“Of course not!” When I raise my voice, Connor’s eyes widen. I haven’t yelled at him since I was a little kid. Back then, he could ignore me. “But I didn’t say no.” Memories hit me in flashes. Alec’s voice. The taste of the pills on my tongue. Him lifting me out of bed and dumping me into the wheelchair. Every. Single. Day. Panic tightens cold fingers around my heart, and I pull out the little tin of Xanax I keep in the pocket of my sweatpants and swallow one dry.
Randall, thank God, clears his throat. “At no time did Mr. Harrow force Quinton to take medication against his will or stop him from leaving the condo. If Quinton had been in a long-term care facility, we might have a case for medical negligence. But not with their prior established relationship.”
I flinch at the word. Relationship. I’ll never trust someone with my heart again. I can walk now. Not well. Not for long. But one day, maybe I won’t need the walker I used to shuffle down the hall from my room. The cane I use on my good days. The muscle relaxers.
Connor jerks to his feet and starts pacing the room. “Two months. That asshole had Quinton for two months. And the best you can do is a fucking restraining order.”
“Connor, shut up.” I flip through the paperwork and scrawl my signature next to Randall’s little Post-it flags. It takes me several seconds to muster enough strength to press my hands to the table and push myself up. “It doesn’t matter what happens to Alec. You made sure he’ll never find me.”
Randall opens his briefcase and removes a second stack of papers. “Which brings me to the next order of business. Name change paperwork. Sign everywhere that’s marked and as soon as I get to the courthouse in the morning, you’ll officially be Quinton Silver, not Quinton Davis.”
“Are you sure about this?” Connor rests his hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You shouldn’t have to give up your name.”
“It’s safer,” I whisper. “When I get out of here, I want to go somewhere he’ll never find me. San Francisco. Seattle. Los Angeles. Start over. Help me do that. Please, Connor.”
My brother wraps an arm around me, careful not to tip me off balance. “Whatever you need, Quinton. I wasn’t there for you after the accident. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
Chapter Four
Present Day
Graham
A cold breezestirs the fallen leaves as I run hill repeats on Phinney Ridge in the dark of early morning. Why did I agree to this again?
Because you finally beat Inara on the climbing wall, and she was pissed.
The former Army Ranger sniper—and one of the team at Hidden Agenda K&R—challenged me to this torture. I owed her after the celebratory dance I did when I reached the ground.
Fog wraps around me, tinged with the scent of seawater, and when I turn the corner, the visibility drops to no more than fifty feet. It’s disorienting, and a chunk of uneven sidewalk trips me up.
I hit the ground, scraping my palms, and my right knee lands in something…oh, fuck. Dog shit. The stench is overwhelming, and suddenly, I’m not in Seattle anymore. I’m trapped in an alley in San Francisco, four guys taking turns beating the crap out of me.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. All I can hear are their taunts and slurs. Wrapping my arms around my head, I curl into a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“Graham?”
Inara’s voice cuts through my memories, and I jerk up to my hands and knees. “Here.” My voice isn’t steady. Neither are my legs, but I struggle to my feet as she jogs up to me.
“You okay?” Her nose wrinkles as she stops short. “What the fuck is that God-awful smell?”
“Some asshole not picking up after his dog. Take my name off the climbing wall leaderboard if you want, but I’m done.” My hands burn, and I yank off my running cap and swipe it over the mess on my knee, then toss the ruined black fleece into the garbage can.
Inara’s fingers wrap around my forearm, and I can’t stop my whole body from going rigid. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Other than being covered in dog shit.” I haven’t told anyone at Hidden Agenda what happened to me eight years ago. Ryker—our team leader—probably knows. His background checks are so deep, I’m sure he even found out about that time in seventh grade I got detention for kissing another boy. The police report from the attack would be public record. But Inara? West? Ripper? Ry wouldn’t tell them without telling me first.
She snorts. “Sure. Because I don’t have any experience with men keeping secrets. I swear, you’re as bad as Ry. Just with a better sense of humor.”
Shaking off her hold, I take a step back. “Fine. You’re right. It’s not the dog shit. But it’s not something I want to talk about either.”
“Suit yourself.” Inara swipes at her brow and pulls a bottle of water from her running belt. After a swig, she runs a hand through her hair and narrows her eyes at me. “You know we’re family, right?”
The words sting. So does her tone. “It was a long time ago. I’m solid.”
“You better be. This happens on mission, you could put us all at risk.”
“I’ve been with Hidden Agenda almost three years. You don’t trust me by now?” I keep my voice low. This neighborhood is a mix of apartments and condos on top of businesses, and the last thing I need is to wake the neighbors.
