by Elle Keaton
When he’d first seen the Warrick, he’d suspected it was hiding something. The owners had been so grateful for his offer he’d almost felt guilty lowballing them. Historic building or not, it had been on the market on and off for over two years. Of course, now that he’d been in there for over a week and had a better grasp on what he’d taken on… well.
He grimaced.
“You doing okay?” They had stopped at a red light, and Seth was watching him.
“Yeah, thinking about the remodel.” Among other things. Like life choices, change, and the fact that he had no idea what he was doing. Not the remodel part, that’s what YouTube was for, but what he was doing trying to live a civilian life.
“Have you had the time to dig in and do some real research? Like into who Warrick was, that kind of thing?” Seth grinned again. “I love research. I bet we could find some pretty good information if we tried.”
“Meh. Not anything significant.” Sacha furrowed his brow. What was this “we” business, anyway? He was wondering if he would regret accepting the offer of a shower.
His inner critic chided him. After a lifetime in law enforcement, his instincts were very good, and Seth did not strike him as a criminal or unstable. Maybe terminally inquisitive, but not a nut job. It was his own intentions Sacha was having a hard time with.
Ten minutes later he unlocked the frosted-glass front door, letting them both back inside. Seth had parked his Jeep down the street and silently followed him to the front entrance. The mess Sacha had abandoned hadn’t cleaned itself up while they were gone. He dropped his gear on top of the personal belongings stacked in the far corner, then dragged out the slim file folder with the information he’d collected about the Warrick Building.
“Here.” He shoved the folder at Seth. “You look at this. When you’re done, I’ll give a tour, if you want.” Sacha was inexplicably embarrassed that his duffel bag was lying splayed open, vomiting his belongings out onto the filthy wooden floor, the rumpled sleeping bag and flat air mattress adding to the general air of untidiness. And now he’d offered up a tour. Whatever happened, it was going to be purely his own fault.
While Seth flipped through the folder, Sacha attempted to stuff his jeans, boxers, and other clothing back into the bag. He’d lived out of a bag for years. He didn’t know why it was suddenly bothering him. Maybe it was the shower, or falling off the ladder. Whatever, he couldn’t stand his shit being all over the place.
“Man, I wish there were more of these,” Seth said. There were a few photos of the building before the 1970s in the file Sacha had. One was from 1901; the building must have recently been finished. Two men with somber expressions stood to the side, and empty fields spread out behind and beside it. Skagit had been a very young city at that time.
“There are more in the county archives. These came along with the sale papers,” Sacha answered. Shoving his duffel into a corner, he also folded up the mattress and sleeping bag. There wasn’t a lot he could do about the half-empty case of bottled water, bag of protein bars, or random remodeling supplies stacked along the walls.
Seth looked up from the file, paying attention to the building’s interior for the first time. “What’s with the hole in the ceiling? And where is all your stuff? In storage?”
“So many questions.” Sacha grinned to take the sting out of his next words. For whatever reason, he didn’t want Seth to leave thinking Sacha was a total jerk. “Didn’t your parents tell you cautionary tales about children who asked too many questions? ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ something along those lines?”
“I was brought up by my aunt, who encouraged questions, and I’m a curious guy. Besides, the entire proverb is, ‘Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction saved him.’” Seth smiled back. Was Seth flirting? Sacha needed to smack himself in the forehead. He needed a warning label, like when nice people adopt old abandoned pets with issues. Bites when approached: use caution.
Stuff. Sacha didn’t have stuff. He’d been undercover for the better part of two years. Before that, well… How much stuff do you need when you’re constantly out on a call, flying or driving to arrest and transport a circus of fools ranging from parole violators and fugitives to witnesses of all types, to murderers and those who merely attempt murder? His place in Kansas City had resembled one of those sleeping pods at Japanese airports.
Now, three months after retiring from the US Marshals, he was the proud owner of the Warrick Building. Instead of sandy beaches and sweet cocktails, Sacha was tearing out ceilings, starting the hard work of bringing the building back to its former glory.
“The hole is where I was checking to see if there was a tin ceiling, like I suspected. And my stuff is all over there.” He waved toward the bags, wondering why he was answering Seth’s questions. Maybe he should start asking a few of his own.
Seth ignored his tone and most of the answer. “A tin ceiling? Can I see?”
Before Sacha could reply, Seth was scrambling up the ladder. He stood at the very top, above the warning in huge red font stating, “This Is Not a Step.” Balancing precariously, he pulled a cell phone from the back pocket of his shorts. He lit the phone’s flashlight feature and shined it around the gap in the ceiling.
“Whoa, it looks intact! Somebody painted over it, though. Hand me a rag.” The ladder bounced a little with Seth’s evident delight, and Sacha’s heart shot up into his throat, nearly choking him.
His own dirty laundry half-stuffed into the duffel was the closest possibility. Without taking his eyes off the ladder, he backed up and felt around for something to give Seth. Handing over a dirty T-shirt, Sacha wondered how many years had been shaved off his life watching this guy stand fearlessly above him. Seth, on the other hand, was vibrating with excitement.
Stretching as high as possible, Seth rubbed the fabric against the ceiling. Sacha’s gaze was caught by a strip of pale skin as Seth’s T-shirt slid up, revealing a peek of a flat stomach and dark hair trailing downward. A sting of chagrin, from brazenly ogling another man, coursed through him, and he jerked his eyes away—even if the man in question had no idea Sacha was looking.
A flash went off, and Seth looked down, pure joy in his expression. “I think I got a pretty good shot. We can look it up on the internet. I’ve never seen one like this before. It has a face in the middle. Check it out.”
Bending and twisting to climb back down the ladder, Seth misjudged, or the ladder tilted, or the planet wobbled. He slipped, probably exactly like Sacha had earlier, but instead of crashing to the ground, he landed with a laughing bump against Sacha’s chest, still talking excitedly about the photograph and tin ceilings. While Sacha was dizzy from the planet wobble, his arms automatically went around Seth to keep them both from falling. Seth seemed not to notice Sacha’s confusion, pulling away with an “I knew you’d catch me” before swiftly returning his focus to his phone where he was punching in… something. Words, probably. “Huh. Cool. Maaaybe…”
Sacha still felt the press of Seth’s body against his own, but he managed to gather himself together enough to focus. “Maybe what?”
The phone waggled in front of his face, but all Sacha could see was blurry light. He grabbed Seth’s wrist to hold it still. The phone showed a grainy picture of a tin-stamp ceiling tile with what looked like a man’s face. The warmth of Seth’s skin under his palm was distracting, and Sacha shook himself, snatching his hand back as if he were holding a burning ember.
“What am I looking at?” he growled. Because he had no fucking business looking at Seth in any way other than as a nice guy who had helped him out. He’d known the guy for four minutes.
And what?
He was expired goods, that’s what. Even if Seth was gay or bi, as Sacha suspected, why would an attractive younger man want to have anything to do with the mess that was him? Fumbling around in the dark was all he had ever done; now he was trying to learn how to date men in the daylight and probably making a mess of it.
Seth was oblivious to Sa
cha’s stupid. Thank fuck. “Could be a rare tin-stamp ceiling, meaning it could be worth bank. Not that you wanna sell it or anything. You’d have to have a real expert look at it, though.”
“How do you know about this stuff?”
Seth looked at him, focusing for the first time in minutes, his brown eyes dialing in disconcertingly on Sacha’s.
“Jack of all trades, really. I’ve done a little of everything. My aunt was into restoration for a while when I was a teenager, so I’ve done some stripping—not that kind of stripping. I should add ‘master of none’ as a caveat, so you know.” He chuckled, looking down at his phone again, lost to the online trail of breadcrumbs.
Sacha prodded him. “No, really, how do you know about tin-stamped ceilings and old buildings?”
“Oh.” Seth interrupted his online sleuthing to focus on Sacha. “I was a failed history major in college. Mostly I was a failed college student. I still love history, as you can see. I stopped taking classes but never lost my interest in history.”
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you drop out?”
“Oh.” Seth broke eye contact. “My aunt died unexpectedly, and I had to take care of her estate.”
There was more to the story, Sacha was certain. But he understood taking care of those close.
“What about you?” Seth prodded.
“What about me?” He knew perfectly well Seth meant how had he become interested in small-town America and its history. Sacha wished there was an explanation that didn’t involve telling Seth he’d been a US Marshal. The last thing he needed was a law-enforcement groupie. He had no way of knowing if Seth was one, but Sacha had experienced it enough to shy away from sharing his past.
Seth raised an eyebrow, waiting, not letting Sacha off the hook. Sacha rolled his eyes before finally answering, “Partly the job I had often required local knowledge, then it turned into a hobby. I like old buildings, I like trivia… the rest, as they say, is history.”
“That’s a terrible joke. Ugh.” Seth leaned against the outside wall, giving Sacha his full attention. “But now, regardless of your awful taste in puns, you’ve saved an old building. I’m impressed. Kind of like Superman, saving buildings in single bounds, or something like that.”
“Something like that.” His throat was oddly dry. Sacha needed something to drink, but all he had on hand was water. “Water?”
“Yeah, cool.” Seth’s attention was drawn away again, back to the smartphone screen he was typing something into. Sacha grabbed a couple bottles from the open case in the corner. Tossing one to Seth, he twisted his open and gulped it down in seconds. Lukewarm water spilled out along his cheek and down his neck; he didn’t care, he only needed to quench his thirst.
While Seth continued reading up on antique tin tiles and what-the-fuck-ever else was holding his attention, Sacha walked over to stare out one of the tiny front windows and try to ignore the earth wobbling underneath his feet again. Seth was pushing all sorts of buttons Sacha didn’t know if he was prepared to deal with.
The much-larger original windows and frames still existed underneath the lath and plaster, Sacha was almost certain. He didn’t think the original structure had been compromised. Remodelers had most likely built frames in the smaller size they wanted, leaving intact the nearly-floor-to-ceiling original windows seen in older photographs. Much easier than refitting an entire building. Which was good, because if Seth stuck around much longer, Sacha was going to need bigger windows and a lot more fresh air.
The tour was quick and relatively painless. Seth listened intently, asking a few questions, while Sacha walked him through the building. The ground floor was a largely open space (or it would be when he was done with it) with a hallway at the back leading to a tiny room occupied by a single toilet and hand sink.
It hadn’t been difficult for Sacha to imagine what it’d looked like during its first few decades of existence, when it was a bank. There was an old photograph probably taken from the staircase, customers in dark suits and bowler hats posed leaning against a long-gone marble countertop, staring seriously into the camera lens. Sacha had found it tucked, or fallen, behind shelves he tore out the first day. In the hallway, perhaps under the stairs, would have lurked an enormous steel safe, the kind only seen in old movies nowadays.
The staircase was across from the front entrance. Sacha thought the original bannister must have been lovely, but it too had disappeared. Upstairs was where upper management had housed themselves. Later it had been divided into several tiny rooms, only one of which had a window. More prison cell than office.
Reckless interior remodels over the years had left the Warrick entirely stripped of its original fixtures, except maybe the toilet. His plan was to flip the building. N.O.T. was a neighborhood on the verge of change, and a restored old bank building would be a hot commodity as the market began to heat up. Once the wiring and plumbing were up to code, which unfortunately was not something he felt comfortable doing himself, he would start putting feelers out for future buyers.
Four hours, give or take, after Sacha had fallen off the ladder, he tried to hustle Seth out of the Warrick into the late-morning sunshine. Sacha had a ceiling to uncover, but Seth clearly wasn’t quite ready to leave.
Sacha almost asked if Seth wanted to stay and help out, but instead offered a lame, “Thanks for the shower and breakfast.”
The thing was, Sacha was pretty sure he wanted Seth to stay, wanted to get to know him, but navigating a casual relationship was uncharted territory. Also terrifying. He hadn’t even made an effort to reconnect with people he knew in Skagit since moving from Kansas City, for Christ’s sake. The idea nauseated him.
“Thanks for the tour.” Seth stood outside the door, shuffling from foot to foot. “Um, look, I know this is random, and we just met, so you don’t know me or anything, but if you’d like to get coffee again or something? Maybe not after falling off a ladder next time?”
He could do that. “Coffee sounds good.”
“Yeah?” Seth beamed. “Cool, I know the perfect place.”
“You, uh, know where to find me.” Sacha almost shut his eyes against his own awkward response. Please, please, could the earth open now? This was exactly why he shouldn’t be allowed in public.
“We should probably exchange phone numbers. What’s yours? I’ll call you, that way you’ll have mine.” Seth looked expectantly at him, and yeah, no way was he going to refuse.
Sacha recited his number, and moments later his back pocket buzzed.
“See ya around.” Seth sketched out a half salute before tucking his phone away and walking toward his Jeep.
Sacha’s pocket buzzed again. It couldn’t be Seth, and there were only two other people who had his new number. When he’d quit the Marshals he cut all ties. New life, new number.
“What?” he demanded while watching Seth head to his Jeep, cataloguing the sway of his hips and the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Seth turned and waved as he opened the car door, then with a beep of the horn he was gone, and the morning was somehow dimmer in his absence.
“How rude. You know better than to answer the phone like that.” His foster sister’s irritated tone rang clear over the thousands of miles stretched between them.
“I knew it was you. Does that make it better?”
“Because I am the only one with your number.” Mae-Lin sighed. “You need to quit hiding.”
“I’m not hiding. I am taking a much-needed break.”
“From—you know what, never mind. I didn’t call to argue.”
“Why did you call, then?” All they ever did was argue—in a very loving and supportive way, of course.
“Parker hasn’t been in touch and hasn’t returned any of my phone calls.”
The throb in his forehead, which had mostly gone away, returned with full force.
“His number has been disconnected or changed, and when I called that pathetic boyfri
end, roommate, whatever he is, he claimed Parker had left and taken most of his things with him.”
“He’s thirty-two, an adult who can make his own decisions.” Admittedly, Parker’s track record was poor. Sacha had not met the roommate/boyfriend, and Mae-Lin didn’t like anyone anyway. Unfortunately Sacha’s foster brother had a record of terrible choices in careers and boyfriends. Although he’d been with the “new guy” for almost a year and was trying to start fresh by going back for a degree in finance. Yawn.
Parker was a natural caregiver who jumped in headfirst… and was generally the last to realize he was being used. As a wallet—or even as a dupe, in the case of his first job out of college. Parker led with his heart, and too many shitheads had found him impossible to resist. The kid would literally give the shirt off his back. Sacha wasn’t quite sure how Parker found these people. He’d finally concluded that Parker was a magnet for them but had hoped Mae-Lin was wrong about this one.
“He didn’t call on my birthday.” She sounded smug, like that sealed the argument… and it did. The three of them had a tradition of talking on their birthdays. And, yeah, sometimes one of them forgot, but they always called within a few days… and sent the required extravagant apology present. Realization struck him, and he groaned.
Sacha shut his eyes in a grimace, even though she couldn’t see him. “I fucking forgot your birthday.”
Mae-Lin snickered evilly. “I’ll send you a few links.” Goddamn, this would cost him.
“I’ll see what I can find out, but let’s give him a little time. He may only need to regroup.”
Parker was a lot of things—irritating, impulsive, occasionally irresponsible—but he was not the one who forgot Mae-Lin’s birthday. That was Sacha.
Still, Parker was an adult. He’d get in touch soon, probably, and Sacha would help him put the pieces back together like he always did. To soothe his conscience, Sacha made a quick call, confirming that Parker’s number went straight to voicemail. Mae could be a tad dramatic. He left a message instructing Parker to call one of them back or else. Sacha hadn’t decided what “else” would be yet, but as a coercion tactic it usually worked pretty well on Parker. Ten minutes later, his phone chimed with an incoming text.