by Kris Ripper
“Okay, then,” Jack called from the door as Simon walked away, not wanting the animals out of his sight. “You have my number if you need anything, right?”
Simon held up his phone in answer, but didn’t turn around.
“Okay, bye,” Jack said, but there was no one left to hear him.
Chapter Two
Simon
Simon’s heart fluttered like a wild thing and he sucked in air through his nose and slowly blew it out through his mouth, concentrating on the smells of the autumn morning. Pine and dew and fresh asphalt and the warm, intoxicating scent that seemed to cling to him after only ten minutes spent in Jack Matheson’s chaotic house.
He rounded the corner so he knew he was out of sight, then led the dogs to the tree line and pressed his back to the rough trunk of a silver fir. He squeezed his eyes shut tight to banish the static swimming at the edges of his vision and willed his heart to slow after the encounter with Jack.
Shy. It was the word people had used to describe Simon Burke since he was a child. A tiny, retiring word that was itself little more than a whisper.
But what Simon felt was not a whisper. It was a freight train bearing down on him, whistle blowing and wheels grinding, passengers staring and ground shaking with the ineluctable approach.
It was a swimming head and a pounding heart. A furious heat and a numbness in his fingers. It was sweating and choking and the curiously violent sensation of silence, pulled like a hood over his entire body, but concentrated at the tiny node of his throat.
Shy was the word for a child’s fear, shed like a light spring jacket when summer came.
What Simon had was knitted to his very bones, spliced in his blood, so cleverly prehensile that it clung to every beat of his physical being.
The huge St. Bernard called Bernard—apparently this Jack guy wasn’t exactly the creative type—bumped Simon’s hip and he opened his eyes. The cautious yellow Lab, Puddles, was looking up at him with concern in his warm brown eyes; tiny Rat was scanning the road looking for threats; easygoing Dandelion was happily yipping at birds; and Pirate the cat was daintily cleaning her paws as her tail swished back and forth.
Simon’s breath came easier. He was right where he wanted to be: outside, spending time with animals. He dropped to a crouch and murmured to the little pack, letting them smell him, letting his heart rate return to normal.
“Hi,” he said, trying out his voice. It tended to go scratchy from disuse. “Thanks for walking with me.” Bernard smiled a sweet doggy smile and Simon couldn’t help but smile back. Animals didn’t make him feel self-conscious. They didn’t make him feel like he was drowning. They gave and never required anything of him except kindness.
He’d discovered this as a child, around the same time he’d discovered that other children could not be counted on to be kind. Not to him, anyway.
Pirate meowed and took off down the road and all the dogs mobilized to follow her, tugging Simon back onto the lane. As they walked, he basked in their quiet joy and the peace of simply being in the fresh air. In that peace, his thoughts drifted to Jack Matheson.
Simon had gotten himself to Jack’s front door by sheer, knuckle-clenching force of will.
For the past two years, Simon had been saving up to get a bigger apartment so that he’d have space for a dog. He’d planned the walks they’d take and the parks they’d go to together.
When his grandfather died six months ago and Simon saw his grandmother’s face—brow pinched with grief and eyes wide with fear—Simon knew what he had to do. He moved in the next week. His grandmother was his best friend and he didn’t want her to be alone. But the cost of her company was the plans he’d made: she was terribly allergic to animals.
He’d made his profile on PetShare the week he moved in with his grandmother and for the last six months, he’d waited. He’d matched several times, usually with people who needed someone to stop by and feed their pets while they were at work, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to spend time with animals, bask in their easy companionship.
So when he saw JMatheson’s profile pop up, with its picture of a huge, adorable St. Bernard and its description of his rather extensive needs, which managed to be both terse and self-deprecating, Simon’s heart had leapt.
But when he stood outside his door, he hadn’t been able to make himself ring the bell. It was like his hand ran up against a physical force when he tried. He stood there, trying to break out of the paralyzing fog.
And then the door had opened.
Stocking feet, worn sweatpants, a bulky cast on one leg—his eyes had traveled slowly up from the ground. A faded Penn State hoodie, broad shoulders, and biceps that bulged as they wielded crutches.
But it was the first glimpse of the man’s face that had frozen Simon in place. He had hair the color of copper and gold, a strong jaw etched with copper stubble, a straight nose, and hazel eyes beneath frowning reddish-brown eyebrows. His full mouth was fixed in a scowl.
He was beautiful and angry and it was a combination so potent that it flushed through Simon with the heat of an intoxicant, then set his head spinning with fear.
He’d clutched his arms around himself in a futile attempt to keep all his molecules contained, dreading the sensation of flying apart, diffusing into the atmosphere in a nebula of dissolution.
Simon had been consumed by the conviction he’d held as a child: if he could squeeze his eyes shut tightly enough to block out the world then it would cease to see him, too. But when he’d opened his eyes again, there was Jack Matheson, still beautiful, but now looking at him with his most hated expression.
Pity.
Simon shook his head to clear the image of Jack’s pitying gaze and picked up the pace, as if he might be able to outrun the moment when he’d have to drop off the animals and interact with Jack again.
* * *
“Grandma, I’m home,” Simon called as he shouldered open the door, arms full of groceries.
“In the kitchen, dear!”
He deposited the bags on the counter, but backed off when his grandmother moved to kiss his cheek.
“You’ll be allergic to me. One sec.”
He jogged downstairs to his basement room and changed his clothes, giving a fond look at the fur of his new friends clinging to the wool of his sweater.
“How did it go?” his grandmother asked, sliding a cup of tea toward him on the counter. The smell of lavender perfume and chamomile tea would forever remind him of her.
“As well as can be expected?” Simon hedged, sipping the hot tea too quickly. She raised an eyebrow and he sighed. “He was fine. I just... Whatever. You know.” Simon raked a hand through his hair.
His grandmother knew better than anyone how hard it was for him and how angry he got at himself for the hardship. She’d been the one he came to, red-faced and sweaty, when he’d nailed varsity soccer tryouts his sophomore year and then fled the field, never to return, when the coach noticed he hadn’t shouted the team shout with the other boys and forced him to stand on his own and yell it with everyone looking.
She’d been the one who found him in the basement he now lived in, tear-streaked and reeking of vomit after his eleventh-grade history teacher had forced him to give his presentation in front of the rest of the class despite his promise to do any amount of extra credit instead.
Simon swallowed, overcome with affection for her.
“The dogs are great, though. There’s this really big St. Bernard who’s a cuddly baby and throws himself around even though he’s probably two hundred pounds. And he has cats, too, and one of them comes on the walks. Her name’s Pirate—she’s a calico with a black spot over one eye—and she leads the group like a little cat tour guide.”
Simon’s grandmother squeezed his hand.
“It’s so good to see you happy,” she said wistfully. Simon ducked his head, b
ut a nice, comfortable kind of warmth accompanied his grandmother’s touches. She didn’t rush him the way his father did, didn’t try and finish his sentences the way his mother did, didn’t try and convince him to just try and be social the way his sister, Kylie, did. The way his teachers and school counselors had.
“Yeah,” he said. He gulped the last of the tea and put his cup in the dishwasher. “I’m gonna go get started on work. You need anything before I do?”
“I’m fine, dear. I’ll be in the garden, I think.”
Simon hesitated. His grandfather’s rose garden was the place Simon still felt his presence most strongly, and it was where his grandmother went when she wanted to think of him.
“Is it bad today?” he asked softly. He wasn’t sure if bad was the right word, precisely. After all, it wasn’t bad to miss the man you’d spent your life with, was it? It was merely...inevitable. But it was the shorthand he’d used the first time he’d asked, when he’d found her at the fence, one swollen-knuckled hand pressed flat to the wood and the other clutching the locket with her late husband’s picture in it, and it had stuck.
She smiled gently at him. “Medium.” With a pat to his arm, she left him to make his way down to the basement.
After a year, the graphic design business that Simon ran from home had become sustainable. The ability to make a living had been a relief, but the bigger relief had been the opportunity to quit his job working for the company where he’d dreaded going every morning and the cubicle that had left him open to social incursion from all directions.
Now, he conducted all his communications via email. He made his own schedule, which meant he could take long lunches to spend time with his grandmother—or, more recently, take time to walk Jack’s dogs. He didn’t mind working on the weekends to make up for it if necessary. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere he wanted to go. In the quiet of his basement office, without the anxiety of the company work environment, Simon could lose himself in color, shape, font, and balance.
Today, however, Simon was distracted. He’d get to see the animals again tonight and already his skin tingled with the promise of contact. After the third time he found himself staring off into space, he pinched his arm, hard.
“Stop it.”
He told himself that it was pathetic to be this excited about getting to hug some dogs or cuddle a cat. He told himself that he was an adult and taking a walk should not be the highlight of his day.
He told himself a lot of things, but it still took him longer than usual to finish his work.
* * *
That evening, back in the clothes he’d worn to walk the dogs earlier, Simon stood once more before Jack’s door. This time, he was able to ring the doorbell and the sound was met with yipping and barking from within. After a minute, he heard a groan that could only be Jack and then a stream of swearing.
When the door finally opened, Jack’s hair was flattened on one side and sticking straight up at the crown.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Sorry. Fell asleep.”
Simon glanced at his face and took in the shadows under his eyes, like someone had pressed thumbs there hard enough to bruise. He took in the creases on one cheek and the tightness around his mouth that might have been pain, and wondered what had happened to his leg.
He opened his mouth to say it was fine, but the words inflated in his throat until they were a balloon choking off his breath. There was the itch of panic and then he swallowed the words down and could breathe again. He nodded.
Suddenly, exhaustion hit him. He should’ve anticipated it, what with the effort it had taken to drag himself here this morning, the effort it had taken to go inside, and now the effort of doing it all over again. It was an exhaustion that sapped all his reserves and put a certain end to any chance of conversation that might have existed.
The anger rose and with it Simon could feel his chest get hot. The heat crept up his neck and his ears blazed. Before his face could turn red he clenched his hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. Then he closed his eyes, held out his other hand, and prayed that Jack would understand.
“Listen,” Jack said, not understanding. “It’s probably too much to ask. Twice a day. Maybe—”
Frustration consumed Simon and he drove his fist into the door jamb. It hurt. He held out his other hand without looking at Jack and, after a minute of shuffling noises and barks, felt the leashes placed on his palm.
Simon closed his fingers around them and nodded. Then he headed out into the cooling dusk without a backward glance, cursing himself silently all the way.
Away from the house he sucked in deep breaths. Again. Damn it.
“Your dad makes me nervous,” Simon told the animals. He could hear the misery in his shaky voice.
Bernard woofed gently in reply and Dandelion trotted excitedly at his side.
“I’m kind of crap with people,” he told them.
Rat snarled at nothing.
“It doesn’t help that your dad’s, uh...pretty hot. Even if he is kind of intimidating. But I’d be grumpy too if I broke my leg and couldn’t walk you. Wish you could tell me how he broke it.”
Simon went on chatting to the animals until Puddles stopped short. Simon peered at the ground, keeping Jack’s list of the dog’s fears in mind. It was a stick shaped like a lightning bolt.
He tried to guide Puddles to give the stick a wide berth, but the dog wouldn’t budge. Simon studied the stick, trying to intuit what it was about it that made Puddles so afraid.
After a minute he snorted at himself. Who knew better than him that fear didn’t have to have a reason?
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it.”
He picked up the stick and threw it deep into the trees. Puddles let out a yip of relief while the other three dogs surged forward in an attempt to chase the stick.
“Whoa, whoa!” He pulled on the leashes, and managed to corral the dogs back onto the lane, even though it was clear that Bernard could’ve dragged them wherever he wanted if he’d chosen to do so.
Puddles nuzzled Simon and he rested his hand on the dog’s head, appreciating the softness of his fur and the warm press of his body.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to talk to your dad,” Simon told him softly.
Puddles barked.
“Yeah. Maybe tomorrow will be better.”
Don’t miss Better Than People by Roan Parrish,
out from Carina Adores!
www.CarinaPress.com
Copyright © 2020 by Roan Parrish
Also available from Kris Ripper
Runaway Road Trip
Copyright © 2019 by Kris Ripper
Just like Thelma and Louise, but with more boinking, and less dying at the end.
Bored freelancer Doc has lousy taste in men. The most recent example steals his computer and ties him to his bed, which is where his bestie Rowe finds him. An hour later Doc’s riding shotgun in Bertha-the-ancient-vehicle on the way to Los Angeles, where Rowe’s about to start his Real Life As An Actor.
Since life after Rowe leaves will be all diplomatic client emails and dying alone Doc could use a good distraction, and a spontaneous road trip down the coast is the perfect thing. Yes, technically he’s always had a little crush on Rowe, but it’s no big deal. Right up until Rowe kisses him and the world turns topsy turvy—in the best possible way.
When Rowe confesses he hasn’t been entirely honest, the betrayal sends Doc running. He doesn’t need more crappy guys in his life and dying alone is way better than being with someone he can’t trust. But losing Rowe is like losing a whole piece of his past and the best dreams he’s ever had for his future, and Doc’s not sure he can go back to boring after living something so much better.
To check out this and other books by Kris Ripper, please visit Ripper’s website at krisripper.com/reading-order-book-list.
Looking for more stories featuring LGBTQ+ characters?
Don’t miss Carina Adores!
Carina Adores is home to highly romantic contemporary love stories featuring beloved romance tropes, where LGBTQ+ characters find their happily-ever-afters.
A new Carina Adores title is available each month:
THE HIDEAWAY INN by Philip William Stover
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR by Chelsea M. Cameron
JUST LIKE THAT by Cole McCade
HAIRPIN CURVES by Elia Winters
BETTER THAN PEOPLE by Roan Parrish
FULL MOON IN LEO by Brooklyn Ray
THE SECRET INGREDIENT by KD Fisher
JUST LIKE THIS by Cole McCade
TEDDY SPENSER ISN’T LOOKING FOR LOVE by Kim Fielding
THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS SHOPPE by Philip William Stover
Get your copies now!
Find out more at CarinaPress.com.
We think you have a good book in you!
Are you writing in the below genres? The Carina Press editors want to see your manuscript.
We Are Currently Acquiring
Most subgenres and all heat levels of romance:
• Contemporary
• Erotic
• Paranormal & Urban Fantasy
• Science Fiction & Fantasy
• Romantic Suspense
• Historical
• Your subgenre here. See our submissions guidelines!
We want to reaffirm our commitment to inclusion and representation in our publishing program and extend a specific invitation to Black authors, authors of color, disabled authors, LGBTQ+ authors, and other traditionally marginalized and underrepresented voices. We strive to make our list one of inclusion, and are working hard to build a catalog that is more representative of the romance reading public.
To learn more about our submissions guidelines, please visit: bit.ly/write4cp