Chapter Eleven
Shannon 2009
Pulling air into his lungs, Shannon fought to breathe—in, out, in, out. He couldn’t see much more than shapes, couldn’t focus his eyes on any one thing, and his head throbbed. Before he could get his legs under him, another blow came, a foot connecting with his ribs. He swore he could hear them crack, and though he knew it would only make Bruce angrier than he already was, he cried out in pain; it was an innate reaction anyone with a heartbeat would have. Long, nimble fingers fisted his hair, jerking him up onto his knees and the rush of pain was so severe, he damn near passed out. As it was, he choked back the bile in his throat, certain Bruce would beat him to a pulp if he threw up on his thousand-dollar loafers.
“Why, Shannon? Why? Don’t I give you everything you need? Why would you try to leave me?” Bruce shouted, holding him in place by the hair while striking him with the other hand. Black dots littered his vision, and he prayed for peace. How that peace was delivered, he couldn’t care less. Death would even be welcome as long as the pain went away.
“They didn’t love you, didn’t care for you, and they couldn’t take care of you, not like I do.” Bruce was referring to his parents. Of course he would automatically assume Shannon was going back to them. “I give you security, love, and my trust.…And you betray me. I should let you go like the others, but there’s something about you, Shannon.” He leaned down, his lips mere inches from Shannon’s, whiskey-soaked breath making his stomach flip. “I’ve invested too much in you, my darling. You belong to me. Do you understand? You’re mine!”
The fingers that were in his hair were around his neck so fast that it shocked him. Bruce stood, jerking Shannon to his feet and slamming him against the wall, knocking the breath out of him again. Hand tightening around his throat, he clawed at Bruce’s arm to no avail, stars dancing behind his eyes. “If you ever try to leave again, I’ll kill you. Do you hear me, Shannon? I’ll fucking break you and scatter your remains in the Columbia River.”
Just as Shannon was losing consciousness, Bruce released him and took a step back. He fell to his knees, coughing and gasping for breath, watching the pair of thousand-dollar shoes walk across the living room and disappear down the hallway. He didn’t know how long he lay in a heap on the floor in the entryway, crying and praying, wondering if God was even listening. Hearing heavy footsteps coming toward him, he cringed. Tuan grabbed him by the arm, jerking him to his feet, half dragging him down the hall. “Come on, you little piece of shit,” he spat, shoving Shannon into the guest room, slamming the door and locking it from the outside.
Dragging his limp body, wracked with pain and fatigue, across the floor, he leaned back against the bed and considered his options. He needed to know exactly how Bruce had figured out what he was up to—he’d been certain he was careful in concealing his plan to leave. Fuck, his head was pounding, the pain to the point of nausea. Taking a few deep breaths, he managed to peel his ass off the floor and limp over to the dresser. After the last time he was locked in this same room for a week, he got smart and tucked away a few gems in case of emergencies. And this sure as hell was an emergency. He’d taped a small pill case to the top of one of the drawers with ibuprofen, hydrocodone, and promethazine in it. It took maximum effort just to pull the plastic case free of the tape. Stumbling into the bathroom, he tossed one of each tablet into his mouth, sucking water from the faucet to wash them down then managed to drag his battered body back to the bed.
Lying there, staring up at the ceiling, he was rewarded with a few minutes of clarity as the drugs started to set in, the pain slowly fading to a dull ache. He decided to stop fighting, to stop resisting Bruce’s perverted need to control every little thing. If he lulled the man into a false sense of supremacy, then he would be rewarded with a minuscule amount of freedom. And when that happened, he’d find a way to escape. Because one thing was certain; if he stayed, eventually Bruce would follow through on his threat to kill him.
***
Shannon woke gradually, shifting and rolling over onto his back. The room was dark and quiet, and he was alone. He could hear voices from somewhere in the apartment, and he strained to make out what they were saying but with the closed door, the words weren’t much more than murmurs. Seeing that file on Blair’s desk brought everything that happened in Washington rushing back, the memories drowning him, the pain in the bones that had been broken but never set right making his skin feel too tight. He could still hear Bruce’s voice in his head, the words that almost terrified him enough to stop fighting, almost…“I should let you go like the others, but there’s something about you, Shannon.”
God, he was tired. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, he was so tired of keeping the past bottled up inside him. No one knew the truth of what he’d survived aside from the person that inflicted the pain, the one that kept him in his cage, and his best friend, Taylor. It was time to be honest with Rory and stop avoiding the man’s questions about his past. Shannon’s biggest fear was being rejected by Rory for what Bruce had done to him and if that happened, it might just finally break him. He’d fallen in love with the spry FBI agent that made him laugh, made him smile, made him breakfast in bed after making love to him for hours then holding Shannon tight in his arms as they both drifted off to sleep. Rory Landers made him want to belong to someone again, made him let down his guard, made him feel safe.
And then there were the other three people that inadvertently would learn just how fucking stupid he was: Blair, Connie, and Rand. What would the detective with the unnerving, but warm brown eyes think of Shannon once he learned the truth? It bothered him—the possibility of Rand Davis looking at him with pity, and he was confused as hell as to exactly why it bothered him. What if he’d met Rand first instead of Rory? Would the ruggedly handsome former military man have gotten under his skin the way Rory had? A small voice in his head whispered, He already has, but he wasn’t so sure. There were striking similarities between Rand and Bruce that made Shannon wary to get too close to the detective. Both men were stern and commanding, polished and handsome with deep, dark brown eyes—almost identical physically, with strong features and an aura of superiority wrapped up in a tailored suit. But while Bruce used his stature and award-winning smile to pull Shannon in like prey, Rand used the same attributes to put Shannon at ease. There was so much about that man that piqued his curiosity. Interested or not, he had a boyfriend and that was who he should be thinking about. Rory. That’s who I want.
Sitting up he waited a few seconds before standing, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and slowly walking across his bedroom. His limbs were sluggish and heavy, the few scant feet between the bed and the door dragging out like a march through the desert. Pulling the door open, he blinked a couple of times, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the light, following the three distinct voices he could hear. Rory, Gonzales, and Rand were huddled together in the kitchen, the file that tore his world apart on the table in front of them. He called out and Rory immediately came over to him, wrapping him up in the warmth of his arms. Jesus, but he loved this man. Oddly, that thought, knowing that he’d allowed someone beyond the barriers he’d erected around himself didn’t scare the shit out of him as he’d long since feared it would.
What truly terrified him was speaking the words, giving them a voice, and not having the love reciprocated. So, when Rory said those three little words first, Shannon trusted the truth that was evident in Rory’s tone. Most people would have missed the flash of sadness he’d seen in Rand’s eyes, but Shannon wasn’t most people. Looking over his shoulder every minute of every day, living in fear, made him more aware of his surroundings, especially of the people in his life after what he’d lived through. When he told them he was ready to jerk open the door to the past, Connie looked contemplative while Rand simply watched him with his all-knowing, unnerving gaze. Seeing trepidation in Rory’s usually vibrant green eyes made him grimace; he hated being the cause of uncertainty in his lover’s mind.
“Come on, Shan. Let’s go in the living room.” Rory smiled and took his hand, walking over to the plush love seat in the corner and gently pushing him down. “You hungry?”
“Not really.” Shannon shook his head. “But a cup of that cinnamon plum tea would be great.” He shivered, his body alerting his brain that he was cold. Rory grabbed the plush throw off the back of the couch and draped it over his legs before heading into the kitchen. Rand took a seat on the couch across from him, pulling a small notepad and a pen from his jacket pocket. Connie smiled and winked at him, kicking Rand’s legs out of the way so she could sit beside him on the couch. The two exchanged playful banter, obviously egging each other on, and Shannon rolled his eyes. If the detective were straight and the tough-as-nails FBI agent liked boys instead of girls, the two of them would make the most beautiful babies. With her olive-toned skin and black, wavy hair, Rand’s height, usually mischievous brown eyes, and that adorable dimple in his chin, the kid would be gorgeous. Their eyes met and held for a few long moments, the usually confident man the first to look away, blinking and ducking his head.
Shannon had no time to process that as Rory came around the corner with a mug in each hand, using his elbow to flip the kitchen light off. “Here you go, babe.” He handed Shannon one of the mugs, lifting the blanket and sliding onto the love seat beside him. With Rory next to him, Shannon felt like he could take on the world.
“Okay, Shannon. Tell us what you think your connection is to the Columbia River Killer case,” Rand prompted.
Lacing his fingers with Rory’s, Shannon drew strength from him. This was it, the moment of truth. A niggle of doubt left him uncertain, hesitant. Pushing those thoughts to the far recesses of his mind, he replayed Rory’s words of love and commitment and they gave him the boost of confidence he needed. “Well, I can’t be certain I am connected, but there is a striking resemblance between me and those photos in that file I found on Blair’s desk.” Where should he start? When his parents decided to pretend they didn’t have a son? Or when he strolled into the lion’s den, voluntarily?
“My parents were either comfortably numb or raising the roof off the house as far back as I can remember. As I got older, I learned to fend for myself and avoid them as much as possible, especially after I told them I was gay. When I was fifteen I met someone, an older guy that said all the right things and spun a web of deceit that I fell into. He was so kind and gentle, at first. He made promises that I can look back on now and recognize as bullshit. But at the time, I was so young and stupid and starved for love and attention—and Bruce gave me that, in spades.” Shannon sipped some of the delicious tea, appreciating the fact that no one spoke; they all sat back and let him take the wheel.
“I decided to skip school one day and instead spent the afternoon at one of the local record stores. When I left, Bruce was out front in his town car, his driver, Tuan, holding the door open for me, and I climbed in. I didn’t go home that night. In fact, I never went home again. I stayed in the guest room for a while—he told me it was safer at his place, told me that he would protect me, that I mattered to him, unlike my folks. Again, young and stupid and I believed him. The relationship evolved gradually, I think. Sometimes when I look back and try to recall the specifics it’s hazy, but I do know that it was awhile before I was in his bed.”
“Whoa, time out.” Rand made a T with his hands and Shannon giggled despite the severity of the situation; he couldn’t help it. “Exactly how old was this Bruce guy?”
“Thirty-three.”
Connie choked on her beer, sputtering and spitting it all over the coffee table. “Are you fucking serious?” Rand barked. Shannon nodded. All the while the two of them were tripping over their tongues, Rory stayed quiet and calm. His breathing had hitched when he heard how old Bruce was, and he’d gripped Shan’s hand tighter, but no outburst from him.
“Ay, Dios mío!” Gonzales went off on a tirade, Spanish curses flying around the room.
Rand’s eyes had gone dark, fist clenching the pen so tight Shannon thought surely it would snap in half. “Tell me, Shannon. Did your parents ever look for you, file a report, cops come knocking on the door of a middle-aged man that was tucking a fucking teenager into his bed every night?” The deep baritone and low growl in Rand’s tone didn’t frighten Shannon the way it would have in the past.
“Haven’t you been listening, Rand? They probably threw a party when I left, but to answer your question, no, not that I know of.” Shannon sunk back into the chair, fighting valiantly not to cry.
“Anyway.” Rory spoke before Rand could ask another question. “Go ahead, Shan. Finish your story.”
Apprehension flooded his veins. Closing his eyes and concentrating on deep, even breaths, Shannon exhaled slowly. The moment of truth—would Rory still want to be with him after hearing just how worthless he truly was? “One day I disagreed with something he said, and he smacked me. Everything went downhill from there. It was all sunshine and roses for a while, then he’d beat the shit out of me, then he’d apologize and promise not to do it again. There were a handful of times he went too far and had to take me to the ER or a clinic. He told me to tell them he was my uncle because no one would understand our relationship and, fuck, I was so naïve I believed his empty promises and played along.” Shannon angrily brushed the tears away, sniffling, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Babe, maybe we should take a break. Let me freshen up your tea.”
“No! Sorry, I…” He apologized, nuzzling Rory’s hand with his cheek when Rory brushed a stray tear away with his thumb. “…I need to finish, tell you everything. If I stop talking, I may never be able to start talking about him again.”
Connie stood and leaned over the coffee table, gesturing for him and Rory to hand over their mugs. “You say what you need, mijo. I’ll take care of this.” She winked, her smile genuine.
Wrapping an arm around Shannon and pulling him close, Rory whispered in his ear. “You sure you’re okay, Shan?” Was he? Probably not. But draining the poison from his soul was necessary. He just hoped the scars this time around wouldn’t be permanent. Nodding, he laid his head on Rory’s shoulder and breathed in his scent.
Across from them, the good detective was scribbling something on his pad, the scratch of pen on paper unnerving in the otherwise quiet room. Connie strolled back with two steaming mugs in one hand and two chilled bottles of beer in the other. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”
“I wasn’t, not really.” Taking the cup, he sipped and sighed. “Perfect, thanks. When I saw that file earlier today, I was drawn to it by the image sticking out of the top. The guy in the photo looked a lot like me. I was shocked at how many pictures were in the file, but it was a piece of paper that caused my heart to skip a beat, or rather, what was written on it.” A snapshot of that fucking list would be forever ingrained in his mind. Closing his eyes, he shuddered involuntarily, repeating the words he’d seen. “ ‘Most victims have scarring or broken bones, fractures, some healed, some new, obvious abuse.’
“That freaked me the fuck out because that was, well, is me. Even more terrifying than that was the dream I had earlier. I remembered something Bruce said to me the first time I tried to leave. ‘I should let you go like the others.’ Those words never registered in my mind until today.”
Crossing his arms, Rand sat back and soaked it all in, running his hand over his buzzed head of hair. Shannon could almost see the gears in his brain turning as Rand went over everything he’d told them. “Fuck, Shannon, I’m so sorry you ever had to go through that, and I think I want to kick the shit out of this Bruce, but we need to focus on any possible connection he has to the victims.” Reaching for his pad and pen, Rand flipped the page and glanced over at Connie, the two of them exchanging looks that worried Shannon before they focused on him again. “For now, let’s just run some background on this asshat. What is Bruce’s last name, where does—or rather, where did he live when you were there, and what type of work does he do?”
Shannon snorted; try as he might he could never forget the tiniest of details about his ex. “Bruce Pearson, Attorney at Law, resides in the condo on the top floor of Watermark Tower in Seattle, Washington.”
Connie muttered something in Spanish, and Rand quite possibly translated for her in the form of a four-letter word. “Fuck, he’s a lawyer. That doesn’t bode well. He’ll know the law inside out and, if he’s our unsub, will have connections that could alert him to an investigation.”
Fear coursed through Shannon’s veins like ice water, leaving him chilled to the bone and instantly terrified. “Wait, you don’t think…that…will…” His body ached, just the memory of the abuse he’d suffered making him dizzy and light-headed. “…Jesus, Rory, what if he finds out it’s me? What if he comes here?” His gut reaction was to run as fast and as far away as he could. Rationally, Shannon knew that his lover, the ornery detective, and the lethal woman now sitting on the coffee table in front of him holding his hand would do everything in their power to keep him safe. But this was Bruce they were talking about. Even worse, wherever Bruce was, Tuan was, and the thought made his heart skip a beat. He jerked the blanket off and tried to stand, but Rory pulled him down. Although, rationally, Shannon knew Rory was not Bruce, that his lover would never hurt him, the feel of Rory’s hands on him at that very moment made his skin crawl. “Don’t touch me!” It was instinct that made him shout and swat the hand away. Sitting back, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe; his chest felt tight and the love seat they sat in started to spin out of control.
“Okay mijo, calm down and breathe.” All three Connies spoke in unison, and he wondered which one was real. Everything was fuzzy, his vision graying around the edges. Rand and Rory were shouting, whether at each other, him, or Connie, he didn’t know; he couldn’t focus on any one thing. And then, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he blacked out.