Chapter One
Eight Years Ago
Graham
Drainingmy second bottle of beer, I glance around the crowded bar. I don’t know why I let Oskar and Simon talk me into this. But it’s New Year’s Eve, and in two days, we’ll be headed to Alaska. My bunkmates wanted to party, and they dragged me along—probably because they know I’ll get them back to the cutter on time.
Assuming I can find them. The music is loud enough, I feel it in my gut. This isn’t my scene. All night I’ve had to fend off drunk advances from chicks who just want a night with a guy in uniform.
One of them—she couldn’t have been more than nineteen—was so aggressive, I finally had to tell her I bat for the other team. She spent a full five minutes cursing me out for “leading her on.” The fuck? I ignored her for an hour. Didn’t tell her my name. Just a polite, “Sorry, I’m not interested.” Over and over again.
It takes more than ten minutes of fighting through drunk revelers to find Oskar. “Dude, we need to head back.”
“It’s almost midnight, Peck. Live a little.” His words slur, his arm draped around a tall, willowy woman with jet black hair.
“Yeah,” his companion says. “Have a little fun. Want to come join us in the back?”
Oh, hell no. Holding up my hands, I shake my head. “Not my thing. But you two have fun.” Before I start looking for Simon, I lean in so I can shout in Oskar’s ear. “I’ll be outside in fifteen minutes. You’re not there in twenty, you can find your own way back to the cutter.”
He toasts me with his beer bottle seconds before he and his “date” start sucking face.
Simon, Oskar, and I aren’t close. Then again, I’m not tight with anyone on board. It’s easier that way. No need to make up a story about the girl back home or brag about past conquests that never happened.
I’m not sure why I agreed to come out with them tonight—except we’re shipping out in forty-eight hours, and this is my last chance to see the inside of a civilian bar for at least two months.
Simon’s nowhere to be found, so I make my way to the door just as the DJ announces it’s one minute until midnight.
Spilling out onto the sidewalk with the rest of the overflow, I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket and breathe in the foggy San Francisco air. Everyone else is cheering, hugging, and kissing, but I find a spot against the wall and try to ignore the party happening all around me.
A big, burly guy—probably the bouncer—gives me the side eye, and I shrug. “No one to kiss at midnight.”
He scoffs. “Coast Guard? You’re not looking hard enough, man. Plenty of ladies in there who’d be all over you.”
I glance around, then lean in. Between the look in his eyes and the slight bulge in his tight black pants that Iknowwasn’t there a second ago, he’s sending signals like a fucking beacon. “Ladiesdon’t do it for me.”
As the whole bar shouts, “Three, two, one,” the bouncer fists my jacket and pulls me in for one quick, hard kiss. It’s nothing but heat and the pressure of his lips crushing mine, and for all of three seconds, I lose myself to it. To him.
Until I realize where I am. In public. In uniform. With two of my bunkmates inside.
My shoulders hike up, and I press my palms to the bouncer’s massive chest. “Sorry...bad idea,” I manage, then add, “Happy New Year.”
His cheeks, already flushed from the cold, turn beet red, and he steps back. “Thought I caught a vibe, man.”
“You did. But…you know. Doesn’t change anything.” I can’t muster much of a smile as I peer back inside, hoping Oskar and Simon aren’trightthere. “If you see two guys dressed like me stumbling out of here in the next few minutes, send them south. I’m heading for the light rail station.”
“Sure.”
I haven’t kissed anyone on New Year’s Eve in years. Five steps down the street, I turn. “Bad idea or not...that was hot as fuck.”
He flashes me a killer smile before focusing his attention on a couple of drunks starting to get loud behind him. Not more than two blocks later, the fog so thick I can only see a foot in front of me, the punch comes out of nowhere.
“Get his hands!”
I can’t see anything but white as I’m thrown to the ground. Someone jerks my arms behind my back, and the distinct sound of a belt buckle flaps seconds before the leather’s wrapped around my wrists.
My cheek lands in a pile of dog shit, and the sound it makes squishing into my ear when a boot presses to my temple is one I know I’ll never forget.
“Let’s give this piece of fairy garbage what he deserves,” another angry male voice says from above me.
