Page 15 of Lover
“My parents were either comfortably numb or raising the roof off the house as far back as I can remember. As I got older, I learned to fend for myself and avoid them as much as possible, especially after I told them I was gay. When I was fifteen I met someone, an older guy that said all the right things and spun a web of deceit that I fell into. He was so kind and gentle, at first. He made promises that I can look back on now and recognize as bullshit. But at the time, I was so young and stupid and starved for love and attention—and Bruce gave me that, in spades.” Shannon sipped some of the delicious tea, appreciating the fact that no one spoke; they all sat back and let him take the wheel.
“I decided to skip school one day and instead spent the afternoon at one of the local record stores. When I left, Bruce was out front in his town car, his driver, Tuan, holding the door open for me, and I climbed in. I didn’t go home that night. In fact, I never went home again. I stayed in the guest room for a while—he told me it was safer at his place, told me that he would protect me, that I mattered to him, unlike my folks. Again, young and stupid and I believed him. The relationship evolved gradually, I think. Sometimes when I look back and try to recall the specifics it’s hazy, but I do know that it was awhile before I was in his bed.”
“Whoa, time out.” Rand made a T with his hands and Shannon giggled despite the severity of the situation; he couldn’t help it. “Exactly how old was this Bruce guy?”
“Thirty-three.”
Connie choked on her beer, sputtering and spitting it all over the coffee table. “Are you fucking serious?” Rand barked. Shannon nodded. All the while the two of them were tripping over their tongues, Rory stayed quiet and calm. His breathing had hitched when he heard how old Bruce was, and he’d gripped Shan’s hand tighter, but no outburst from him.
“Ay, Dios mío!” Gonzales went off on a tirade, Spanish curses flying around the room.
Rand’s eyes had gone dark, fist clenching the pen so tight Shannon thought surely it would snap in half. “Tell me, Shannon. Did your parents ever look for you, file a report, cops come knocking on the door of a middle-aged man that was tucking a fucking teenager into his bed every night?” The deep baritone and low growl in Rand’s tone didn’t frighten Shannon the way it would have in the past.
“Haven’t you been listening, Rand? They probably threw a party when I left, but to answer your question, no, not that I know of.” Shannon sunk back into the chair, fighting valiantly not to cry.
“Anyway.” Rory spoke before Rand could ask another question. “Go ahead, Shan. Finish your story.”
Apprehension flooded his veins. Closing his eyes and concentrating on deep, even breaths, Shannon exhaled slowly. The moment of truth—would Rory still want to be with him after hearing just how worthless he truly was? “One day I disagreed with something he said, and he smacked me. Everything went downhill from there. It was all sunshine and roses for a while, then he’d beat the shit out of me, then he’d apologize and promise not to do it again. There were a handful of times he went too far and had to take me to the ER or a clinic. He told me to tell them he was my uncle because no one would understand our relationship and, fuck, I was so naïve I believed his empty promises and played along.” Shannon angrily brushed the tears away, sniffling, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Babe, maybe we should take a break. Let me freshen up your tea.”
“No! Sorry, I...” He apologized, nuzzling Rory’s hand with his cheek when Rory brushed a stray tear away with his thumb. “...I need to finish, tell you everything. If I stop talking, I may never be able to start talking about him again.”
Connie stood and leaned over the coffee table, gesturing for him and Rory to hand over their mugs. “You say what you need,mijo. I’ll take care of this.” She winked, her smile genuine.
Wrapping an arm around Shannon and pulling him close, Rory whispered in his ear. “You sure you’re okay, Shan?” Was he? Probably not. But draining the poison from his soul was necessary. He just hoped the scars this time around wouldn’t be permanent. Nodding, he laid his head on Rory’s shoulder and breathed in his scent.
Across from them, the good detective was scribbling something on his pad, the scratch of pen on paper unnerving in the otherwise quiet room. Connie strolled back with two steaming mugs in one hand and two chilled bottles of beer in the other. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”
“I wasn’t, not really.” Taking the cup, he sipped and sighed. “Perfect, thanks. When I saw that file earlier today, I was drawn to it by the image sticking out of the top. The guy in the photo looked a lot like me. I was shocked at how many pictures were in the file, but it was a piece of paper that caused my heart to skip a beat, or rather, what was written on it.” A snapshot of that fucking list would be forever ingrained in his mind. Closing his eyes, he shuddered involuntarily, repeating the words he’d seen. “‘Most victims have scarring or broken bones, fractures, some healed, some new, obvious abuse.’
“That freaked me the fuck out because that was, well,isme. Even more terrifying than that was the dream I had earlier. I remembered something Bruce said to me the first time I tried to leave. ‘I should let you go like the others.’ Those words never registered in my mind until today.”
Crossing his arms, Rand sat back and soaked it all in, running his hand over his buzzed head of hair. Shannon could almost see the gears in his brain turning as Rand went over everything he’d told them. “Fuck, Shannon, I’m so sorry you ever had to go through that, and I think I want to kick the shit out of this Bruce, but we need to focus on any possible connection he has to the victims.” Reaching for his pad and pen, Rand flipped the page and glanced over at Connie, the two of them exchanging looks that worried Shannon before they focused on him again. “For now, let’s just run some background on this asshat. What is Bruce’s last name, where does—or rather, where did he live when you were there, and what type of work does he do?”
Shannon snorted; try as he might he could never forget the tiniest of details about his ex. “Bruce Pearson, Attorney at Law, resides in the condo on the top floor of Watermark Tower in Seattle, Washington.”
Connie muttered something in Spanish, and Rand quite possibly translated for her in the form of a four-letter word. “Fuck, he’s a lawyer. That doesn’t bode well. He’ll know the law inside out and, if he’s our unsub, will have connections that could alert him to an investigation.”
Fear coursed through Shannon’s veins like ice water, leaving him chilled to the bone and instantly terrified. “Wait, you don’t think...that...will...” His body ached, just the memory of the abuse he’d suffered making him dizzy and light-headed. “...Jesus, Rory, what if he finds out it’s me? What if he comes here?” His gut reaction was to run as fast and as far away as he could. Rationally, Shannon knew that his lover, the ornery detective, and the lethal woman now sitting on the coffee table in front of him holding his hand would do everything in their power to keep him safe. But this was Bruce they were talking about. Even worse, wherever Bruce was, Tuan was, and the thought made his heart skip a beat. He jerked the blanket off and tried to stand, but Rory pulled him down. Although, rationally, Shannon knew Rory was not Bruce, that his lover would never hurt him, the feel of Rory’s hands on him at that very moment made his skin crawl. “Don’t touch me!” It was instinct that made him shout and swat the hand away. Sitting back, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe; his chest felt tight and the love seat they sat in started to spin out of control.
“Okaymijo, calm down and breathe.” All three Connies spoke in unison, and he wondered which one was real. Everything was fuzzy, his vision graying around the edges. Rand and Rory were shouting, whether at each other, him, or Connie, he didn’t know; he couldn’t focus on any one thing. And then, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he blacked out.
Chapter Twelve
Rand
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Exhausted, Rand ranhis hands down his face, rubbing his dry, itchy eyes. He’d been staring at the computer screen so long he wouldn’t be surprised if he wiped away blood. Picking up his cell, he groaned, seeing no missed calls, no text message notifications. When he and Gonzales left Shannon’s apartment the previous night, he’d been hesitant to go, worried for the young man he was growing quite fond of. As much as it chapped his ass, Rand had to admit to himself that Shannon was in the capable hands of his boyfriend.
Fucking hell,Davis. Why can’t you put those two out of your line of sight? They’re a couple, and they’re in love,and three is a crowd,you dipshit. It was hard to sit and just listen as Shannon recounted years of abuse. To see the look of sheer terror in his eyes at just the thought of Bruce Pearson finding out where he was. In a fleeting moment of insanity, he actually leaned forward on the couch, intent on standing and walking around the coffee table, pulling both men into his arms and promising them it would all be okay.
Stop looking at them and seeing them as anything more than friends, dumbass, he thought and then let out a sigh.Easier said than done.
Cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders, he concentrated on the task at hand: Bruce fucking Pearson. He and Gonzales had learned a lot about the abusive asshole between the Dallas PD and FBI databases as well as connections he still had within Naval Intelligence. Now in his early forties, the attorney had an uncanny ability to win difficult cases. There were news articles Rand found on different sites talking about witness tampering, money changing hands, and evidence promptly disappearing. There were other dirty, underhanded accusations hurled at Pearson, but there was never any solid proof of misconduct. Still, the Internet was a vast black hole of never-ending bad decisions. A photo snapped and posted on Instagram that would later be deleted remained in the dark crevices of the World Wide Web, and Connie Gonzales was a bloodhound with a keyboard and access to damn near every database in the country.
While they were in Washington, she’d pulled up Shannon’s learner’s permit to obtain his address prior to running away and winding up at Bruce’s. She’d learned that Momma and Papa Dupree had sold the house and moved about a year after Shannon left. While Rand wanted to delve deeper into the Duprees’ complete and utter lack of concern for their child’s whereabouts, he knew it would hurt Shannon. Sating his curiosity wasn’t worth the pain opening that old wound would cause Shannon, so he’d let it go.
