
“You know it. He’s it, the only one I’ll ever want,” Nick said.
“Some of us might like the chance to find that for ourselves, you know,” Drew said, pretending to be very interested in a small pile of loose screws.
“Aww, jeez, not Brad Sundstrom again. I keep telling you he’s straight,” Nick said.
“Just his phone—”
Nick put the drill down. “Look, Drew. You know I can’t give out his information without his permission. It’s a confidentiality issue, among other things. I was his coach, technically a college official. I can’t just hand out phone numbers like that.”
Drew knew all about Nick’s scruples, having listened to him endlessly gnaw his guts out about his interest in Morgan. He supposed he ought to be grateful to Morgan for taking matters into his own hands, if not because Morgan made Nick happy, then because it shut Nick up. “Then will you at least give him my number if he asks for it?”
“Drew—”
“C’mon, Nick. It’s a fair question. Don’t I at least deserve the chance to get shot down?”
“I just don’t want to see you hurt,” Nick said quietly.
“I’m a big boy, babydoll. I can take care of myself.”
“I know, and yeah, if he asks, I’ll pass your number on,” Nick said.
Drew looked at his watch. “Shit, it can’t be that late, can it?”
“It can be, yes. Late for the showings?” Nick asked.
“Just about. Everything looks great so far, but keep in touch, and let me know if you hear from the counter fabricators, will you?” Drew said, already heading for his car.
“Of course,” Nick said, picking up his drill.
Drew tried to mop the sweat off his brow as he rushed for his car but only succeeded in pushing it up into his brown locks. He had just enough time to run home and shower before he showed the first of the homes to his clients. Yeah, rummaging around in the dirt and sawdust probably wasn’t the best idea, but he couldn’t give up fixing up homes, he just couldn’t. What he hadn’t told Nick was that some days, he felt like he’d made a huge mistake in getting a real estate license instead of going directly into repair and improvement. Working his way through the building trades might’ve seemed strange after getting his bachelor’s degree in business, but it would’ve been handy when he got a contractor’s license. While he’d never wanted to be a designer, there was something almost magical about watching a dump of a home rise from the depths to become a showplace, limited only by budget and imagination. The cabinets with their reeded glass inserts, the soapstone counters that were supposed to have arrived last week, the reclaimed Indonesian teak floors covered with marine varnish to repel water, the lighting, all of the pieces fitted together like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle that only he could solve—that was why he couldn’t keep out of it.
But how—oh how—was he going to replace Nick?
Brad Sundstrom looked at the clock. My, how time flies. Those five minutes just raced by, he thought.
He sat at his desk in the sales office of a subdivision no one wanted to live in. Shitty little houses on tiny lots out in the middle of nowhere. As far as Brad could tell, Randall Sundstrom didn’t own the land between here and civilization, so this place wouldn’t serve as an anchor to further development. When he’d asked about this, his dad had just snapped, “You create the demand, son. You should know that. Build the houses and the rest will come.”
Come? They weren’t even breathing hard.
Brad glanced around the office, anything to relieve the tedium. There weren’t even games on the computer. He’d checked. There were two other empty desks for non-existent salespeople and a display of the entire subdivision with little plastic Monopoly houses on the few lots that had sold and the few more that had been built on but languished, unsold and unloved. The people who lived there were sure going to be pissed when this place went belly-up, which Brad figured would be sometime early the middle of next year, at the rate this place wasn’t selling. His dad would probably find a way to blame him for it too.
The view out the picture windows depressed him. Inexpensive landscaping had been slapped down to gussy up the parking area in front of the sales office, but beyond that was nothing but the seared brown fields of the Sacramento Valley in the middle of summer. Heat mirages shimmered in the air over the blacktop, making Brad’s battered Lexus waver and flicker in the midday heat, magnifying the scratches and dents the two Sundstrom boys had put in their mother’s old car since her death.
He flicked a bit of onion, fallen from the sandwich he’d picked up on the way in, off his desk. He’d learned the second day he’d worked out here in this godforsaken pit not to eat the burritos from the local stop-and-rob attached to the one gas station on the feeder road to the subdivision.
Brad put his long legs up on his desk. He couldn’t believe this was what his life had become. He’d graduated from CalPac over a month ago,
and the contrast was just killing him. He’d only dimly realized it at the time, but those five years at CalPac College had been the best years of his life. More or less out from under his father’s thumb, he’d been one of the big men on campus, literally and figuratively. Sure, there’d been classes to contend with, and Coach Bedford could be a real asshole when he wanted to be, but that had been part of the fun too.
He smiled for the first time in days. Crew really had been fun, maybe even what made the rest of school worth it. Despite the blood, sweat, and occasional tears, he’d never felt more alive. Even his rivalry with Morgan Estrada, which had led him to do the one thing he regretted in life, even that had been part of the experience. He’d lost. Morgan was stronger, maybe even the better oarsman, but even losing to Morgan had been as important to his experience as anything else. It meant something, he was sure. He just couldn’t figure out what. He and Morgan and the others had shared the big win at the Pacific Coast Rowing Championships, so even though his unofficial rivalry had come to nothing, his rowing experience had still meant something.
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