by Elle Keaton
Buck had never allowed himself to believe he could be truly happy before Joey. That he deserved to experience joy and love as much as the next person. What a difference a couple of months made.
Stroking Joey’s back, feeling unfamiliarly content, Buck stared out his bedroom window. The curtains were pulled shut, but there was a gap between the window frame and the top of the curtains. A few moments passed before he realized he was watching the first tentative snowflakes drift down from the heavy clouds.
Let it snow; he was safe, warm, and loved. Maybe it hadn’t gone exactly as he planned, but it hadn’t been a bad idea to say “Hi” to Joey in the produce section after all.
The End
A Thank You From Elle
If you enjoyed No Pressure, I would greatly appreciate if you would let your friends know so they can experience Joey, Buck and the rest of the gang as well. As with all of my books, I have enabled lending on all platforms in which it is allowed to make it easy to share with a friend. If you leave a review for Storm Season, or any of my books. on the site from which you purchased the book, Goodreads or your own blog, I would love to read it! Email me the link at [email protected]
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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, locale or organizations is
entirely coincidental.
Dirty Dog Press
Seattle, WA 98125
Convergence Zone (Accidental Roots 3)
Copyright 2019 by Elle Keaton
Edited by Alicia Z. Ramos
Cover by 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
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. Zoë designed the cover and patiently worked through my changes.
To my friends who both vocally and silently support me.
To my editor who edited the heck out of this manuscript, over and above the call of duty. Any errors are mine alone. Alicia probably tried to talk me out of them, yet I insisted. Again and again.
The town of Skagit exists only in my imagination as well as the wonderful people who inhabit it, any similarity to real people or places is coincidence.
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 Arctic Monkeys ‘Do I wanna know’, Doc Martens, Vans, are all copy written titles or names which do not belong to me and I thank the companies in advance for letting my characters use them.
Anyone I have neglected to acknowledge is my fault alone.
Thank you
Elle
One
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Carroll Weir bellowed, then slammed the connecting room door shut behind him. Tried to slam it. Fucking unsatisfying. The damn thing was on a pressure arm, which meant it continued hissing to a gentle close until the lock engaged with a quiet snick, mocking Weir’s DEFCON red–level anger.
After working his ass off for months, he was rewarded by being stuck in this backwater fuck-town longer? “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Just when he thought he was escaping the soggy, mossy shithole of Skagit, a Fish and Wildlife detective goes and gets himself killed. Murdered, even. “Goddammit!”
The Department of Fish and Wildlife was down to bare bones, only having had three detectives on staff for the whole state before Peter Krystad’s murder. Weir was overreacting, but he had the nearly overwhelming urge to lie on the floor kicking and screaming like a toddler.
Couldn’t the killer have waited until Weir had escaped back to a warmer, drier climate? Back to the beach? He was starting to feel itchy and closed in, what with the clouds pressing down from the sky and the mountains looming from the east.
Itchy was the wrong descriptor; moldy was more accurate.
He had been separated from the sun for far too long.
Late last fall Mohammad Azaya had assigned him to a child kidnapping case, partnering Adam Klay. Weir continued to have mixed feelings about Adam, who could be an ass but was also a dedicated and talented investigator. When Adam had gone on leave, Weir stepped in and took over, following the trail of evidence until it petered out. Only picking it up again when a neighbor made the connection between where the body was discovered and her creepy cousin, the one who drove a truck and had visited close the time of the disappearance.
There had been no time for a trip to LA and his stretch of beach before he had been sent to Skagit to partner with Adam again. They’d brought down a human-trafficking ring that resulted in an internal affairs investigation of the entire Skagit Police Department. Led by Weir. A team of investigators was still trying to untangle all the details, but Weir’s part was finally done. He had been released from that special assignment two days earlier, and he was ready to go. His bags were already packed, for crying out loud. He’d been on the road so long the plastic plant in his living room was going to die from neglect.
He wrenched open the bathroom door, really wanting something to slam, but was interrupted by his cell phone. He bristled at the cheerful ring tone. Answering it five minutes ago had put him in this crappy mood. Stalking over to the desk where it rattled along like it was possessed, he glanced at the screen. Mohammad. Great.
“Weir.” He closed his eyes and practiced some deep-breathing tactics. He liked and respected his boss, but right now he was afraid he might say something stupid. His mouth got him in trouble more often than not.
“I was hoping to talk to you before Adam did. My apologies.” Weir pulled the phone away from his ear so he could stare at it and confirm that Mohammad was on the other end. Yep.
Well, damn, that took the wind out of his sails. It was hard to remain mad when his boss was apologizing to him. He sat on the edge of his unmade, uncomfortable hotel bed.
“This case is a bit tricky.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Yes, but this one is especially problematic. Normally, Fish and Wildlife would investigate this themselves, but they are down manpower. Then it would most likely fall to ICE investigators. However, because we have been in Skagit for months now on the Matveev case, we are in a unique position for it to appear that you are still part of that investigation, while in reality you are on loan to Fish and Wildlife.”
“So.” Weir stopped to consider his words. Maybe the deep breathing was helping? “So, am I undercover? Why all the secrecy?”
“In a manner, yes, you will be undercover. Whoever had Detective Krystad murdered believes they have gotten away with it.”
“All right, what are you not telling me?”
“You will continue to act as if you are dotting i’s and crossing t’s on the Russian case, but in fact we need you to start researching gooey-duck smuggling and anything associated with Peter Krystad.”
“Gooey what?”
“G-e-o-d-u-c-k. A large bivalve, often smuggled from the Pacific Northwest to Asia. China specifically. A Canadian company was caught poaching them and was banned from fishing in US wa
ters several years ago. Start there. Start with the locals who were suspected of working with them. The Fish and Wildlife files will be coming your way soon.”
After clicking off the call, Weir did a quick Google search on the geoduck. Jesus Christ, the thing looked like a giant cock. It was kind of disgusting, and Weir liked cock.
Maybe that was why he was out of sorts. He liked cock, and it had been forever since he’d gotten any. Skagit wasn’t exactly bursting at the gills with gay bars, though there was one. He sighed. The Loft was… well, it was okay, but there wasn’t a lot of inventory to go around. Plus Sterling, the regular bartender, got on his nerves.
He couldn’t put his finger on what it was about Sterling that bothered him. They’d run into each other a few times since Weir had come to town, at the Booking Room and even at Buck Swanfeldt’s New Year’s party—where Sterling had been caught semi-cheating at some card game that seemed to involve sex and bluffing. Weir had forgotten about that.
Weir left their encounters generally irritated. He decided that, like most people who didn’t know him, Sterling didn’t take him seriously. They saw a young guy with an even-younger-looking face and dismissed him. Most people did, to their detriment. It was one of the many reasons why he was so successful at what he did.
After spending the remainder of the day researching the giant clam and those who sought it, he found himself heading for the Loft anyway. What could he say? He’d had a long dry spell. He ditched his suit, because nothing screamed “trying too hard” more than a man in a suit after five o’clock in Skagit. Actually, a man in a suit in Skagit any time of day stuck out like a sore thumb.
Weir normally didn’t mind wearing suits for work. For one thing, he knew he looked damn hot in one. Tonight, though, he’d prefer if people would forget he was a federal agent. Hopefully his favorite olive cargos, a gray hoodie paired with a red flannel shirt, and a pair of Vans wouldn’t be too much for the locals. Grabbing his card key and wallet, he debated for a minute before deciding to walk.
He knew not being able to get out and exercise on a regular basis was central to his frustration. When he didn’t get outside, away from everything, his brain tended to ambush him. Running was more enjoyable and cheaper than therapy, although he’d done that, too.
The Loft was packed.
It was a Tuesday night, for fuck’s sake. All he wanted was a couple drinks, see if anyone caught his eye. He had supplies tucked in his back pocket. If something happened, nice; if not, eye candy would do.
Standing in the entryway debating wasn’t helping his mood. People bumped into him from all directions. After making it in the door, he thought he might as well grab a drink before leaving to sulk in the silence of his hotel room.
When it wasn’t packed to the gills, the Loft was a pretty cool place. It had a kind of speakeasy vibe. An exquisite mahogany back bar stocked with glittering bottles of liquor dominated the space. A long mirror behind it reflected the multitude of bottles, making patrons’ choices appear endless. Three light fixtures hung over the bartender’s workspace, beautifully wrought stained glass with art deco touches. The dance floor, currently hidden under a sea of bodies, was parquet. Weir thought someone had mentioned it had been recycled from an old dance studio in town. Along the other side, booths catered to casual diners and there were tulip-shaped wall sconces, the lights kept low, adding to the atmosphere.
Semi-politely elbowing his way through the throng, he still couldn’t see why the place was so full. Was it possible that every gay man in Skagit was in the same building tonight? Seriously, what was going on? As he drew closer to the bar he spotted a clue, a banner reading: Happy Birthday to the Loft! Ten years old!
Crowds had never been his thing. Too many people, too much noise and he got twitchy—his skin started to feel tight. He had a vague memory of being at Disneyland and having some kind of epic meltdown; he didn’t recall the details now. These days, usually, as long as he knew in advance, he could handle it.
Squeezing into the last open spot at the bar, he ordered a drink from his least-favorite bartender in Skagit and proceeded to brood. If he had turned around and left, the detachment he generally wore like a shield wouldn’t have failed so spectacularly. It would have stayed where it belonged: simmering, lurking, protecting him. Mostly unacknowledged, but still providing a modicum of safety from the world at large. Instead, a heavy melancholy snuck up on him while he sat nursing his drink, stripping his defenses.
It was a peculiar kind of self-torture to sit and listen to a bunch of strangers interact. Day-to-day emptiness was one thing, but he was generally busy, and work was a good distraction. It was different when he was suddenly faced with every gay couple in Skagit. Jesus, even non-couples were paired up; he recognized Seth Culver sharing a beer with a guy Weir didn’t recognize.
He found himself engrossed in watching Sterling work. As busy as it was, he never lost his stride, preparing one specialty drink after another. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off his sinewy forearms as they flexed while he shook the cocktail mixer or used a hand press for fresh orange or lime juice. The show was hot and well choreographed. Weir upgraded Sterling on his inner ranking system from a four to about a seven. The jury was still out on his personality, but there was nothing wrong with the sense of authority he exuded. Surely he had all the boys at his beck and call.
Weir decided to call it a night, tossing back the remains of his vodka-cran before pushing his empty glass forward to try to get Sterling’s attention and the check. The guy was slammed with orders but was managing to chat with a sweet-looking man at the other end of the bar while he mixed drinks. Irrationally, Weir felt his temper rise.
When the strip-o-gram guy walked in “wearing” a tunic measuring no more than one inch by one inch, carrying a bow and arrow, his body covered with rainbow glitter, Weir deduced something else. It was fucking Valentine’s Day. He wanted to put his head down on the bar top in surrender. How had Valentine’s Day slipped by him, even if it was his least-favorite holiday? What an amazing investigator he was proving to be.
A second drink landed in front of him. Weir didn’t question it, even though he had been planning on leaving. He nodded semi-gratefully in Sterling’s direction. He needed another drink before he fought his way out through the throng.
A tingling he hadn’t felt in years sizzled between his shoulder blades, slowly making its way up the back of his neck. Damn. His muscles tightened, and he twitched his shoulders and cracked his neck to try and stop the sensation.
The crowd had grown exponentially since he’d sat down. He regretted turning around to see how many people were between him and the front door. Crap, he really should leave. He’d known more revelers had arrived, because he was getting jostled and bumped as patrons moved from the bar to the seating area and dance floor, but he hadn’t actually seen the writhing mass. Fuck.
Weir had to be the only single person in the bar. Even the strip-o-gram was getting some love. Cupid was being passed above the crowd on the dance floor, like an old-school grunge crowd jumper.
As he took another gulp of his drink, he realized his hands were shaking. Enough that cool liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass onto his fingers. Deep breathing, he reminded himself. His shoulders clenched again, and he hunched closer to the bar, fighting the familiar yet unwelcome sensation of everything being too much. The back of his neck was hot and pinched, the top of his scalp tight. The sensation of being trapped increased. He needed to get outside or risk a full-blown panic/anxiety attack. Shutting his eyes against the crowd, he concentrated on his breathing and the glass of alcohol cool and damp against his palms.
A noisemaker screamed into his right ear, the high-pitched sound taking him completely apart.
Two
Sterling’s feet were killing him. He’d been running like crazy all night long. The combination of Valentine’s Day and the bar’s anniversary was a killer. Tonight was wilder than last year. He was going to kill whoever had hired the s
tripper, candy-gram, what-the-fuck-ever, with his bare hands. He had a few suspects. Or maybe he and the aloof, sexy federal agent sitting alone at the other end of the bar could get together and investigate the case. The fed looked good in his civvies tonight.
Yeah, no. Sterling didn’t date customers. An excellent rule, one that kept him from sleeping with the entire gay population of Skagit. Kept him from dating, because he didn’t do that, either. Dating meant giving up too much of himself. He didn’t see it happening. After fifteen-plus years of having his life under his own control, he saw no reason to change.
The bar was so busy he didn’t have time to make small talk. Kevin Smith, one of his part-time bartenders who was smart enough not to have signed up for this shift, stood at the drink station for a while trying to shoot the breeze, but soon enough even he had been driven away by the constant jostling of thirsty revelers and having to yell over the thump and grind of the sound system. At the Loft, Valentine’s Day looked more like Mardi Gras than a traditional candlelit, romantic dinner.
Kevin vanished into the writhing mass of dancing bodies—mostly men, although there were a few women tonight. The stripper was being passed around like a piece of candy. Sterling hoped no one dropped him. He could feel insurance rates rising the longer the guy was in the air.
Hands busy muddling fresh mint, making the twenty-jillionth mojito of the night, he kept his focus on the room. Kent, his door guy, was good, but a crowd like this needed attention at all times.
Something funky about Weir’s body language had Sterling keeping one eye on him while he worked. Weir seemed to be relaxing a little after the second stiff drink Sterling had poured him, until some asshole he didn’t recognize leaned in and blew a fucking noisemaker right in the guy’s ear. Without conscious thought Sterling was in front of Weir, leaning across the bar and grasping the man’s wrists with both hands.