Add Outcome to your TBR list.
Outcome is Chase and Remy's story ;)
Chase walked over to the end of the bar where a young man
sat, wearing only boxer briefs. Hell, was the punk asleep? Forearms on the
bartop, forehead planted on one of those arms. Messy hair, shorter on the
sides, nearly black, with some streaks of red that looked washed out. Chase's
sister dyed her hair in odd colors like that sometimes.
"This is a bar, kid. Not a hotel." Chase folded his
arms across his chest and leaned back against the counter behind him. He eyed
the ink on the man's arms, shoulders, and neck. It was a stark contrast against
the pale and unblemished skin. The artwork was intricate and impressive, albeit
depressing. Dark clouds, a Grim Reaper, lyrics that belonged to songs about
death, something that looked like the beginning of a tree on his ribcage, but
Chase couldn’t see farther down. Quotes about suffering, about staying true to
who you are, a snake slithering toward a big, red apple, and an inked bullet
wound.
The man spoke at last, quietly, and stayed in his position.
"If I can just stay for ten minutes, that'd be great." He sounded
drained and like he'd been drinking too much whiskey.
The voice didn’t fit what Chase saw, which was youth. Or
perhaps the lithe body with sinewy muscles betrayed him and made the kid look
younger than he was.
Admit it, man. You like
what you see.
Chase silenced that little voice with an internal growl.
Attraction and romance had no business in his closet.
"You mind telling me why you're only in your
underwear?" Chase was starting to feel impatient. "I get that it's
summer, but there are limits."
The younger man let out a humorless chuckle. "I'm afraid
clothes weren't my priority when I finally escaped that witch." Chase
stiffened instinctually at the word escape.
Bad fucking joke, if that's what it was. "She's supposed to be my best
friend…" The man lifted his head a few inches, only to bury it in his
hands. "She called it detox. I call it torture. Three goddamn days, dude,
just because I happen to like booze. Three days in handcuffs—even when I went
to the bathroom!"
Detox? Chase frowned, then heaved a sigh, 'cause none of this
shit really mattered to him. Clearly, the man hadn't been kidnapped, and that
was all Chase needed to know. Maybe he had this compulsion to fix problems, but
he couldn’t shoulder it all.
The fact that this stranger was bitching about wearing
handcuffs for three days only made Chase wanna laugh. He'd endured cuffs for
five months, without a single reprieve. The evidence lingered around his wrists
in uneven white lines, and it always would. He hid those vicious scars under
two folded bandanas.
"I finally escaped when she let me take a shower in the
master bathroom." A huff. "Gotta love windows." Rubbing his
eyes, he finally let his hands fall away, and he gave Chase a once-over.
Chase's frown deepened, first registering a handsome face
that looked aged from something that had happened, piercings in his bottom lip
and eyebrow, then light green eyes that he deemed unforgettable, but… Wasn’t
there something familiar?
"Oh, shit." The man's breath left him in a whoosh,
those pale green eyes widening. Anguish and fear—fucking fear—took over and for a second made his jaw slack. Then he
suddenly pushed off the barstool and stumbled a few steps backward. "I-I'm
sorry. I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know y-you worked here."
With every stuttered word from the man, with every step he
took toward the door, and with each patron's attention he got, it slowly dawned
on Chase. Brick by brick. The months of research he'd conducted after getting
back to freedom three years ago. The paper clippings. The miniscule profile
photo on a website for music streaming. The article about that website changing
owners a year ago.
Fury unfurled inside Chase. His hands clenched into fists.
His jaw ticked with tension, his spine went rigid, and his gaze turned
murderous. His heart began racing, his chest tightening beyond what was
painful. Just looking at this man,
facing him for the first time, threw Chase back in time. Three years to be
exact.
"I'm sorry, Chase." The man who wasn’t a stranger—not
really—pushed the door open and fled.
Remy Stahl.
Read my review for book one Collide right HERE!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Okay...things about me, huh?
I'm not into formal and stuffy, but anyway...
I'm twenty-six years old, born and raised in Sweden. I started writing on a whim in 2011, and it started pretty tame, but it has definitely changed! My biggest thrill comes from writing about the "forbidden." I have very few limits, and you'll find out that there's no fade-to-black or anything like "too much information" in my world. Before, I could barely have a character say "fuck", and now one of my biggest turn-ons is Daddy kink. Age difference--the man being the oldest--is another one, as well as BDSM. Extensive research, music, general smut, and reading are always sure ways for me to get inspired. I'm proud to say I've gotten my husband hooked, too. ;) Although, he rather watches than reads! Hey, Rome wasn't built in a day.
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