The Long Game, page 1
The Long Game
Samantha Wayland
Loch Awe Press
Contents
Also by Samantha Wayland
Acknowledgments
Content Warning
Prologue
1. Present Day
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
Also by Samantha Wayland
With Grace
Destiny Calls
Fair Play (Hat Trick #1)
Two Man Advantage (Hat Trick #2)
End Game (Hat Trick #3)
Crashing the Net (Crashing #1)
Home & Away
Checking It Twice (Crashing #2)
Out of Her League
Take A Shot
A Merry Little (Hat Trick) Christmas (Hat Trick #4)
Traded Out
Breaking Out
Poetry in Motion
Changing the Rules (Crashing #3)
Not Over You
The Long Game
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Copyright © 2023 Samantha Wayland
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Published by Loch Awe Press
P.O. Box 5481
Wayland, MA 01778
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ISBN 978-1-940839-32-5 (eBook)
ISBN 978-1-940839-33-2 (paperback)
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Edited by PNWSandy Edits at KRS Author Services
Proofread by Lori Parks
Cover Art by Ben Ellis, Tall Story Design
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Loch Awe Press, PO Box 5481, Wayland, MA 01778.
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Aven.
For your unfailing friendship, support, accountability, and honesty. It’s a miracle you’re still speaking to me after listening to me b*tch about this book for two years.
Acknowledgments
Thanks go out to Heather Morgan, who tried to get fresh on Facebook just to get her name in a book. Guess it worked. (Be sure to read the bonus scene, too!)
To Lesha P, who helped me visualize Jack’s artwork. I would have been utterly lost without her visual aids.
I’m incredibly grateful to Christina T for being the captain of my “Eh Team” and patiently answering endless questions about all things Canadian. Also, her exquisite cross-stitch work will forever hang in a place of honor in my office.
Claire C took on the unenviable task of creating a “world bible” for all my books, for which I cannot thank her enough. I was expecting loose outlines and notes, and instead she’s crafting a detailed and highly usable accounting of all my stories that will be an amazing tool for me, my editors, and alpha/beta readers going forward.
A huge shout out to AE Wasp and Aly T, for reading more than one version of this, listening to me question everything, and helping me find the path forward.
I’d like to welcome Sandy B and Lori P to Team Wayland. Their expert edits and patient feedback were instrumental to getting this book where it needed to be. Ben Ellis deserves a special shout out for designing this cover not once, not twice, but three times. I feared being fired as a client, but he tackled each new iteration with his trademark kindness and humor. And Michael Ferraiuolo, who I am lucky enough to count as both colleague and friend.
As always, it takes a village to get a story from draft form to the point it’s ready for public consumption. My heartfelt gratitude goes out to my kickass beta readers, final proofreaders, and audiobook proof-listener, who offer me invaluable support and feedback.
Content Warning
This story contains mentions of sexual assault, conversion therapy, and sex work by a minor and adult(s). These are referenced as part of the characters’ pasts and do not take place on the page and are not described in detail. If you would like more information about this book, please don’t hesitate to contact me at samantha@samanthawayland.com.
Prologue
Four Years Ago
Grady McDonnough saddled up to the bar at the Brunswicker Ale House, his cheeks burning and a wide smile plastered on his face. He hoped like hell he didn’t look as dumb or nervous as he felt. He ignored the snickers from the table at his back—not that anyone in the bar would miss the way his idiot coworkers were elbowing each other and grinning.
On the bright side, Grady was out and proud, damn comfortable in his own skin, and his workplace was supportive. On the less bright side, six grown-ass men were way too invested in whether or not Grady had the guts to flirt with the ridiculously handsome bartender.
Of course, they were doomed to disappointment and it had nothing to do with guts. The guy was working and Grady wasn’t a letch. Instead, he leaned against the bar, grateful it was a busy night so his face had time to cool, and observed the people around him.
Well, okay, he mostly observed one particular person around him, but he was only human, damn it.
The bartender smiled at another customer, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Grady wondered if it was a sign he was getting old that he was seriously into those crow’s feet. The man was tall, over six feet, with a strong neck curving into broad shoulders, and a hint of extra muscle testing the thin cotton at the sleeves and seams of his t-shirt. Almost-black hair contrasted attractively with his fair skin, and the pink on his smooth cheeks looked soft and warm. How the woman on the receiving end of that smile didn’t melt into a puddle on the floor was a mystery. Hell, it made Grady’s knees weak from twenty paces.
Then the bartender winked, flipped the towel over his shoulder, and turned to face Grady.
Blue.
For a moment, all Grady could think was blue. All he could see was the deep clear color of the bartender’s eyes as he ran his gaze over the crowd. He nodded briefly at one or two people and gave another a smile. He seemed to know everyone, which made sense—Grady was seriously considering becoming a regular, too.
His breath stuttered when those cobalt blue eyes met his, the lashes thick and black. “What can I get you?”
Grady swallowed. “I’m Grady.”
Those blue eyes lit up and he smiled. “Hi, Grady, I’m Jack. Do you need a drink?” He kindly ignored the loud guffaws and semi-hysterical snorts coming from behind Grady.
“Please. I need to get a round for my table.” When Grady didn’t continue, Jack held his smile and waited.
It took far longer than it should have for Grady to remember he needed to tell the poor man his order. Miraculously, he managed to list the drinks and go a whole minute without making an ass of himself, mostly because Jack stopped looking at Grady in favor of reaching into coolers and lining the requested bottles up on the bar.
Then Jack turned to make Clint’s cocktail and Grady saw god.
Jesus Christ, Grady wanted to worship that ass for days.
He tore his eyes away before he could get caught staring and told himself he would not, under any circumstances, adjust himself. Not only was he not a fucking fourteen-year-old with no self-control, but he wouldn’t live it down at the office for the next half of ever.
Grady’s determination was tested, sorely, when Jack placed the last drink on the bar and smiled at him again. That shit should come with a warning label.
“You need anything else?” Jack’s voice was low and smooth.
Grady blinked at him stupidly, temporarily rendered speechless while a host of answers sprang to mind. Fortunately, Grady wasn’t a creep—despite what may or may not have been happening in his pants at that moment—and kept his thoughts to himself.
“No, I’m good,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse. He held out his credit card and prayed he made it through the next thirty seconds without embarrassing himself.
Again.
Jack’s smile grew—slow and utterly devastating—and with a wink, he plucked the card from Grady’s nerveless fingers.
* * *
Three Months Later
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Jack glanced up from the glass he was drying, his work smile becoming a full-on grin when Grady came through the door. He was easy to spot since, at almost six and a half feet, he was taller than anyone else in the place. The wide shoulders didn’t hurt either when it came to standing out in a crowd, but he effortlessly slipped through the groups of people with his easygoing grace and polite smile.
Grady had been stopping by for dinner or a drink a few times a week since the night he’d introduced himself. The friends hadn’t yet made a reappearance, which was too bad since Jack had liked the way they’d made Grady blush. He’d looked young and cute—an observation Jack would definitely be keeping to himself.
At the time, Jack had been certain Grady would flirt with him, but he’d been adorably awkward instead. Jack was known to be a flirt himself—thanks to the impact it had on his tips—and it was a game he didn’t mind playing as long as the customer understood where the line was drawn. He liked, though, that Grady hadn’t gone there. That Grady’s bumbling had seemed far more earnest.
Not that Jack was going to hook up with the guy either way. He wasn’t suited for a relationship and Grady had commitment written all over him. Jack didn’t usually encourage friendships across the bar, either, but Grady had become an exception. Jack was even willing to overlook Grady’s terrible taste in sports teams and had changed the TV above the bar to the Leafs game just in case Grady showed up, leaving Jack free to pretend it was someone else’s doing.
Jack wiped down the bar at Grady’s usual spot near the cash register while Grady pulled off his hat, leaving his shock of brown hair pointing every which way. Jack tried not to chuckle. Chances were good Grady wouldn’t think to smooth it down, and Jack would spend most of the night resisting the urge to do it for him. Which was kind of weird, but the guy’s hair was ridiculous.
Then Grady peeled open his coat and a lump of something cold and hard lodged in Jack’s chest.
Shit.
Grady hovered by his stool, his head cocked. “You okay, Jack?”
Because, of course, while Grady appeared easygoing, he was actually one of the most observant people Jack had ever met. His warm, dark brown eyes never missed anything that happened in the bar while he was there.
And now Jack knew why.
He tore his gaze from Grady’s broad chest and said, “Yeah, sure. Fine.” He gestured at Grady. “I was just noticing your, ah, shirt,” he said.
Grady glanced down at the rainbow-themed RCMP emblazoned across his chest. “Oh, yeah. I came here from the gym at work and this was all I had in my locker.”
Jack swallowed. “You’re a cop?”
Grady’s eyes narrowed. “I am. Is that a problem?”
Jack couldn’t figure out how it hadn’t come up before now. He felt betrayed. Like the universe was determined to prove to him that life wasn’t fair.
Message received.
“No, not a problem for me.”
Grady didn’t look convinced. “And the rainbow?”
Now he was just pissing Jack off. “No, that is not a problem, fuck you very much for asking.”
A hint of a smile crossed Grady’s face as he surveyed the bar. “Is any of it going to be a problem for anyone else?”
It wasn’t a secret the Brunswicker Ale House was owned by notorious scumbag Robert Kramer, but that didn’t prevent it from being a popular hangout for local politicians and law enforcement, so everything that happened in and around the pub was strictly aboveboard. Otherwise, there was no way in hell Jack would work there.
“No, you’re good,” he said, placing Grady’s beer in front of him.
Grady nodded his thanks and settled onto his stool.
Jack almost sighed in relief when someone caught his eye and held up their empty glass. He tipped his chin at Grady and moved to the other customer, aware of Grady’s stare, like an itch between his shoulder blades, the whole way.
Thank god it was a busy Friday night. Jack didn’t have time to talk to Grady except when he took his dinner order and later delivered it. Grady, as always, watched the game with one eye but had the other on the crowd. Jack felt dumb for not figuring out earlier why Grady was so habitually vigilant.
Jack half expected to find Grady’s spot empty or taken over by one of the countless drunk university students as the night wore on, but he never budged, his ass planted on his stool far later than normal. And worse, instead of watching the late game after the Leafs had thoroughly disgraced themselves—a high point in this interminable night—Grady’s attention was now split between the crowd and Jack. Every time Jack snuck a glance down the bar he was met with Grady’s calm, steady gaze.
At midnight, Grady switched from beer to Diet Coke. By one-thirty, the kids from the university were filtering out the door and Grady was still at the bar.
“Late night for you,” Jack observed as he used the soda gun to top up Grady’s glass.
Grady pitched his voice so the people around him wouldn’t hear. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
Grady arched one eyebrow, silently calling bullshit.
Jack sighed. “I’m not the kind of person someone like you should be hanging around.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look me up,” Jack said.
Grady’s face screwed up in confusion. “What?”
“Look me up. At work. It’s Jack Chevalier.” He spelled his last name.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Locking his emotions down tight, Jack turned to the register. He knew who he was. He understood his own limitations. He dropped Grady’s receipt and credit card onto the bar and, with a nod for his manager further down the bar, slipped into the storeroom to begin restocking for the next day.
He didn’t see Grady leave.
* * *
Grady didn’t snoop into his friends’ lives, even with their permission, and he had no intention of making an exception with Jack. Maybe they were just getting to know one another—hell, maybe their budding friendship hadn’t moved beyond his patch of real estate at the end of the bar yet—but Grady did count Jack as a friend and he wasn’t in the habit of violating anyone’s privacy, let alone that of people he cared about.
He went back to the Brunswicker Ale House the next night to ask Jack what the hell was going on, but Jack had taken the night off. Undeterred, Grady returned the next night, pleased to find Jack behind the bar. Before he could say a word, though, Jack disappeared into the stockroom and five minutes later was waiting on tables in the back—something Grady had never once seen him do.
After a third night of being completely and blatantly blown off, Grady said to hell with it and bent his rules.
He wasn’t exactly surprised by what he found, since Jack’s behavior had been a pretty good clue, but armed robbery? And a five-year prison stint for it? That just didn’t make sense with the man Grady knew.
Tossing the rules out the window entirely, Grady approached his colleagues who’d worked the case and asked them about it. About Jack.
It wasn’t a pretty tale.
Like the guys who had worked the case, Grady ended up feeling sorry for the kid whose father had robbed a liquor store of two hundred dollars and some cheap beer, then forced his son—who’d had no idea what his father was up to—to be his get-away driver. He felt sorry for the son who hadn’t called the cops in the two hours it took them to track his old man down. Sorry for the promising college student who’d been assigned a notorious dickbag of a judge who’d decided to make an example of him.
