Found at the Library (8 page)

Tommy clenched his jaw and he spoke through gritted teeth. “How did you get in?”

Honesty...maybe that would help him seem more sincere and not threatening. Mac took a deep breath and dove in. “That first day, I took your key off your keychain while you were asleep on the way to the hospital, and I copied it.” He needed to say something eloquent and persuasive here. He was a writer. He could do that, right? He stared at Tommy’s hand that opened and closed in a fist like he was debating violence.

Tommy glared. “I don’t want to know anymore.” He flung out his hand with his palm up. “I want my key back and I want you to leave. Now.”

Mac’s stomach sank. He didn’t want to leave. Mac didn’t have a clue what he could say to make this better.

It hurt him to look at Tommy’s wounded, exhausted eyes. He didn’t want to cause him any more pain or stress. That had never been his intention. “Okay, but then you need to eat and get some sleep. I know you’re exhausted, and in a few days, Ryder is going to wake up to the fact that he needs you. If you’re sick, you won’t be able to be there when he calls. And Tommy, he’s going to call.”

Regardless of anything else, Mac needed for that to be true. Tommy needed his brother, and although Mac had never met Ryder, he assumed the case was also true for Ryder.

For the barest of moments, a fleeting expression of hope mixed with despair crossed Tommy’s face, and all Mac wanted was to draw him into his arms and sooth his hurt. Again. What was it about this guy that pulled him in, every time?

“Please, just go.” Tommy turned away from him.

“Okay.” Mac grabbed the keys out of his jacket and pulled the one for the store off the ring and placed it on the counter. “You have my phone number. I’m here if you need me, even if it’s just to talk. I didn’t mean...”

Tommy’s shoulders tightened, and Mac shook his head. Tommy wouldn’t hear him now. Maybe later, but not now.

“Merry Christmas, Tommy.” He took off down the steps of the loft and out the front door.

This was better, anyway, regardless of the lump in his throat or his leaden feet.

He’d been neglecting his own responsibilities the last few days to take care of someone who didn’t want him to make the effort. He needed to reprioritize again. He had a book to finish, and one to start so he could get it done within the next three weeks.

***

After the front door clicked closed, Tommy stood there, trying to figure out what had happened. How had things gone so badly so quickly? He glanced down at his counter, the key, the bag full of money, and the omelet quickly getting cold. What if he had made a horrible mistake here? There was no sign that Mac had been trying to hurt him in any way. And honestly, if Mac wanted to take advantage, he’d had more than ample opportunity over the last few days. But instead, what had he done? Worked in Tommy’s store and taken care of him.

“Fuck.” Tommy moaned and lay his head on the counter. But then he got a whiff of the omelet, sitting there, congealing. No reason to let it go to waste, and he was hungry.

Tommy took a bite. Flavors burst in his mouth. Not only could Mac write but he could cook, too. Tommy ate in a dazed stupor, leaning on one hand until the fork clattered where he dropped it because he’d fallen asleep while sitting at his breakfast bar. Glancing at the clock, he calculated time. If he went back to bed now, he could get almost two more hours of sleep before he had to open the store. His brain felt numb, and he was literally dead on his feet. He needed at least that much sleep if he wanted to be able to function at all.

He stumbled to his bed, noting that Ampersand joined him as he slipped back into sleep.

Two hours went by entirely too quickly. When Tommy woke up, he ached with the wisps of dreams he’d had about Mac. Dreams that should scare him to death.  Erotic dreams centered on domesticity and Mac in every part of his life. Fantasies involving Mac living with him, cooking for him, and greeting him at the door in an apron and nothing else to cover that fine ass. His eyes sparkling off the candlelight from the table setting he’d created just for Tommy. What the fuck?

But as Tommy brushed his hand over his throbbing dick, he could admit one thing. He wanted Mac...desperately.

Tommy thought about Mac’s teasing, bright blue eyes, and the way his dimples would appear as he smiled. Those fine lips would be so sexy wrapped around his cock with the perfect amount of suction and pressure.

Tommy’s hand dipped under the covers and circled the mushroomed head of his penis, swirling the pre-cum over the surface and then he ran his fist up and down, closing his eyes and imagining. Mac’s hair would be soft on top where it was brown, but the grey at his temples would be slightly coarser as Tommy ran his fingers through it, setting the rhythm.

Slow, then faster.

He pumped his hand, mimicking Mac sucking. Way too quickly, his balls tightened and lightning arced from the base of his spine as his orgasm barreled through him. So fucking good. He thrust into his grip until his own touch became too much. After the stress of the last week, he needed that release.

He loosened his fist and panted as he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling, considering the scene in his kitchen with Mac a couple of hours before. That bag held so much money. How many hours had Mac worked in the store to earn it? After the store opened, he needed to send Mac a message of apology and see if he could take him out to dinner.

He couldn’t believe Mac’s intentions had been bad, and the idea of never seeing him again physically hurt.

But first, he needed to get up, get cleaned up, and make a phone call to check on Ryder.

They’d told him they wouldn’t allow visitors for the first few days Ryder was in the facility, but that couldn’t stop Tommy from worrying about him. This treatment had to work. Anything else wasn’t an option.

After a quick rinse in the shower and a reassuring phone call to the mental health hospital, he heard another noise downstairs. Was Mac back?

He rushed out of the loft and down the stairs to find a diminutive, gray-haired figure bustling behind the counter. “Mrs. O’Shay?”

He always remembered her name because her husband had owned a traditional Irish Pub in downtown Denver before he died of a sudden heart attack. Now their three sons ran the bar, and Mrs. O’Shay spent her days reading books. She was a regular customer, but that didn’t explain what she was doing inside his store and behind the counter before he’d opened.

“Tommy! You’re here.” She came around and wrapped him in a surprisingly huge hug for such a tiny woman.

He wasn’t sure what to do, so he lightly patted her on the back.

She drew away from him and tapped his cheek. “You still look tired and need more rest, but since you’re here, I’m guessing things must be better for your brother. I’m so sorry to hear he’s having troubles, but with you in his corner, he’s going to get better soon.”

How did she know anything about what happened with Ryder? He didn’t understand any of this. He felt like he’d come back to some sort of alternative reality where his life wasn’t his own anymore.

“Thank you, but Mrs. O’Shay, what are you doing here?”

She pulled an apron out from below the counter, looped it over her neck, and tied it behind her. Her apron said
Typecast
, the name of his company. Wait a minute...his employees didn’t wear aprons...mainly because he didn’t have employees. What the fuck?

“Call me Franny, dear. I work with your young gentlemen fellow, Mac. I run the register while he organizes and schmoozes with the customers. He’s very good at it, you know.”

“I’m sure he is.” He was coming to believe that Mac could do pretty much anything he put his mind to.

“So where is he then?” she asked. She’d been busy straightening the counter, but now she stilled as if she realized that all wasn’t quite the way she thought it was when she arrived. She examined him curiously.

“He won’t be in today. He had other business that needed his attention. It’s a busy time of the year.”

She tilted her head. “Do you still want me here?”

Suddenly, it seemed very important to have her here, to have some sort of human interaction. “Yes, please. The last week has been trying, and I’m desperately behind. I could use the help if you don’t mind. I don’t know what Mac agreed to pay you, so let me know, and I’ll pay you at the end of the day.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t need your money, sweetheart. I’ve simply enjoyed working, having a purpose. But you and I need to make a deal if I’m to stay.”

“What’s that?” he asked suddenly suspicious.

“I’ll handle the register, but you have to take at least a three hour nap this afternoon, and whatever happened between you and Mac...you need to fix it. He’s a good man, and I think he’d be good for you.”

He grinned at her. He’d always like Mrs. O’Shay, but now he found Franny even more endearing. “You have a deal, Franny, but I have my own request. I think I need one of those aprons. Think you can hook me up?”

***

It wasn’t until almost closing time before Tommy noticed the journal filled with slips of paper and Post-its at the checkout counter. Franny had taken off earlier in the afternoon after he’d taken her required nap. She’d been right. The nap had helped his ability to function. So now he turned the closed sign on the door and locked up. He’d already closed out the register, so he grabbed the journal to take with him upstairs.

He flipped through it, struggling to read enough of it to know these were Mac’s notes about the store, but the book overflowed with information. How had he written this much in the three days he’d been here? There were diagrams of display ideas, notes on customers and products, and a plethora of little anecdotes.

Mac was definitely a writer.

Reading had never come easy for Tommy, but it wasn’t until his senior year in high school that they had finally correctly diagnosed him as dyslexic. Before that, teachers and educational experts had told his mom that he simply had a harder time learning than most and he’d adjust. Overall, he had done just that. But reading still remained a struggle. Nothing was more frustrating than struggling through reading something only to find out he’d misunderstood the entire premise behind it. That’s why he listened to books rather than reading them.

But he loved books. They’d always held this mystical fascination for him, and that was why he created art around them.

He glanced down at the journal. This contained Mac’s insight into his business. He wanted to read it. It would probably take him all week, but the effort would be worth it. He needed to do this. For some reason, it seemed important.

Chapter Five

Why would a woman put a yippy dog in her purse when she could fill that sucker up with books?

-Observations from Mac

Mac looked at the clock for the hundredth time. It was still the middle of the night. He stared at his screen with no answers and no idea how to write book number six. The phone still hadn’t rung. It had been four days since he’d walked out of Tommy’s shop. For some reason, he had deluded himself into thinking Tommy would get some rest, be able to look back at what Mac had done, and realize that it truly had been with good intentions. That obviously was never going to happen.

He wasn’t going to call, and Mac needed to get out of this creative funk.

He opened the
Love is War
document and his fingers hovered above the keys. He knew what he had to do. With only five thousand words left to write in the novel, he had no choice if he wanted to be able to clear the slate and write his other contracted book. As long as this book sat unfinished, he couldn’t start the new one.

He began typing. Three hours later, he pushed back from his desk. He felt sick to his stomach as grief washed over him. Rex and Thomas never truly had a chance, and that’s why he’d never been able to finish the book. He couldn’t accept Thomas’s fate.

But theirs had been a star-crossed love built on the battlefield. And when two soldiers in the middle of a war fell in love, one of them was bound to perish. Thomas had been tortured and killed while Rex had been trapped, listening to his lover’s tortured cries. Their rescue came twenty minutes too late for Thomas.

Tears welled up in Mac’s eyes...again. But he gritted his teeth, refusing to give into the emotions. That’s why he’d written the damn book...to purge those fucking emotions. No more.

Mac walked over to his liquor cabinet on shaky limbs and poured three fingers of Scotch. After swallowing it down, he poured another.

He walked back to his laptop and sent the book to Emily. He didn’t even send a message. She would know what it was. It was out of his hands now.

While in his email account, he noticed the email from Stig. When Tommy had kicked him out, he’d called Stig that day, offering six figures to T. Garrett for the art piece, telling him to make the purchase offer anonymously to Tommy. This had to be that response.

Mac opened it, drank more Scotch, and chuckled harshly. Tommy had rejected his offer again. No surprise there. Fucking A. He swiped a hand over his face, surprised at the facial hair there. How long had it been since he’d shaved? Obviously he hadn’t done that lately, either.

Glancing at the clock, he sighed. Was this the measure of truly becoming an author? Unkempt, sloppy, and well on his way to getting falling down drunk at eight o’clock in the morning.

He refilled his glass and lifted it to the sky in a mock salute. “To true love and the misery it brings to the poor bastards who think there’s a chance. I will never make that mistake again.”

Mac had learned that lesson early in life when he’d watched his mother shattered by his father’s inability to love anyone more than himself. The depression she sank into that first Christmas after his father left almost killed her. Mac had vowed no one would get that much of his heart and soul. And he’d managed it...until this year. Goddammit, he was just a sucker for someone hurting during the holidays. That’s all it was. That’s all it could be.