“What?”Wes blurted out in shock.“Why isn’the sold on the idea?”In past, he was the one who rejected requestsfrom others for work collaborations.What the fuck?
Mac shrugged.“All I can say is R.D.prefersto work solo.If you want more details, you’ll have to ask himdirectly.Taking on a writing partner is a big deal, and you’llneed to ensure you’re a good match.I’m going on my instinct andexperience and based on both your work and your personalities.Ithink there’s some interesting contrasts that will play out verynicely.”
Wes pondered Mac’s input, and his curiosityover this book deal—and now R.D.Smith—grew stronger.Wes was usedto getting what he wanted, and this would be no different.No waywould he allow Mr.Reluctant to write him off (pun intended) beforethey’d talked it out.
“Well, it looks like this could be a farmore interesting venture than I expected.There’s nothing I likebetter than using my charm to convince unreceptive audiences to domy bidding.”He smirked.Mac sighed and Grey rolled his eyes.
“I thought Canadians were humble,” Mac saidas he pointed at Wes.
“Wes defies stereotypes,” Grey respondedwryly, then turned to Wes.“Someday, Wes, that arrogance is goingto come back and bite you in the ass.”
Wes’s grin grew bigger.“My ass looksforward to it,” he replied.All three men broke out intolaughter.
Mac and Grey continued to chat about Wes’supcoming book tour while Wes thought about this new project.He wasconfident that by this time next week, he would have a new bookdeal and a new writing partner.
Convince R.D.to work with him?The deal wasas good as signed.
Chapter Three
Ryker
Ryker was running as fast as he could.
He couldn’t see his attacker, but he couldhear their heavy breathing and pounding footsteps behind him.Suddenly, a large hand grabbed his arm.Ryker couldn’t get loose—hewas caught, trapped—
No, not again, let go!Stop!
He opened his eyes to find his dog, Spock,by the side of his bed, his wet nose nuzzling Ryker’s palm.It’sokay.I’m okay,he said to himself.It was just anothernightmare.
Would he ever stop having them?How manyyears would it take?
These thoughts sent his body into a totalspiral.Sweat covered his skin.His heart pounded.His ears filledwith a high-pitched buzzing noise, and his airway felt constricted.Pain radiated from his chest into his back.He reared up out of hisking-sized bed, threw off the navy duvet, and turned on the bedsidelamp, reaching for his glasses.He glanced at his phone: twoforty-six AM.
Get up.Get up,he repeated tohimself.Get moving.It’s not a heart attack.It’s justanxiety.Move.Don’t think, move.
Throwing on black lounge pants, he rushedinto his living room and turned on every light, his fear slowlyebbing.He made his way over to the large oak desk by the window,the one that looked out over Central Park, and logged onto hislaptop.Spock quietly followed him and lay down on top of his feet,offering comfort to his human.
Ryker then did the only thing that kept himsane and grounded no matter what happened in his life—he wrote.
In the middle of the night, it didn’t reallymatter if the words were novel-worthy.Getting lost in hisimagination helped exorcise his thoughts.Invested in hischaracters and their stories, he forgot about his own problems fora little while.
He stopped momentarily and rubbed the lavarock bracelets on his left wrist, counting each bead to distracthis mind and bring his heart back to a normal rhythm.People oftentold him the bracelets were a cool fashion statement, and he didn’tcare to correct them.Counting items was one of several copingmechanisms Ryker had learned during therapy to help bring calm.Anything to bring calm.
A short while later, he could feel his bodyslowly normalizing, his heart rate now at an easy pace and hisbreathing slower and deeper.Ryker continued to work, getting lostin his creativity, letting the story take him wherever it needed togo.Time passed quickly when he got caught up in his writing, andwhen he next glanced at his phone, it was four thirty-four AM.
“Okay, Spock, time to close up shop and tryto go back to sleep.”He closed his laptop and motioned to his dog,and they sauntered off down the hallway.Snuggling back under thecovers in his bed, Ryker rubbed his tired eyes and turned on hissleep app.Twenty minutes later, the room was filled with humansnores and animal rumbles.
****
It seemed like he had fallen asleep only asecond ago when the sound of his phone ringing woke him at elevenAM.Cal.
Mac, Cal, and Ryker had been friends foralmost two decades.Ryker was the moody introvert, Mac thepersuasive dealmaker, and Cal was the life of the party.He was asuccessful artist and one of the kindest people Ryker had ever met,and his unfiltered mouth was hilarious and sometimes frightening inits honesty.You were always in for an interesting time withCal.
“Hey, trouble.What’s up?”Ryker asked inhis sleepy voice.
“My dick, for a good four hours.Man, thoseerectile medications aren’t kidding!‘Don’t take more than therecommended dose’—good advice for you, my friend.ThoughtI’d have to head over to the ER if I didn’t calm down soon.”Helaughed.
Ryker rolled his eyes and sat up in bed.“Very funny, like you need sex meds.So, what’s going on?How areyou?”
