Fleeing the questions and horrific memories in Miami-Dade, Trevor Garrett accepts a deputy position in the small town of Rolling Fork, Mississippi. Plagued by anxiety attacks and an abhorrence to being touched, Trevor rebuffs his best friend’s attempts to set him up. He has no desire for any type of relationship; until the local golden boy strolls into his line of sight at the neighborhood dive…
Logan Andrews just wants to take care of his mama. After years of serving his country in the Army Special Forces, Logan resigns when he learns his mother is suffering from advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease. A night out with old friends turns heated when the newest deputy in town catches his attention…
When a sexually deviant killer sets his sights on the gay men in the area, Trevor is assigned the case. In a wicked twist, all evidence points to Logan. Can Trevor’s past be repeating itself? In a race against a killer, Trevor struggles to overcome his own insecurities and clear the man whose touch sets him on fire. Will he succeed or will their budding relationship become Collateral Damage?
Staggering to the bathroom, Trevor used one hand on the wall to guide him. Bleary eyes refused to focus. Jim Beam played Hell with his balance. A category four hurricane roared between his ears. Fur coated his tongue and teeth and his bladder felt like the entire Atlantic Ocean had taken up residence. Hangovers fucking sucked.
He skipped the light in favor of his too sensitive eyes and fumbled with the toilet seat. How the fuck did it always end up down when two guys lived in the damn house? No waistband met his searching fingers and he realized he was buck ass naked. Noah wasn’t going to like that, especially not if Ashton had stayed over for the night. His palm found his cock and he aimed on instinct. The release of pressure dragged a groan out of him.
Why the fuck had he gotten drunk? He hadn’t done that since…nope, still not wasted enough to go there. But, he’d been stone fucking cold sober when he’d told Logan every minute detail. Another groan preceded a curse. That was why he was hating on Jimmy B so early in the morning; he had been trying to drown the whining ass who’d spilled his guts like some female on Oprah steroids.
He shook, flushed and shuffled to the sink. Water poured out of the faucet. A quick soap job and he grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste. His teeth needed a serious haircut. The minty flavor turned his stomach, but he persisted. Fur on teeth was just unnatural. A few rinse and spits and he stumbled back down the hallway to his room.
The dead soldier laughed at him from beside the bed. Not a drop of liquid remained in the bottle. “I hate you, Mr. Beam, just so ya know. You and me, we ain’t friends anymore. I’m thinking Mr. Cuervo won’t be so hateful the next morning.” And, he was talking to a whiskey bottle. Definitely time for coffee.
He expected the familiar scent to draw the men out of the bedroom. He popped two pain relievers while he waited for the brew. Thinking he heard shuffling down the hall, he set three mugs on the counter. When the final drip fell, Noah still hadn’t appeared. Odd, it was a weekday.
Trevor checked his watch. Shit! Ten a.m. Thank God, he was on afternoon to evening shift or the Sheriff would be chewing his ass. Noah was long gone; the office opened at eight every morning. He checked the window and sure enough, his friend’s car wasn’t in the drive.
Carrying his coffee into the living room, he dropped into the recliner. He blanked his mind, refusing to think about what he’d told Logan yesterday and the way he’d sent the man away. He didn’t want to think; didn’t want to feel. He considered a gym visit, but wasn’t sure his stomach would appreciate his efforts. And, what if Logan was there? He settled deeper into the recliner. Nope. He was good right where he was.
An hour later, he felt almost human again. His stomach still rebelled at the thought of food, but the storm inside of his head had lulled. He carried his coffee cup to the kitchen and rinsed it out, leaving it to dry in the sink. After a punishing cold shower, he dressed in khakis and a black polo pullover with the department’s name sewn onto the space over his heart. He strapped on his belt and holstered his gun before clipping his badge and handcuffs to the leather.
Trevor stared at himself in the mirror. The uniform was different, but the image was one he’d seen most of his adult life. He was a cop, had always wanted to be a cop. He had a job to do and he wasn’t going to let Braeden Gustinvil take that away from him. With a final glare at the man in the mirror, he spun on his booted heel and strode down the hall.
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About the author
#1 Best Selling Author of Grand Slam, J.T. Cheyanne is a genre crosser who writes romance and paranormal in the m/m and m/f genres. J.T. Cheyanne resides in the beautiful state of Alabama. J.T. lives with her two sons and daughter. An avid reader since fourth grade, she has only just started writing her own stories. She also has several works published with her co-author, V.L. Moon.