by Lisa Gray
He answered. “Hello.”
“Mr. Quinn? This is Madeleine Prendergast. I’m calling to see if you’ve settled in yet.”
So, no getting out of the deal—looked like he was stuck here. “Yeah, I’m fine.” As an afterthought, he added, “Thanks.”
“Excellent. I assume Keir introduced himself and discussed the association rules with you?”
“Keir?”
“Keir Moreau hasn’t visited you yet?” She sounded displeased.
“Oh, him. Of course.” So that was the man’s name. It suited him. “We just didn’t get on a first name basis.”
“Oh. How unfortunate. I assumed you two would hit it off, given that you’re both…well, you know…”
He did know, but was tempted to make it hard on her by asking if she meant they were both U.S. citizens or both mammals or both walked on two legs, which in his case, was questionable. But in no mood to prolong the conversation, he let her off the hook. “You mean we’re both gay?”
“Exactly!” The clueless woman sounded relieved he’d gotten the answer right.
In truth, Riley was relieved, too. In addition to now knowing the name of the man he’d so blatantly insulted, he also had confirmation of sexual preference. Just for fun, he longed to ask her whether Keir was a top or a bottom. But the woman might just have a stroke. “Well, I’ll be sure to keep you updated if there’s any progress in that area, ma’am.”
A slight silence followed that remark. Maybe she wasn’t as dense or as immune to sarcasm as he thought.
“I see. Well, I just wanted to welcome you and urge you to read the association bylaws. A little care and attention to the rules can do wonders to help you fit in with the community. If you can’t reach Keir, do feel free to call me. But try him first. He’s the board member assigned to help you.”
“Oh. That’s good to know.” His quarry had been assigned to him? New hope for fixing the whole mess was born. “But I’ve misplaced his phone number. Do you have it handy?”
“Of course.”
He grabbed a crumpled newspaper page from the wastebasket and fumbled for a pencil in the drawer of the end table. “Ready.” He jotted down the number she gave him, thanked her, and ended the call.
Progress indeed. He had a goal again. Along with a name and a phone number.
Tomorrow he’d launch Operation Make It Up To Keir.
How hard could that be?
Chapter 5
Keir quivered in shock, and a little guilt, as he turned away from the door. Slamming it had been more than rude. But he’d panicked. This wasn’t a random stranger reacting to a facial oddity. No. This man had made a special trip purposely to confront him. Just how dangerous was Riley Quinn?
While rubbing his cheek, he paused the motion. The make-up was still on—the birthmark wasn’t even visible. So what was the guy’s problem?
Tired of trying to puzzle out the odd behavior, Keir emptied his briefcase onto the dining room table and straightened the pile of quizzes he’d brought home to grade. He considered making dinner, but food just didn’t appeal. His stomach was still twisting from the unpleasant meeting with the academy’s headmaster, Dr. Rick Reynolds. That unfortunate interview still loomed large in his mind.
The last period of Keir’s day was a study hall. He’d snagged a teaching assistant to take over for him and had set out for the headmaster’s office, hoping the man would use his authority in Ethan’s favor.
Keir had gotten lucky upon arriving in the administration wing. The secretary, whose mission was to chase away anyone seeking access to her boss, was leaving the outer office just as Keir turned the corner into the hallway. He’d feigned deep interest in the bulletin board notices until she’d passed him. Then he’d ducked into Dr. Reynolds’ private sanctum. “Excuse me, sir, I’d like a word with you.”
The headmaster looked up and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe we have an appointment, Mr. Moreau. Check with my secretary about scheduling one.” He peered toward the outer office, looking confused about how Keir had gotten past his watchdog.
“Mrs. Fielding isn’t at her desk, and what I need to discuss is time-sensitive. It concerns the welfare of a student.”
Obviously annoyed at having been outmaneuvered, the headmaster gestured to the stiff, straight-backed chairs. “Very well, what is it?”
Keir sat, convinced the uncomfortable seats had been chosen to discourage lingering. “I gave my classes a journaling assignment—an exercise in putting their inner thoughts on paper.”
The headmaster tapped his fingers on the desktop. “I’m well aware of what journaling is. Please get on with it.”
“Of course. One of the students, Ethan Bradford, wrote about his parents’ plan to put him through conversion therapy at their church during the break. I tried talking to him about it after class, but he just dodged my question. I think he regrets telling anyone about it.”
“Then there’s your answer. It’s a private matter that should stay within the Bradford family.”
“But the boy is terrified. And for good reason.” Keir dug his fingers into the arms of the chair to ground himself. “Those programs…you have no idea what they’re like. They can be brutal, humiliating. They can damage a child, especially one as sensitive as Ethan.” He blinked back the moisture in his eyes and pleaded, “You have to prevent this from happening.”
“Nonsense. I’ve known the Bradfords for years—their two older boys both graduated from here. Trust me, they would never do anything that could hurt their son.” He folded his arms and frowned at Keir. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”
“No, sir, I assure you I’m not.” Keir didn’t want to go down this path, but if he had to…“I know from personal experience just how traumatic this kind of program can be.”
“Do you indeed? You’ve taken part in this local church’s program? In recent years? Here in America?” Dr. Reynolds was aware Keir’s childhood had been spent in a dozen countries, wherever his father’s diplomatic duties were needed. Apparently the man believed bad things happened on foreign soil, but not at home. In a more conciliatory tone, the headmaster added, “Your concern for your students is laudable, but I’m certain Ethan will be perfectly safe. Maybe a bit uncomfortable, but truly, how difficult could it be?”
Right at that moment, Keir couldn’t explain further. The words wouldn’t form on his lips to describe what had been done to him all those years before.
Dr. Reynolds took advantage of Keir’s silence to lean forward and level a flinty stare at him. “I don’t see a problem here. Do you?”
The chill in the man’s look had Keir shrinking back in his chair. He cleared his throat and whispered, “No, sir.”
“Excellent. I would be exceedingly annoyed if two of our most generous and loyal contributors believed an overzealous instructor was questioning their parenting skills.” The implied threat was clear. The headmaster returned his attention to the open file on his desk. “This meeting is over. Next time, make an appointment.”
Time to admit defeat. Keir had left without another word and headed home.
Appealing to the headmaster had been a waste of time, so where did he go next? Too depressed at the memories of his fruitless interview, he gave up trying to grade the tests. He’d do them in the morning after a good night’s sleep.
It wasn’t, however, until hours later that exhaustion overcame his ceaseless brooding about his past and Ethan’s future. He fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * * *
The next morning, Keir forced himself out of bed and prepared for work. On his way out the front door, a folded note dropped from where it had been stuck inside the frame. Not sure he was ready to deal with whatever this was, Keir hesitated before setting down his briefcase and picking up the note.
I’m really not as big an asshole as I seem. Give me a chance to explain.
It was signed Riley Quinn, with a phone number scrawled underneath. Keir’s first instinct was to crumpl
e the note and fling it into the shrubbery. But he’d just have to fish it out later and dispose of it properly—Huntington Hill prided itself on tidy hedges. Instead, he tucked it into his pocket to deal with later and headed for the academy.
Keir stumbled through his classes, offering uninspired, stilted lectures followed by independent study time. He regretted short-changing his students that way, but worry and lack of sleep had stretched him to his limit. When fifth period—Ethan’s class—arrived, Keir tried to ease the boy’s mind. He quietly assured him if Ethan wanted to talk, Keir was available. Ethan seemed relieved, but his eyes still held shadows.
After seeing how withdrawn and tentative Ethan was during class, Keir just couldn’t abandon the search for help. Despite his exhaustion, he again persuaded a teaching assistant to cover the last period and caught the bus to the county building downtown. A young woman at the reference desk gave him directions, and in a few minutes, he entered the Child Welfare Department, engulfed in noise—a dozen conversations buzzed, file drawers slammed, and phones rang.
A harried-looking Latina woman glanced up from her desk. “You lost, honey?”
“No. I’m here to report child abuse.”
The woman heaved a deep sigh, snagged a form out of a bin on the corner of her desk, and approached him. She pulled a pen from behind her ear and handed it to him, along with the form. “Have a seat. Usually the police are contacted first, and then they refer the case to us. But fill this out anyway. Be as specific as you can—when, who, where, what, how long it’s been going on. Everything you know.”
“Well, nothing’s happened.”
Her hard, skewering look nearly had him fleeing. “You wanna explain or just leave?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do. I’m a teacher, and one of my students is facing conversion therapy. He’s a minor, and his parents are forcing him into it. Do you know what conversion therapy is?”
She snorted, although Keir thought she might rather have spit on the floor. “Yeah. We get quite a few LBGT kids through here. Who’s performing it?”
“The Christian Outlook Church near Huntington Hill.”
“I haven’t run into them yet. We get mostly local preachers flinging fire and brimstone at these kids. Pious ass-hats with egos the size of Minnesota.”
Keir agreed. He remembered the Bible verses being shouted in his ear, pithy little homilies from a merciful god, delivered along with pain and degradation.
“Look, hon, I can’t do anything about this until it happens. Probably not even then. Conversion therapy isn’t illegal in this state. Besides, we’ve got a four-month backlog of cases where parents have beaten their kids, burned them, put them out on the street to turn tricks. Honestly, their cases take precedence. The best you can do is go talk to the parents. Maybe they’d listen to some informed advice before giving their kid over to one of those bastards.”
Keir stood, feeling more helpless than ever. “Well, thanks anyway.”
She gave him a vague wave over her shoulder as she returned to her desk.
Keir rode the bus to Huntington Hill and trudged home from the bus stop, each step slower and heavier than the last.
When he finally made it to his front door, he saw a small package on the doorstep. Again? Too tired to care if it was wise or not, he brought it inside and unwrapped it.
Toffee. The terribly expensive, amazing toffee from the organic market.
It was still in its original sealed packaging, but should he trust it? A moment later, he was savoring the smooth and crunchy goodness of sugar and butter, covered in a thick layer of the finest dark chocolate. Bliss. He retrieved the note attached to the box,
How about a bribe?
He couldn’t help but smile.
That lightened mood carried him into the kitchen, where he sliced an apple, some aged cheddar, and made a cup of chamomile tea. He loaded it all on a tray, including the toffee, and carried it to his bedroom, where he devoured it all. Almost asleep on his feet, he barely made it through brushing his teeth. As he slid into bed, his last conscious thought was to wonder if ignoring Riley Quinn would make the man give up.
Somehow he didn’t think so.
Somehow he was okay with that.
Chapter 6
Wednesday, Riley watched from his spare bedroom, now dubbed his “lookout,” for Keir to leave for work. He snapped a few photos just out of habit, but none of them revealed anything more than a colorless mask. It was as if once Keir had covered his distinctive appearance and put on the suit, he disappeared into ordinary. Quite an effective disguise, because Riley was certain great depths lay hidden beneath that masquerade.
Once Keir had moved out of sight, Riley put away the camera and realized the highlight of his day was already over. Just why did the man fascinate him so much? Could be a diversion from his problems. Or guilt at having attacked an innocent. Or just a stubborn attempt to get a closer look at that birthmark. Maybe after he’d satisfied his curiosity, Riley would lose interest. Didn’t matter—he was hooked, at least for the moment.
Wondering what to do with the rest of his oh-so-busy day, Riley remembered the brochures. The farmer’s market might be a diversion. Not that cooking was his thing, especially vegetables. But if Keir liked the place, the visit might reveal another facet of the man’s character. He chuckled at his own foolishness. Veggie shopping? Really? Oh, yeah, he was hooked.
He took a cab to the market and wandered through the stalls of early spring vegetables, surprised to be enjoying the fresh air and the sounds of recipes and local gossip being exchanged. The vibrant colors and dewy freshness of the produce were quite appealing. He should start eating better; at least that’s what the physical therapist always advised. He groaned as he remembered he had an appointment with her the next morning. Which meant when he got home after her relentless pummeling, he’d be out of commission for the rest of the day. Just thinking about it made his leg throb. Deciding he’d had enough fun for one day, he quickly purchased a few items and called for another cab.
On the way home, he had the driver stop at a sub shop, where he bought enough food to feed himself for that day and the next. No way would he be walking after his therapy appointment. When the cab dropped him off, he crossed the street and set the bag of produce on Keir’s front porch.
He had to chuckle. Just what the man would create using rhubarb, asparagus, honey, and some green leaves called “chard,” he had no idea. But he hoped to find out. He fished in his pockets and found a pen and the receipt for the sandwiches. On the back of the receipt, he wrote, “Would it be dangerous to mix all this together?” and left the note tucked into the asparagus.
After he ate, he took up position in his lookout and waited for Keir to get home. The man was on time, unlike the night before, but he didn’t look any happier. His shoulders slumped, and the way he carried the slender briefcase made it look like it weighed fifty pounds.
Riley snapped a few photos, using his long lens to zero in as best he could. He still hated the look of the heavy make-up Keir hid behind. But to be truthful, Riley took a secret pleasure in knowing the mark couldn’t be seen by just anybody—he wanted it to be for his eyes only.
Through the camera lens, he watched with anticipation as Keir lifted the bag of produce and held it gingerly like it might blow up. Riley snickered. The contents couldn’t be too much of a mystery, not with rhubarb stalks sticking out the top.
Keir turned to gaze across the street, a small smile on his lips. Despite the distortion of those ridiculous thick glasses, it looked like he was staring straight at Riley. At least that’s what Riley wanted to believe. A moment later, the man disappeared inside.
Riley stayed for a minute, waiting, his camera pointed at the windows of the condo. And there it was. He snapped a series of images as Keir looked out, then lowered the blinds in the living room window.
A twinge of conscience pricked him at the telephoto surveillance. He defended himself, admitting it might seem li
ke stalking, but it was perfectly legal—and acceptable—to take photos as long as there was no actual trespassing. Yeah, maybe if he told himself that a few more times, he’d end up believing it. Sighing, he envisioned a future career as a soulless paparazzi, chasing celebrities and making their lives hell. Horrified at the thought, he grimly reminded himself his bum leg had at least saved him from sinking that low.
Ignoring the persistent nudge of guilt, he spent the evening searching the Internet for information on Keir. The man had kept a low profile himself, but the gossip sites about his parents were rich with news. Keir’s father was a famous ambassador, valued for his diplomatic magic of wading into full-blown wars and coming out with both sides eager to seek peace. The mother had won two Pulitzer Prizes for writing, but her worldwide accolades didn’t mention anything about devotion to her introverted son. No wonder Keir had issues. Riley printed out page after page and taped them up around the photos he’d already collected of Keir. The wall was turning into quite the display.
The next morning, he was on his way to his physical therapy appointment before Keir had even raised the living room blinds. Deprived of his daily fix of checking in—okay, spying—on his neighbor, Riley amused himself in the waiting room by devising more and more outrageous ways he could make contact with the reclusive man.
Glancing at a newspaper left on the coffee table, he read the headline.
Kidnap Victim Found Safe
Oh, what an idea—just perfect! He pocketed the newspaper as the nurse called him for his appointment. He’d work on it later, way later—after a handful of pain pills and a long nap.
* * * *
At home, he woke in the early evening, feeling better, at least good enough to eat his leftover sandwich from the day before. Once he’d finished, he gathered the newspaper, scissors, tape, and a blank piece of paper he’d snagged from the therapy office printer. With cut-out words and letters, he created his own ransom note: