Crossroads Page 6

  "That's awesome. I bet you'll do it, too." He was still so young there was no telling how far he might go in life.

  "Eh, maybe. Honestly, I'd be content to be somewhere I could just cook dinner every night."

  Ah, that was too far. His discomfort returned, and he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. I pretended like I'd not heard anything, just as I'd pretended not to see the scars on his back.

  "Well, you're welcome to cook for me any time you want. I really don’t love to cook." I wiggled my toes and closed my eyes, trying to put off total relaxation vibes, hoping it would help him get into the same mood.

  I peeked at Corey when I heard him shifting on the rock. He'd moved one leg on top of the other, putting his bare foot onto the rock.

  "You're going to have to rinse that foot again," I said, pointing at the one flat on the rock. "The dirt from the rock."

  "Well, it's all over our backs," he said with a laugh as he sat up and dipped his foot again.

  I’d noticed him taking pains to make sure I didn’t see his back. He obviously was off his guard, because it was on full display. I pretended I didn’t see the scars, but the sight of them made me want to pull him into my arms and hug him. "Yeah, but we can brush that off. It's hard to brush it off your foot then put it in your shoe."

  He shook his head and looked back at me. "You've got this down to a science, eh?"

  I chuckled but didn't reply as he settled back down beside me to let his foot dry. "So, yeah, I love to cook. That's about the only thing from my apartment with John I would've wanted to get, the kitchen utensils I've collected over the past couple of years. But, I can collect them all again."

  He was talking about his boyfriend that left. I didn't want to spook him, but I was insanely curious about what happened. "You mean you're not going back for any of your things?"

  A deep sigh answered me, but then to my surprise, he kept talking. "No. There's nothing there with any sentimental value."

  "Even after a couple of years?" I looked over to see his reaction to my question.

  Pursing his lips, he looked at me sadly. "No. Anything sentimental would've been gifts John got me, but I was done with him a long time ago. I just hadn't had the courage to take the plunge. He had me at his mercy. I didn't work outside our home, I didn't have any money of my own. How was I supposed to leave?"

  "I think that's a problem a lot of people share with you. Mostly women, but gay men, and I'm sure some hetero men. One partner is overbearing, and the other is slowly beaten down until they just stay out of sheer lack of options. I see it frequently, especially on domestic violence calls." Some of the things I'd seen had haunted me. Children, we could get away, if we could find them in time. But the women, mainly, in the area, we couldn't help until they wanted the help.

  Corey stiffened as I mentioned domestic violence. "You sound as if you've seen some things," Corey said gently. "If you'd like to talk about it?" His voice was tight, but sincere. He’d been through it, no doubt about it. Yet he was willing to talk to me about seeing it. Wow.

  My heart swelled. Talking about the things on my mind would be an instant trigger for Corey, based on what little I knew about him. He had to have known that. "Maybe one day," I said. "Hopefully, we'll still be friends when your life is settled, and we can sit down and talk."

  "I'm not sure where I'll settle," he whispered. "I can go anywhere. That's a huge possibility. A huge decision."

  "It is, but it doesn't have to be overwhelming. Please, take me up on my offer. Stay a few days. You can cook in exchange for room and board," I said in a teasing voice, so he knew he didn't have to. "I'm kidding but won't argue if you decide to cook."

  He sat up and reached over for our shoes. "I might take you up on it, Brady." Handing me my shoes, he smiled tightly, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Let me think about it tonight."

  Nodding, I put my shoes on and climbed off the rock, holding out a hand to help him down. He hadn't grown up in the mountains and didn't have experience moving around in the tricky terrain. Rocks like these, even when dry, could be deceptively slick. We grabbed our clothes, and I kept an eye on him back down the mountain to the truck, offering a hand a few times. He took it, and each time my skin touched his, something in me shifted and made my breathing catch. Damn. I was really growing to like Corey, but he was right. For all I knew, he'd just be a blip in my life.

  The ride home went quickly, both of us lost in our thoughts as we watched the world darken around us, and soon I was in range of the various Wi-Fi signals. My phone began to ding as I slowed at a stop sign very close to a house—and their Wi-Fi. Messages from the station popped through. I clicked on the one from the captain first.

  Captain: Suspicious vehicle in town. Multiple businesses report El Camino driving slowly, parking in their lot for a while, then moving on. BOLO.

  "What's wrong?" Corey asked. "Your phone blew up."

  Looking at him, I decided not to tell him until we got home. He'd just be worried. "Nothing important. Just got a lot at once." He nodded and looked out the window, and I moved on, taking us straight to my house and into my garage where he couldn't be seen from the road.

  "I recommend straight to a shower," I said as we unloaded the empty coolers, setting them beside the utility sink in my garage. I'd clean them out later and stow them on the shelves against the garage wall. "You don't want to sleep with river silt up your crack."

  Corey burst out laughing and opened the washing machine beside the utility sink. It was empty. "Put your dirty clothes in here," he said. "I'll bring mine out and start a load."

  "You don't have to do that." I was perfectly capable of doing our laundry.

  "I do, actually. I'm out of clean clothes." He shrugged. "Do you mind?"

  "Not at all," I exclaimed. "You don't have to wash mine, though."

  "I don't have enough for a full load." He walked toward the door to the house.

  "Well, thank you, then. I appreciate it." I followed him into the house. He continued straight out the back door, and I went to my shower.

  Taking my time, I slowly stroked my cock while I pictured Corey in the river. He'd been graceful, slicing through the cold water like he'd been born in it. His body was sublime, lean and, though he didn't realize it, my exact fantasy. If he found out, he'd think I was only being nice to him for sex, and that wasn't the case at all.

  I put my head against the shower wall as I felt my orgasm build in my balls, imagining my mouth on Corey's nipple ring. My mind switched to wondering what he was doing, and if he might be doing the same thing in the shower, thinking about me, and I came in a spurt, hitting the shower wall as I moaned his name.

  There was no way in hell I'd pressure him into having sex, but as I sprayed the evidence of my orgasm off the wall of the shower, I knew I'd never be able to turn him down, either.

  10

  Corey

  The washer buzzed as I walked into the garage to check on it. I'd showered, taking the time to stroke the image of Brady's body out of my mind with a not-good-enough orgasm. If I didn't let myself fuck him soon, I might go crazy. My pajama pants weren't really dirty, so I put them on and nothing else. I wanted to get everything else clean.

  Throwing the small load into the dryer, I returned to the kitchen. Brady had never come down from his shower. I guessed he went to bed, but I was starving. Poking around in his fridge, I found ingredients for a sandwich and made one like the night before.

  Tiptoeing to the hall, I stuck my head in the stairwell and listened. Silence. He must've gone to bed. By the time I'd taken my shower, brought my clothes, and started the load, it was nearly ten at night. I ate my sandwich and turned on my phone. I'd grabbed it from the bedside table in the cottage, my curiosity overcoming my good sense.

  As it booted up, I found a bottle of cold water and sat at the table.

  It blew up the way Brady's had. Message after message from John pinged through, deafening in the silent kitchen. Only the m
uted sounds of the laces from the swim trunks hitting the side of the dryer broke the quiet until my damn phone started chirping like a damn bird. I slammed my hand onto the table, grabbing the phone and turning the volume down. I opened the messenger app, without reading them, swiped them left one by one, deleting them all.

  Then the email notifications started going off, the phone vibrating in my hand. Opening that app, I started to swipe those away, too, but the words caught my eye before I could.

  Subject: I'll fucking kill you

  Fuck. He'd escalated. He'd never threatened to kill me before. If I'd not been sure about never returning to Portland before, I was now. If I didn't decide to settle for a while in Three Lakes, I was going as far away from Portland as I could.

  Thinking about my missing money, I realized that wasn't far. If Brady hadn't made me feel so welcome, I would've been begging on the street. Literally. Over the years, my relationship with John had pushed every friend I’d made in Portland away. And I was so far removed from my few friends in my hometown, no way I could call them. I chuckled as I thought about calling my parents for help. They’d made their feelings about me perfectly clear.

  I was on my own, but after so long with John, it wasn’t as scary as it probably should’ve been.

  After cleaning up the small mess I'd made in the kitchen, I opened a mindless candy-matching app, I burned the time until the dryer finished without thinking. I was on a really high level, and all my energy went into trying not to think about John or his volatile temper.

  Eventually, the dryer buzzed, and I pulled out the clothes, folding Brady's neatly and leaving them on the kitchen table. My phone buzzed in my pocket as I walked back to the cottage, scaring me as I tiptoed barefoot across the lawn in the dark.

  It was another text from John.

  John: I know you're still in this fucking town. I'll find you.

  Was he here? How did he know I was still here? He couldn't possibly think I'd stayed.

  I deleted the messages app and then the email app. I wanted to have my phone, I loved playing my candy game until I fell asleep, but having John trying to contact me wasn't okay.

  The messages app wouldn't delete. Seriously? Fuck. I played around in the settings until I found a way to block John's number. Now maybe I could stop thinking about him and that horrible time in my life and move on.

  After folding my clothes, I debated putting them back into my bag, but I eyed the dresser wistfully. It would be so nice to be able to unpack, and just be here for a while.

  A good hour later, I realized I was asleep, still holding my phone open to the game, so I plugged it in and rolled over, going to sleep quickly, content in the knowledge that I was as safe as I'd been since I was small, Brady just a few feet away.

  The next morning, I bounded out of bed with a huge smile on my face. I wanted to make breakfast and surprise my kind friend. Running a quick comb through my hair, I threw on a tee and nearly skipped over to the main house.

  Brady was already up, to my surprise, pulling pastries out of a toaster oven. "They're just frozen, but I overslept."

  I stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at his back.

  He was wearing his uniform, complete with belt, cuffs, and gun. My dick twitched at me. No, down, boy. We couldn’t get a raging hard-on in Brady’s kitchen.

  But, holy fucking shit. He was as hot as hot could get. His broad shoulders strained at the fabric of his shirt, and as he turned, I realized his sleeves could've really stood to have been a size bigger. The fabric moved with him as he reached out an arm, holding a plate of flaky pastries. "Hungry?" He sealed the deal by grabbing a cup of coffee from the counter and offering it to me as well.

  I was starving, but the words wouldn't come to mind. His shiny badge glinted on his pec in the morning sun as he turned to face me. "Are you okay?"

  Blinking rapidly, I lurched forward. "Yes, yeah, starved, thanks."

  He was a cop. A freaking cop. I simultaneously wanted to run screaming and rip his snug uniform off of him and suck his dick right here in the kitchen.

  Fuck that, it would've been hotter to leave the uniform on and just pull his cock out. And the handcuffs. Mmmm, handcuffs.

  Damn it. My own dick tried to harden. I turned quickly to the table, hiding the evidence of my attraction. "You're up early," I said with my back to him.

  "Yep, I'm on call today. I need to get going, but I wanted to see if you'd like to do a ride-along today."

  With John possibly being in the town, sitting in the cruiser of Three Lakes' hottest cop was probably the safest place for me. "Sure," I said brightly. "I'll go change. I can eat in the car."

  I ran from the table, angling my body so he couldn't see my dick tenting my pajama pants. Pausing at the door, I backed up a few steps and took the coffee from his hands without turning to face him. He chuckled at my antics. Little did he know the real reason wasn't to be silly but to hide a mammoth erection.

  When I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, having successfully talked my dick down and changed into my only pair of khaki pants, now wrinkle-free, Brady was looking through a cookbook. "This was my grandmother's," he said as he leafed through it. "She didn't have anyone that loved to cook as much as she did to give it to." He smiled at me as he held out his arm, handing me the cookbook.

  I leafed through it, finding a plethora of delicious home-cooking recipes. "This is great," I said as I read through. It was like a scrapbook, a testament to her love for her family over the years. Little notes were written in the margins, like, "Clara's favorite," or "Brady hates."

  "So you hate fried okra?" I asked, grinning at him. "Good to know."

  "Actually, I love it now. But when I was five, yeah, I thought it was the grossest thing ever." He checked his watch. "Shoot, we gotta go. I want you to have that." Downing his coffee, he put the pastries on a paper towel and grabbed a smallish cooler from the counter. "Lunch," he muttered.

  Setting the precious cookbook on the counter, I took the pastries so he didn't have to juggle so much. "I can't keep that cookbook," I said as I followed him into the garage.

  "Of course you can," he said as he opened my truck door and put the cooler behind my seat. He left it open for me casually, as if he hadn't opened it just so he could open my door for me. It didn't miss my notice that the spot behind his own seat was perfectly clear. He could've left me to open my own door and put the cooler behind his seat. I grinned as I hopped into the truck, not offended in the least. Fucking cute.

  "Have you seen the notes in the margin?" I asked. "They're too sentimental."

  "They're really not," he said. "I have plenty of my grandmother to remind me. You'll use that cookbook far more than I would."

  He couldn't have known that my parents had a cookbook like that one, from one of my own grandparents. I'd looked through it countless times over the years. It wasn't as neatly pressed into a scrapbook as Brady's grandmother's was, but it was crammed full of recipes my own grandmother had notated with changes and notes about who liked what best. When I'd moved out, it was one of the things I'd missed the most, lamenting the fact that I didn't have the family recipe for certain dishes I vividly remembered from my childhood. In a choked-up voice, I decided to tell him about it.

  He listened to my story as we drove into town. I tried to keep it truncated and not give away too many details. He didn't really need to know the shitshow that had been my life, not all at once. "My parents weren’t… uh, supportive. I left home quite young.” No need to tell him at this point that they kicked me out at fourteen. “But, when I moved out, they kept the cookbook. I miss it."

  "You don't speak to them?" he asked as he pulled into the parking lot of a tiny brick building.

  "No," I said shortly as he parked his truck.

  "Let me just check in. Want to come in with me and meet the guys?"

  Yeesh. Police stations gave me the creeps. I'd been in too many to want to voluntarily spend any time in one. "I'll wait for you here," I said,
trying to think of a reason I wouldn’t want to go in the station. "I have a touch of social anxiety. Maybe I can meet everyone later?" I tried to make it seem like no big deal and hoped that he didn't read too much into it. If I went in there, I'd be awkward as hell.

  "Okay," he said and hopped out. "That's my squad car right beside us. I'll be right back."

  He was back in minutes. "Nothing of note going on today, so we just patrol. I have a few places I check, and a few people I check on every time I have a patrol day."

  Pressing the button on the key fob, Brady unlocked the doors and I slid into the front seat. "This might be the first time I've ridden in the front of one of these things," I joked as I buckled my seatbelt.

  Brady shot me a strange look as he checked his mirrors to back out of the parking space. Damn it. Awkward, inappropriate joke.

  "So," I said quickly before he had a chance to ask me what I'd meant. "They don’t care that you’re doing a ride-along?"

  “No, we do them all the time, usually for high school kids thinking about law enforcement. Small town, relaxed rules. But that reminds me.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “You do have to sign a liability waiver.”

  I wrote my fake last name down and signed with a flourish. Why not? “They don't let you drive the cruisers home?” I asked as I handed the paper back.

  "We used to, but with the opening of the brewery, we had to add another patrol to the night shift, so now since I'm the second newest member of the force, I have to share my car with the night guy."

  "I would've thought you'd have your own cars." I studied all the buttons on the dash. "It's not as complicated as—" I cut myself off, having almost told him the cars in Portland had more bells and whistles. "Uh, as I would've expected," I amended.

  "No, mainly just a switch for the siren and lights, and of course the radio." It was a basic transistor radio. Nothing fancy out in the country.

  "So, what made you want to be a cop?" I asked, eager to get the light off of me and my big mouth.