Beneath the Current Read online

"I don't care how fucking beautiful it is," the man called Shawn snapped. "It sucks being squirreled away like I did something wrong."

  The blonde gave him a frown. "Shawn," she narrowed her eyes at him, raising a hand to her narrow hips. Casey vaguely noticed that she was probably what most guys would consider sexy, with the slim waist and prominent chest, but Casey's eyes strayed to the tight calf muscles that the man with the dark chocolate hair presented him as he turned to the house. "It's not forever. Just until things settle down. Think of it as a nice break—"

  "A break? This is all that asshole's fault," he muttered.

  "Yes, it is," the woman agreed. "But there isn't anything we can do about it now. So just lay low for a while and it will blow over."

  "It's never going to 'blow over', Jenny," he sighed heavily, and Casey wondered what might have upset the man so much. "You know that as well as I do, sweetheart."

  Casey felt his chest tighten at the affectionate endearment. He remembered Thomas used to call him that, among other things, when he was younger. Martin had never really called him anything but 'boy', so he felt a certain melancholy remembering the term Uncle Thomas used to call him. Hearing the term now made him wish he hadn't insisted that Thomas stop calling him that when he'd felt 'grown up' at twelve. Uncle Thomas had relegated to mostly just 'bud' to make Casey happy, but the feeling of being loved still washed over him.

  The man had stepped closer, and Casey almost expected him to grab his wife and start kissing her right there on the porch like he'd seen in so many movies. But instead, 'Jenny' stepped up to the door as the two larger men started pulling boxes out of the truck. There didn't seem to be much in the truck from what Casey could tell, mostly boxes. Maybe that meant they weren't staying long if they weren't moving in their own furniture, he mused. She stuck the key in, twisting it, and Casey grimaced at her frown as the door swung open easily.

  Shawn had apparently noticed her reaction. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," she said quickly, and Casey wondered why she didn't tell her husband that the door was already unlocked.

  As the couple disappeared inside, Casey darted back through the brush to the southern side of the island. He tried not to think about the new couple taking over what he'd come to think of as his safe haven.

  ****

  Shawn Brockton paused as he started to follow his father's assistant into the house. It was a quaint little cottage built years ago, unlike the bigger, more modern house he'd had a glimpse of on their way in that dominated the southern half of the island. It was sort of nice to think that he almost had a whole island to himself. He just prayed his neighbors didn't encroach on his space.

  But as he hesitated on the front porch, something seemed off, like he was being watched. He was sure no paparazzi could possibly have followed him here, at least not so soon. Besides, he'd already given them all the dirt they could want, chasing him down to a tiny backwards place off the coast of Sri Lanka wouldn't be worth their trouble.

  A scurrying sound off to the left in the wooded area that created privacy between his house and the only other one on the island caught his attention. But between the dark of the shadows created by the trees and the glare of the sun in his eyes, he couldn't make out what had made the sound.

  "Great," he grumbled, wondering briefly if the 'creature' would be visiting his doorstep. "Fucking nature."

  "Shawn!" the shrill voice of his father's blonde assistant called, and Shawn cringed.

  Her high pitch voice grated on his nerves. He much preferred the deeper tenor of a male's voice. And while most men would probably be eyeing the svelte curves Jenny sported in her soft blue sundress, Shawn stopped to admire the muscles of the movers as they pulled boxes out of the van. Of course, his attraction to men was part of the reason he was exiled to the tropics.

  While his family had no problems with him being gay, they preferred it not to be broadcast either. Of course, his boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend, now—felt that since cheating on Shawn wasn't enough, apparently he had to drag Shawn's whole career down as well. The bastard had announced to the tabloids that Shawn Brockton, the gay son of Senator Brockton, was also known as Rachelle Adrian, the popular romance writer. Apparently, a gay male writing straight romance novels just wasn't right in the eyes of the general public—even if it was okay for straight females to write gay romance novels. It probably wouldn't have been a big deal if Rachelle Adrian wasn't so popular. So in the midst of the chaos, his father had suggested he 'take a break to recuperate' and let the whole shitstorm blow over.

  He agreed with his father in principle. He did need to get away from the tabloid hounds until they found meatier stories to sink their teeth into. He just didn't want to admit his father was right. He'd been close to decking a couple of the reporters before his mother and father had stepped in to calm him down. The quiet would do him good, give him a chance to start over.

  But, fuck, when he thought about starting over, it gave him a headache. He'd built himself a lucrative reputation over the last three years, hammering out romantic drivel for the mass of hormonal women who devoured his beefy rogues who rescued some damsel in distress. Historical gothic romances, Rachelle's speciality. Liam, his ex, had found it hilariously amusing when he'd found out what Shawn did for a living, but he didn't seem to mind reaping the financial benefits.

  It wasn't like Shawn had to write. His family came from old money, his grandfather an English aristocrat who'd amassed a small fortune—hence, this house. But Shawn hadn't liked just relying on his trust fund to support him. It was nice to know it was there, but writing was his passion and he'd found a niche where he could make his own wealth.

  And now, it was over. No more Rachelle Adrian, and no more relying on her name to sell his novels. His dad was right—he needed this time to figure out what he wanted to do now. Did he start over with a new pseudonym, writing more of the same? Or did he take a chance on something new? Giving up on writing all together just didn't seem like an option.

  So he watched as the guys lugged his desk out of the back of the van. It was the only piece of furniture that he had insisted on bringing, even though his father had been willing to offer whatever he needed to refurnish the dated, forgotten beach house.

  Shawn figured he didn't plan on being here long enough to worry about what the furniture was like, but as he stepped inside, he began to have second thoughts. The drab decor and sagging looking couch may have to have some updating.

  "Huh," Jenny was muttering as she walked though the room. "I expected it to be dustier."

  Shawn turned and flicked a light switch next to the door, somewhat surprised that it actually came on. "Where's the power from anyway?"

  Jenny laughed. "What? Did you think I'd drop you in the middle of nowhere with no electricity?"

  Shawn shrugged. He hadn't really thought about it. He'd obviously assumed there would be power somehow, but now he wondered where it was coming from.

  "There's cables under the land bridge, gives power to both houses out here, so don't worry, it's not just a generator. I had the power company turn on the electricity yesterday, so it was ready for you today," she explained as she checked through the kitchen, opening cabinets to make sure dishes and pots were there, checking that the stove worked, turning on the water—which sputtered for a minute before finally running clear.

  "Glad I brought a water filter," Shawn muttered, eyeing the water disdainfully.

  "Where do you want this desk?" one of the guys interrupted.

  Shawn took a moment to glance around. A large window facing out over the ocean drew his attention. It was near the French doors that opened onto the back deck. Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad.

  "Over there, please," he waved. "And the boxes labeled 'bedroom' can go upstairs. The rest you can just pile in the corner by the kitchen."

  He watched Jenny start to unpack some of the boxes and bags for the kitchen containing staples they had picked up in town. Most of which were basics that they picked
up at a large box store near the airport where they could get large quantities for a much lower price than the little town closest to the island. They had stopped briefly to pick up fresh foods and refrigerated items in the small town though.

  As if reading his mind, Jenny grabbed his keys and ran back out to the Jeep to grab the other groceries for him. Making a turn through the living room, he was glad that he'd packed a few throw blankets to cover up some of the dated furniture. As one of the movers headed up the steps to the second floor of the cottage, he followed, not feeling one bit guilty about eyeing the man's ass on the way up.

  The upstairs housed the master bedroom, with a large window overlooking the open ocean. He had to grudgingly admit that the view was actually pretty spectacular—up on this cliff overlooking the turquoise and blues pounding against the shore. He could see a path coming from somewhere to the side of his new home winding down through the rocky hillside to the sandy beach. A quick peek told him he could see to the far end of the island from up here, but up on the cliff the two houses were protected from each other by the thick tropical vegetation.

  At least he didn't have to worry about his neighbors spying on him. If they ventured to his side of the beach, he'd just have to tell them to keep to their own side.

  He turned at the thump of another box being dropped near the doorway—all of his bed sheets, clothes, and bath items would eventually make this into some semblance of home. He glanced over at the bed, eyeing the blue quilt askance—yeah, definitely not his style.

  He frowned slightly as he stepped closer to the bed, suddenly noting the indentation in the pillow and the crookedness of the quilt.

  "Hmm, someone's been sleeping in my bed," he muttered as he ran his hand over the indent on the pillow. "Goldilocks better not be coming back, or they'll be in for a bear of trouble."

  Chapter 4

  "Casey!" Martin's voice shouted as he slammed through the front door.

  Casey jumped at the sound of the man's voice, nearly dropping the tablet perched on his lap. He pulled the earbuds out of his ear. His tablet and his iPod—his two best friends. His room was his sanctuary, secondary only to the sea. There was a certain peace in here that his uncle rarely invaded.

  "Get down here!"

  Damn, he sounded pissed, that wasn't a good sign.

  After he returned from spying on the new couple next door, he'd ensconced himself in his room as he often did. For a while, he'd just laid on his queen size bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about Shawn laying in that bed in the cottage. The one he'd napped in just a week ago. He imagined that strong body next to his...

  ...which inevitably led to him thinking about his first crush, where he had briefly enjoyed the feel of callus-roughed hands on his skin—something he hadn't done in a long time. It wasn't like Shawn was the first guy he'd ever felt attracted to; hell, he'd been watching porn on the internet since he was thirteen. But thoughts of their unavailable neighbor had him inexplicably wishing for what he'd thought he'd had with Roshan. Not that Shawn was an option, of course, not with a wife and everything. But still Shawn seemed different somehow than Roshan, stronger, more self-assured, more open, even though he'd only seen him briefly.

  As much as he tried, though, now that the man had sprung to his mind, he couldn't fucking get Roshan out of it, no matter how much more enticing their new neighbor might be, damn it.

  Roshan had been nice and sweet when he'd first met him, and he'd shared his first kiss with the other man as they had worked together in the clinic during the brief time when Martin had decided Casey needed work (other than just diving for pearls) once he turned sixteen. Roshan was a couple years older, aspiring to become a doctor. And after a few weeks of bashful glances and not so inadvertent touches, Roshan had finally cornered Casey in the back storage room.

  Casey remembered looking up into Roshan's nearly black eyes and seeing the blatant lust filling them. But the older teen had been slow and careful as he'd leaned forward, silently asking permission. Casey had assented by tilting his head up, offering Roshan better access. He remembered his heart beating wildly in the seconds before Roshan's rough lips pressed against his. The other man's tongue had swept against his lower lip, teasing, seeking entrance, and Casey had relented with a soft sigh. He felt Roshan's body crushed against his smaller one, a definite ridge in the man's slacks grinding against his belly. His dark mocha hand caressed Casey's jaw, fingers trailing over the collar at his neck. Everyone just thought Casey liked to appear edgy and rebellious with the unusual choker, and Casey liked that it gave him that mysterious reputation. It was better than everyone knowing the truth. Roshan's thumb slid across Casey's Adam's apple, and he was sure that Roshan had been leaning in for another kiss.

  But footsteps in the hallway caused Roshan to yank back abruptly, a flush of embarrassment crossed both their faces as they heard the doctor and one of the nurses talking. Roshan had grabbed a couple boxes of the latex gloves before heading back out, leaving Casey confused and aroused.

  Of course, over the next few days, Roshan had continued to sneak small kisses with Casey, his hands beginning to roam more each time. He'd tell Casey how much he loved his soft golden skin. Casey had spent many afternoons just waiting for Roshan's attentions, craving the affection and touch of someone who might care for him.

  But of course, he hadn't. Not really. Roshan had withdrawn abruptly after about a week, avoiding Casey and leaving him even more confused. Casey had tried to talk to him on several occasions but was brushed off, earning him a glare. He'd even turned around one time to find his uncle eyeing him warily. After that, he'd dutifully tried to stamp down his feelings, but he couldn't help watching his first love, hell his only love, whenever he had the chance.

  He rolled over onto his side on his bed as the brief happiness of that time bled into pain. A tear escaped the corner of his eye, dampening his pillow as he remembered his final encounter with Roshan.

  He'd been putting away supplies that had just been delivered in the storage room when Roshan's dark figure had loomed in the doorway. Casey straightened from where he was digging boxes of gauze out of the large shipping box. He was sure he saw the brief flare of lust as Roshan's eyes dilated and his nostrils flared at the sight of Casey. But a scowl quickly replaced it, and Casey quickly dropped his eyes. He wished he knew what he'd done to cause Roshan to suddenly seem to hate him so much.

  As Roshan's dark form stepped closer, grabbing a box of tongue depressors from the shelf, Casey returned to ignoring the man as best as he could and focused on unpacking the supplies. After all, Roshan had made it clear that he didn't want anything else to do with Casey. When he realized that Roshan hadn't moved, he cast his gaze curiously over at him.

  The abrupt flare of anger surprised him as he felt himself shoved against the metal shelving unit, a hand gripped around his throat. His eyes widened in shock as he grabbed at the taller man's hand.

  "Don't," Roshan growled. "Don't look at me, don't even think about me. I'm not gay. I'm not a faggot like you."

  Casey gaped at him in shock. Roshan had been the one to come to him in the first place. It didn't make sense that he was now blaming Casey for their encounters.

  "But I—" Casey tried to gasp, but he was smaller, younger and didn't have the strength that Roshan did.

  "But nothing! I have a reputation to maintain. I will not let you bring shame to me and my family by continuing to pursue me like this."

  What the hell—? Casey frowned. He hadn't done any of the pursuing here. "I didn't. You—"

  But of course that just enraged Roshan even more, and Casey felt the grip tighten around his neck.

  "Hey!" his uncle's voice snapped from the storage room doorway. "What's going on?"

  Roshan immediately dropped his grip. "Dr. Jorss, your nephew has been... attempting to seduce me. He caught me here in the storage room, and I finally had to make him stop."

  "No!" Casey blurted out, knowing that he was being rather insubordinate to th
e older teen, but he hadn't done anything wrong! "I was just unpacking the supplies, and he grabbed me!"

  Roshan glared at him. "Don't deny you've been lusting after me. Everyone's seen it. You disgust me. Dr. Jorss, you need to keep your nephew under control."

  Casey's jaw dropped open in shock at the cruel words. The bastard hadn't been so disgusted when he'd been slipping his hands up Casey's shirt, telling him how much he loved his creamy, golden skin.

  "I see," his uncle said, his jaw hardening as he stared at both Casey and Roshan. "Casey, I believe it's time to go."

  Casey opened his mouth to argue, but one look at his uncle's stern face and Roshan's smug one made him clamp his jaw shut. He fought to hold at bay the tears threatening to escape. He wouldn't give Roshan the satisfaction of seeing him break down. Instead, he threw the box of gauze he still had clutched in his hand into the shipping box and shoved past Roshan to follow his uncle out.

  "I'm heading home for the day, Dr. Buratha," Martin announced as he stalked to the door.

  "Sure," the owner of the clinic smiled and waved. "Thanks so much for coming in and helping out as usual. See you tomorrow. Bye, Casey," the older doctor greeted, oblivious to the tension in the two of them. Casey only managed a small wave in return.

  Once they were settled in the SUV, Casey refused to look at his uncle, both shamed and angry by what had happened. He crossed his arms and stared out the window.

  But his uncle didn't start the car. "Casey..."

  "I don't want to go back there," Casey announced suddenly. "He was lying, and—"

  "I know," Martin's quiet voice stopped him cold. It was softer and more sympathetic than he'd heard it in... well, forever.

  Casey's gray eyes darted over to the older man, not expecting to see the sadness and concern in the dark hazel eyes, an odd sense of understanding.

  "You know?"

  Martin sighed. "I've seen the way he's looked at you, and you at him. I didn't realize that anything had happened since he—"