My left leg is starting to tingle, a sign I need to lie down, so I head for the motorized lift chair I had installed to carry me up to the second floor. If today were one of my good days, I could manage the stairs on my own. But after spending the past few hours with my entire body tense and shaking, there’s no way I’ll take the risk.
I lower myself into the chair, and Clementine jumps into my lap. Before I can flip the switch, my doorbell rings.
Pulling out my phone, I activate the camera.
It’s Graham…standing on my porch with a grocery bag in his hand. What the…?
After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “Quinton? Um, you don’t have to answer. But I know what it’s like when all you want is ice cream.” He hangs the bag on the door knob, smiles nervously, and then turns on his heel so precisely before he walks away, I think he must have been in the military.
Even if I had to crawl back to the door, I’d do it for a pint of mint chip. My left leg is dragging behind me by the time I flip the locks, and Graham is long gone. But the ice cream is still frozen, and he even got the same brand I ordered.
Who does that?
No one in my world.
I shouldn’t risk this. Hell, he’s a complete stranger. For all I know, he could have dropped off a pint of poison. Injected the carton with PCP or nicotine or drain cleaner. But something in his eyes earlier…I think he’s a good guy. Even if I swore after getting away from Alec that I’d never trust my own judgement again.
Carefully spooning half a pint into a bowl, I smooth out the bag and prepare to stuff it in with all the other bags in the cabinet when the receipt falls out.
With his name on it.
Graham Tempelton.
He doesn’t look like a Tempelton. He needs a tougher name. Grittier. And I should leave it the hell alone. But I’m not sure anyone’s ever been this kind to me for no reason at all, and I wish I would’ve been fast enough to thank him.
Sinking into my massage chair, I turn on the heat and set it for the gentlest setting, then slide the table over so I can access my laptop. Clementine immediately joins me and her purr helps take the edge off my nerves as I type his name into the search box.
Well, crap. That wasn’t hard. Graham Templeton has a one page website with his resume. Bartender. No.Mixologist. And there’s an email address.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. Since moving to Seattle, I haven’t taken a single risk. Haven’t talked to anyone outside my physical therapist, my psychiatrist, my housekeeper, and my brother.
And yet, I’m sending this stranger an email.
Graham,
You rescued my groceries, then bought me ice cream. No one’s that nice. No one I know, anyway. I just wanted to say thanks. Today kind of sucked, and you made it better.
Q
The bowl is empty and I’m still staring at the screen. At the send button. Wondering why.
When I find the answer, I almost throw the laptop across the room. But then I’d need to buy another one, and even in Seattle, I can’t get a system that meets my needs in under two days.
I’m lonely. So fucking lonely. One whole year of freedom, but outside of my shrink, I haven’t had an honest conversation with anyone. I can’t have one with Graham either. But the ice cream? This email? It’s a sliver of connection. Even if it only lasts until the rest of the pint is gone, I’ll take it.
Send.
Chapter Six
Graham
The scents of coffee,gun oil, and sweat are so familiar, they settle me every time I walk into Hidden Agenda’s home base in a warehouse south of downtown Seattle. I’m late. My extra errand last night only took me thirty minutes, but after that, I stared at the ceiling for two hours.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Quinton’s face. It’s been a long time since a guy has caught my attention simply by existing. But something in his expression…He’s haunted. Scared. Emotions I remember all too clearly.
Every moment of last night is burned into my brain.
Ryker McCabe, former Special Forces commander and my boss, never forgets a single fucking thing. Taught himself some shit about mind palaces and using mnemonics before he and his team were captured and tortured for fifteen months in a Taliban prison deep underground in the Hindu Kush. The man can remember the license plate number of the taxi cab that cut us off last year in Karachi, the exact layout of every single compound we’ve ever breached, and my best—and worst—time on the climbing wall.
