by Elle Keaton
Table of Contents
Dedication and Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Extra Content
Is the universe trying to tell Sacha Bolic something? A fire escape collapses from underneath him, he lands in crap, a killer barely misses his target... all in the same few seconds. That's on top of a long list of mishaps and job dissatisfaction. Not one to ignore signals when they're shoved in his face, Sacha retires and uses his savings to buy an old building in Skagit, Washington. With a little help from DIY videos, he’s going to bring it back to its former glory. And, yeah, it’s a metaphor. If he makes one change, others will follow…
Seth Culver avoids entanglement, romantic or otherwise. Who needs it? He’s learned the hard way that people betray you or leave. Still, Seth finds people compelling. He sort of collects them, learning their secrets before letting them go their own way. His commitment to no commitments may have met its match in Sacha. Handsome and hot, Sacha seems to offer a permanence that scares Seth more than anything ever has. Seth will have to decide if he’s going to grab life by the balls or keep watching from the sidelines.
A box of inconsequential belongings hidden for decades in the old building hints at lives imagined but not lived, reminding them both there are no guarantees in love or this thing called life.
A standalone in the Accidental Roots series. HEA, with hot men having hot sex. 18+ please.
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on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons
(living or dead), actual events, locales, or organizations is
entirely coincidental.
Dirty Dog Press
Seattle, WA 98125
As Sure as the Sun (Accidental Roots 4)
Copyright 2017 by Elle Keaton
Edited by Alicia Z. Ramos
ISBN:
Cover design: Cate Ashwood
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations for critical reviews and articles.
Ellekeaton.com
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Dedication and Acknowledgements
Thank you, everyone.
To my children, Zoë and Harper, who have been incredibly patient and encouraging through this endeavor, as well as being my most enthusiastic cheerleaders. I love you so much.
To my friends, who both vocally and silently support me.
To Erik, who is amazing.
To my editor, Alicia Ramos, who edited the heck out of this manuscript, checked facts, and made certain I didn’t stray too far. Any errors are mine alone. Alicia probably tried to talk me out of them, yet I insisted. Again and again.
Lastly and most importantly, thank you, readers, for actually wanting to read things I make up.
The town of Skagit and the wonderful people who inhabit it exist only in my imagination; any similarity to real people or places is coincidental.
This book is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.
This publication is intended for adults aged eighteen and over due to sexual content, language, and other matters adults are supposed to know about but most of us don’t.
The Shining, The Walking Dead, YouTube, Superman, The Fugitive, House Hunters is a copyrighted title/name that does not belong to me, and I thank the powers that be in advance for allowing my characters to use it as a reference.
Anyone I have neglected to acknowledge is my fault alone.
Thank you.
Elle
Dedication and Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Extra Content
One
Sacha: March, Kansas City, Missouri
“Bolic.”
Sacha glanced in the direction Rick was pointing. Their target slipped out from between some loose pieces of plywood covering the doorway, gesturing with his free hand while he talked on a cell phone. The man saw Sacha, and his eyes widened for an instant before he turned and bolted in the opposite direction.
Sacha took off after the government’s prize witness against the US boss of the Molejevic crime family, keeping his prey’s flashy red parka in view. He heard Rick shout something but couldn’t quite make out the words. As he ran, he gave thanks that Jacobsen looked like a Ross Dress for Less clearance rack had thrown up on him. He and Rick had spent two days freezing their asses off waiting for Jacobsen to show. No way was Sacha going to lose him now. His knee twinged, threatening retribution as he pushed himself faster; he ignored it.
Jacobsen was no Usain Bolt, but he knew the neighborhood better than Rick or Sacha, plus the streets were slick from intermittent rain showers and Sacha had to avoid slipping on metal sewer and electric access points as well as litter and unidentifiables. The rain started spattering down again. In moments, Sacha’s hair was plastered to his head and rivulets ran down his face, making it hard to see. Still, he had almost gained enough ground to grab the back of Jacobsen’s jacket when the man took a sharp left into a tiny alley.
The stench of past-due trash rose up around Sacha. He forced down a reflexive gag as he sped down the dark, narrow space between two brick buildings. It was dank and barely wide enough for two men to walk side by side. Sacha was big enough to feel claustrophobic as he pounded after Jacobsen, losing a little ground because a trash container loomed from the shadows, forcing him to slow down. Jacobsen glanced over his shoulder at Sacha and grinned. Putting on a burst of speed, their uncooperative witness leapt to catch the bottom rung of a sketchy-looking fire escape and began to clamber up it with familiarity.
Using the brick wall to push off, Sacha leapt f
or the fire escape as well, barely grabbing hold of the grimy metal bar. Praying to any possible saints of US Marshals, he hoisted himself upward, hoping the flimsy, weathered metal would support his weight. Sacha’s prayer held for a few seconds into the climb when two things happened. The first was an ominous creaking that echoed up and down the alley, along with the earsplitting shriek of metal on metal. The second was the silhouette of a large-caliber handgun appearing from a window several stories above him. Fingers flexed on the trigger as Sacha lunged to his right, leaping off the fire escape… except that it followed him, peeling away from the brick wall it had formerly been attached to.
This was going to hurt.
His stomach lurched, and for the briefest moment he was weightless before gravity came calling. All the air left his lungs when he hit the top of the old recycling container. He sort of bounced and, unfortunately, rolled off onto the concrete underneath the now-defunct fire escape. Flakes of rust, pelting rain, and litter that until that moment had been lodged for God knew how long in the metal grating of the fire escape showered down around him, on him. In a kind of slow motion he had only read about, the fire escape creaked to the right and smashed into the brick wall opposite. More rusty flakes showered down, along with pieces of the old metal structure itself.
Sacha lay where he’d fallen, trying to suck a few molecules of oxygen into his lungs, thanking fuck for the fire escape collapsing under his weight. If it hadn’t chosen that moment to disintegrate, rather than reconsidering his life and most especially his career choices, Sacha would be a dead man with a hole in his head the size of a fist. The weighty mass of the forty-caliber bullet displacing the atmosphere alongside his ear was as close as Sacha wanted to get to death today.
Groaning, he rolled over and craned his head toward the window Jacobsen had disappeared into. There had only been the single gunshot. Sacha didn’t know if the guy had actually been trying to kill him or was simply trying to get him to stop following. Regardless, whoever it had been was going to be extremely sorry he opened fire on an officer of the law.
His partner, who hadn’t been right behind him, came panting around the corner. Rick’s searching gaze landed on Sacha where he lay in the stinking trash and dog… or possibly human… shit behind the derelict building their perp had disappeared into. Sacha thought even Sig Jacobsen should have had better taste than this place. Fuck, rats had better taste.
“Fucking hell.” Sacha rolled onto his hands and knees, pushing himself to his feet. Every one of his thirty-nine years was making itself known. By some kind of miracle he’d merely had the wind knocked out of him and would have some impressive bruises tomorrow from hitting the trash container, but nothing felt broken. His knee throbbed, threatening imminent collapse, but after a second he was able to ignore it. Rick, the prissy asshole, didn’t bother to offer a hand, and when he got close enough he wrinkled his nose.
“Where the fuck were you?” Sacha brushed at unnamable bits stuck to his jacket and jeans without much result. Giving up, he unzipped his jacket, took it off, and dropped it to the ground beside him. Sacha didn’t care that he was shivering in the forty-degree weather and getting wetter by the minute as the rain increased in intensity.
“I was a little behind you. I tried cutting through to the other side when he turned.” Rick brushed nonexistent grime off his suit jacket. “You know, to head him off. But the other end was blocked. I had to turn around and come back.” Sacha forced aside the urge to grab Rick by the neck and throttle him. They had been after Jacobsen for weeks, and now the guy had vanished into thin air. “Oh, wow, Bolic, you landed in—”
“I know what I fucking landed in,” Sacha ground out. “I could have been fucking killed. Did you see the shooter?”
Rick looked around, like he was going to see the shooter waving for his attention from a nearby window. Sacha had been lying in non-metaphorical shit for several minutes, checking all his parts to make sure they worked properly. The shooter was long gone, and Sacha was going to be hellishly sore for a few days. “You know what? Never fucking mind.”
They walked back to their car in stony silence, abandoning Sacha’s jacket in the alley. Rick knew better than to try and talk to Sacha when he was in a shit mood. Which was most of the time.
When Sacha had returned to regular service after two brutal years undercover, he’d hoped the transition would be easier than going under. Not so far. He took a deep breath, immediately regretting it when his side hitched, and searched for patience he wasn’t known for. It wouldn’t help his case if he ripped Rick a new one… in public, anyway.
Since returning to duty in February, Sacha had been assigned three partners. The first lasted a single retrieval before demanding a change, claiming insurmountable personality differences. What the fuck ever. The second lasted three weeks before digging up a reason not to work with Sacha ever again. The kid had been witless. Sacha tried to get him to understand that there were capital-R rules, and then there were guidelines. Not every fucking guideline had to be followed with unerring rigidity. Sacha hadn’t survived twelve years in the Marshals service because he followed every guideline like it was God’s word.
Unfortunately, their current vehicle had not been stolen, vandalized, or towed away. The early-2000s Subaru Forester was so boring no one, not even taggers, took a second look at it. It sat where they’d left it, three blocks up from the alley.
“I’m driving.” Sacha held his hand out for the keys.
“Sacha…” Rick whined.
“I’ve had enough close calls for one day; I’m driving.”
“Fine.” Rick slammed the keys into Sacha’s palm before opening the passenger door and getting in.
Sacha slid into the driver’s seat. “What’s your problem? I’m the one who was almost killed. Once by you and once by Jacobsen.”
“Whatever.”
Fuck’s sake. Sacha took a deep breath in through his nose. Ignoring Rick’s passive-aggressive bullshit, he started the engine. Talk radio blared out of the car’s speakers, making conversation unnecessary. Neither one of them moved to turn it down.
Partner number three, for the past two months, had been Rick Lancer, prick extraordinaire, who was smarter than he acted. But this was the third time (or fourth if Sacha counted nearly being T-boned the other day when Rick was fucking talking while driving and not watching the road) Sacha had nearly been killed since he’d been back on active duty. Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something. Maybe it was time he listened.
The lure of something different flitted along the edge of his thoughts. Maybe he needed real change, not merely a new partner. A career change. He’d had the thought before, but the onus of duty had always stopped him from leaving the service. When he left the army and joined the Marshals, his drive had been to bring down as much scum as he could. He’d made a promise to his foster sister Mae-Lin, and to himself, that as long as he walked this earth he would work to rid it of human traffickers.
His heart wasn’t in the fight anymore. Not with the same fire that’d led him down this path so many years before. Maybe he needed to find a different way to fight. He didn’t see himself giving up, but he needed something else, something intangible and indefinable. He was tired of trying to explain himself when no one listened. His body wasn’t bouncing back from back-alley tackles—or falls from fire escapes—quite the way it had when he was twenty-five. Change was in the air.
Two
Sacha: Still March, still Kansas City
Sacha took the next few days off. His knee was aching, and he needed to think without Rick’s constant, irritating presence. He never made hasty decisions, but he felt itchy, like the time was now; if he didn’t change course soon, he might never get the chance again. A bullet, a back alley, a car accident, any of those things and he would never get the chance to live a different kind of life. One he barely allowed himself to dream of.
Spending his time off in his apartment was its own special torture. Home had never
meant the same thing for him as it did for most of his colleagues. He didn’t have a wife and kids; he didn’t even have any house plants, had never been in one place long enough to have a pet. Most of his possessions fit inside a few boxes. A half-formed idea had been bouncing around in his head for several months, ever since he had returned from the west coast. A place that felt like it could be home, more than any of the other choices in front of him. It wasn’t Baltimore, Miami, or Kansas City.
Skagit was a small town in western Washington, and it didn’t so much beckon Sacha as lure him. It was a place he could start again, make different choices. Ones that wouldn’t mean he lived his life alone. There were people there he could almost consider friends, or they would be if he made any sort of effort at all.
He spent the first night off flipping through channels, trying to get interested in the spring baseball stats. Baseball was the single sport he remotely enjoyed, and it didn’t hold his interest. The second night, after spending the day cleaning and at the gym, he drove out to a club he’d been to before.
Contrary to popular opinion, there were plenty of gay bars in Kansas City. Sacha preferred the quiet ones. Less chance of seeing anyone he knew, or anyone seeing him. He was too old for disco balls, flashing lights, and twinks wearing jeans so tight they needed a can opener to get them off. And explaining to anyone he worked or associated with that he had always been gay, just never out was… beyond his bandwidth. His stomach twisted painfully as he contemplated his colleagues discussing his personal life behind his back.
He sat at the bar nursing a drink, watching the small crowd of young, and seemingly carefree, men dance and flirt. Sometimes there was a soul brave enough to approach him. Mostly they left him alone.
“Another?” The bartender, tall, with well-defined muscles and heavily tattooed forearms, interrupted Sacha’s wandering thoughts.