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  Copyright © 2022 Taylor McNiff

  Stay

  A Veterans of Callenburg Romance

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a m/m romance that is rated Explicit and intended for mature audiences (+18)

  Content Warning: This book contains scenes that some might find triggering and/or disturbing, as well as explicit sex scenes between the main characters (Fitz/Owen). This book deals with heavy topics including, but not limited to, sexual assault of minors and adults, forced prostitution, murder, and physical violence. No scenes containing sexual assault are depicted in detail in this book.

  This book is the second in a series of 3. It can be read as a standalone, but is best enjoyed after reading book 1 – Safe. The ending of each book is HFN and the ending of the series is a HEA.

  The National Human Trafficking Hotline is a national, toll-free hotline in the United States and is reached by calling 1-888-373-7888. Other options for help include e-mailing [email protected], &/or texting 'HELP' or 'INFO' to BeFree (233733). These methods help victims come in contact with a human trafficking task force, not law enforcement. If the danger is immediate, it is best to call 911.

  For Human Trafficking Hotlines in other countries, go to: ec.europa.eu/anti-trafficking/citizens-corner-national-hotlines/national-hotlines_en

  Resources are available for human trafficking victims - INCLUDING non-U.S. citizen victims without legal status - at dhs.gov/blue-campaign. Protection from immigration resources are also available here for non-U.S. citizen victims without legal states.

  The website polarisproject.org has great resources for victims, but also a wealth of information for those who wish to learn more and do what they can about human trafficking. Go to this website to learn things like: who is most vulnerable, how traffickers lure their victims, and ways to recognize both labor and sex trafficking in your community. The website also offers multiple ways to help the cause, both monetary and action-based.

  The polarisproject.org also has specific resources for LGBTQ+ youth that are victims of sex trafficking, and provides an introduction to sex trafficking for LGBTQ+youth providers and others who are new to the issue of human trafficking. There are resources, recommendations, and information regarding anti-trafficking efforts and assitance for LGBTQ+ youth survivors of sex trafficking. LGBTQ+ youth are among the most vulnerable with child sex trafficking.

  Nearly 40% of homeless youth identify as LGBTQ+

  Homeless youth are more susceptable to traffickers who exploit their needs and vulnerabilities to cooerce them into sex or labor trafficking. LGBTQ+ youth may be trafficked by intimate partners, family members, friends, or strangers. They are especially vulnerable due to discrimination and prejudice that causes them to fear reaching out for support, sometimes even from their own friends or families

  ** Note: According to federal law, any minor under the age of 18 engaging in commercial sex is a victim of sex trafficking, REGARDLESS of the presence of force, fraud, or coercion **

  If you believe you are a victim of human trafficking or may have information about a potential trafficking situation, please contact the National Human Trafficking Hotline at 1-888-373-7888. If you or someone you know is in immediate danger, please call 911.

  The Veterans Crisis Line is an access free, confidential support line that runs 24/7, 365 days a year, and is reached by calling 1-800-273-8255. You do not need to be enrolled in VA benefits or health care to call.

  Other options include: chatting online at veteranscrisisline.net and texting 838255.

  The Veterans Crisis Line serves Veterans, Their Families, and Their Friends.

  This novel is dedicated to the troops who didn’t make it back home, and the ones who loved them.

  Chapter One

  Fitz

  Dead bodies are always hard to deal with as a detective, but sometimes the live ones are even worse. The victims too traumatized to speak. The family and friends desperate to find a missing person. The loved ones who just found out someone they care for died.

  A woman is at tonight’s crime scene when I arrive. She’s standing at the edge of the bright yellow caution tape, held back not by the barrier, but by a patrol officer. Her sobs are loud enough to hear from inside my jeep.

  Just stepping out into the night air is difficult. The atmosphere is soaked in grief, bringing a metallic taste to my tongue. It’s heavy. Familiar. The memories come fast and unbidden; Freckles and green eyes and lips that were always dry from the desert heat. I close my eyes and breathe through the moment before stuffing the little pieces of Chris into a box in the farthest part of my mind. Now isn’t the time to think about him. To think about the day that I lost everything. I’m in Callenburg, Wisconsin – not Afghanistan – and I have a job to do.

  “Ma’am-” I begin.

  She cuts me off with a wail, fingers clutching at the front of my coat. “Is it him? Is it my son?”

  “I don’t know anything yet, ma’am. If you’d be kind enough to let this officer here know who your son is and perhaps show a picture, we can get you that information as soon as we can.”

  “Joey. It’s Joey. He’s only 17, brown hair, and blue eyes. He went missing two weeks ago. I – I heard on the police scanner that it’s a young man that’s dead. Is it him? Is it my Joey?”

  I look at the police officer – one of the newer hires. I don’t remember his first name off the top of my head. “This officer here will take down all your information. I promise you, ma’am, we will get you your answers as soon as possible. Please be patient.”

  “Please don’t let it be Joey,” she sobs, turning towards the officer. “Please, please.”

  I duck beneath the caution tape to enter the crime scene, almost relieved to be dealing with a dead body now. Our photographer, Tori, is kneeling beside the victim, taking a picture. It’s because of her that I don’t see the details of our victim until I’m right beside him. I exhale heavily at the sight before me.

  The body is mottled with bruises in varying states of healing, some layered in more high-traffic areas like his throat and wrists. There are clear signs of prolonged bondage, and the ribcage trying to protrude through the victim’s pale skin indicates lack of nutrition. His hands are red and blistered. None of that is what really draws my attention, though. They’re small details when compared to what’s on his chest. It’s a photograph from an instant camera – Polaroid, or something similar.

  “Have you taken all the pictures you need?” I ask Tori, desperate to get a closer look at the photograph.

  “Almost.”

  “I’m assuming this is how he was found?”

  “Mostly. He might have been jostled a bit. One of the teens that found him tried to check for a pulse while the other called 911.”

  I groan. That was nice of them, of course, but could have fucked up our case. “Any chance you know if they were smart enough to keep those teens around?”

  “Down at the precinct last I heard. They seem to be cooperating. Sounds like they were sneaking off for a midnight rendezvous.”

  “One hell of a rendezvous.” I squat down beside the body, too curious to wait any longer. I make sure to keep my hands to myself as I peer at the photograph. The subject is a person. A naked person, it seems, though the full body isn’t shown so I can’t be sure. What can be seen – a head of dark hair, a sloped back, a thin arm, a slim hip – is covered in nothing b
ut marks and bruises. Marks and bruises very similar to the ones I can see on the body in front of me.

  Why? I’d get it if the photograph was sent to us before the body was disposed of. If he was taunting the authorities or taunting the loved ones about the fact that he has the man in his possession, that would make sense. But what does he accomplish by giving us a photograph alongside the victim? Is this someone else in the photograph? Someone from the man’s past? Someone new? Is he telling us that he’s done with this one, but already has another in his grasp?

  “Boy am I glad that I’m not a detective,” Tori muses. “It hurts just watching your brain turn.”

  “Done with the pictures?” I ask, too focused to participate in banter with her.

  Before she can answer me, I hear a deep voice from behind us say in a familiar drawl, “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You don’t sound sorry.” I push up to my feet, turning to face the owner of the voice. Detective Huxley Scott – or, better known to me as my best friend Huck – looks like he just rolled out of bed, but it doesn’t look like he was sleeping in it. I roll my eyes as I take in his wild hair, inside-out shirt, and fresh hickey blooming on his throat. “Having too much fun with lover boy, huh?”

  Huck shows me two travel cups of coffee, arching a brow at me. “Don’t be an asshole or I won’t share.”

  It’s not much of a decision. As much as I love giving Huck shit, this is going to be a late night and a hard case, and I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get. “I’ll play nice.”

  “Good choice.” He hands over one of the cups. I don’t have to take a drink to know that it’ll be doctored with plenty of milk and sugar, just as I like it. “You take such good care of me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Do we know if the vic is that woman’s son yet?”

  I wince. I knew the woman was still here, I can hear her through the trees, but that doesn’t make the reminder any easier. Especially since, “He matches the description, but I’m hoping not.”

  “Well, bring me up to speed.”

  I gesture for him to follow me the few steps back to the body, which Tori has now left behind for us to take a closer look at. Since I don’t know much more than what I’ve been able to figure out from looking at the body, things Huck is already figuring out the longer we stand here, it doesn’t take long to bring him up to speed. Then we’re snapping rubber gloves on and squatting side by side. He picks the photograph up right away, frowning at it. I focus on the body itself, starting to look for a reason why he’s dead.

  There’s no obvious fatal injury. Any cuts on his body are shallow. The bruises on his throat don’t look fresh enough. His head seems to be fully intact. His stomach, though thin, is nowhere near starvation.

  “How the fuck did he die?” I ask out loud.

  Huck counters with a question of his own. “Why give us a picture?”

  The wind kicks up, the sharp scent of bleach filling the air.

  We exchange a look.

  There are a lot of unanswered questions with this one. We’ll need to wait on his identity, to see if he is in fact Joey, or if he’s been reported missing by anyone else if he isn’t. We’ll need to see what the medical examiner finds for cause of death. We’ll need to figure out the circumstances surrounding his disappearance.

  But that doesn’t mean that we don’t know some things. We know this wasn’t a coincidence. This wasn’t a chance encounter. A spur of the moment kill. We know this victim was held captive before he met his doom. We know there’s something ritualistic about the way he was presented – not a drop of blood on him, hair brushed, body free of forest debris, a photograph right above his heart. Any first-year detective can figure out what that all means.

  This might be our first body, but it certainly won’t be our last.

  ****

  I don’t leave the crime scene until nearly 2 a.m. Huck left before me with a comment about his boyfriend Olly probably staying awake for him, asking me if I would mind wrapping things up so he can get back to him. I told him it was fine, but it hurt deep in my chest in a way I hate myself for. It’s not that I don’t love Huck and Olly because I really fucking do, and it’s not that I’m not thrilled for them because I really fucking am – after Olly suffered 6 years at the hands of an ex-boyfriend who abused him and trafficked him, and after Huck almost lost Olly twice before we were able to free him of his abuser for good, lord knows they fucking deserve happiness – but… well, that was supposed to be me. I was supposed to be part of the couple that owns a house and stays up waiting for each other. The couple who invites friends over for dinner. The couple that takes 3 hours to grocery shop because they’re so grossly in love they can’t concentrate. Huck and Olly these past few months have been all mussed appearances and easy smiles and heart eyes across the room, always floating in this happy little bubble that the rest of us can’t touch.

  I was supposed to have that.

  I did have that.

  And then I lost it.

  Lost him.

  Chris.

  There’s a part of me - a terrible, awful part - that has a hard time with the fact that I helped save Olly when Huck couldn’t help me save Chris. It’s a small part of me, a part that doesn’t usually make an appearance unless I’m exhausted or drunk. It’s rearing its head right now, as I drive through our sleepy town on my way to my empty house, knowing Huck is probably already asleep with Olly in his arms.

  Maybe it’s for the best that a case like this one has landed in my lap. No, I’m not glad someone is dead, but I’m glad to have something to take up space in my mind again. As the lead detective for the human trafficking sting we conducted in the fall, the one that helped us save Olly and his best friend Abel, I’ve been the one trying to track down the few loose ends. Most specifically, a man named Kessler who was responsible for kidnapping and trafficking over a hundred underage boys, including Abel, and a man we don’t know the name of, currently known as Suspect A, who was just hours away from purchasing Olly as his own personal sex slave before our best friend and unapologetic badass, Ash, was able to rescue him last minute.

  Finding the men have been like searching for two needles in a field of haystacks. In theory, that makes me very busy. In reality, it’s made me bored out of my fucking mind and frustrated beyond belief.

  This new case will be good for me. Something solid to chase. Something with evidence and leads. Something that will keep me focused, instead of my mind wandering to other things that are best kept tucked away in that same box in my mind that Chris’s green eyes and freckles and dry lips were placed earlier tonight.

  I’m wired and itchy by the time I get home, too many thoughts already swirling in my mind. Too many ideas. Theories. Evidence I want to follow up on. Specific photographs I’d like to see from Tori’s collection. Memories of Chris that won’t fucking stay where they belong.

  I head out to my front porch with a beer. The crisp spring air feels good. Cleansing. I rest my forearms on the porch railing and lean forward. The streetlights mute the night sky, but they’re nothing compared to the landing strip that is my neighbor’s house. His Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas decorations were fucking obnoxious and drove me insane, but I had held out hope that the craziness would take a break with the new year.

  It hadn’t.

  January was blue and purple string lights on the house and in the trees, partnered with a bright blue sign that acted as a flood light by lighting up the words HAPPY NEW YEAR in neon.

  February was pink and red everything. He even got a new mailbox for the occasion. His door sported a pink heart-shaped wreath, his house was lined with pink and red lights, his walkway had little pink heart lanterns along the edges, two gnomes were on the front porch puckered up for an impending kiss, and a giant inflatable cupid holding a heart with an arrow through it that read BE MINE dominated the open space of his lawn.

  March came with a super-sized inflatable unicorn being ridden by a leprechaun that was the size of my
neighbor’s car, as well as rainbow string lights, a wreath made of fake clovers, and two large pots of fake gold.

  April was Easter with the demonic Easter bunny from hell. Yes, there were also cute pastel Easter egg shaped lanterns along the walkway, little lawn gnomes with Easter baskets, a wreath with spring flowers and little eggs, and pastel rainbow string lights, but it was that fucking Easter bunny – that fucking Easter bunny with its beady little eyes that seemed to follow me and that creepy ass buck-toothed grin, one paw waving hello at me, the other clutching a giant egg like a weapon ready to be used, a strange demonic glow emanating from him – that was worst of all. The Demonic Easter Bunny was almost as bad as the Disco Santa I may or may not have stolen from said neighbor’s yard after a particularly bad night this past winter. The only reason Disco Santa wins the worst decoration award is because that fucker sang and danced too.

  Judging by the month and the red, white, and blue everything plastered all over my neighbor’s house and yard, I’m assuming the current décor is for Memorial Day. Which, of course, just makes me hate him even more.

  At least none of the Memorial Day decorations sing or dance.

  It’s the little things in life, I suppose.

  As if my thoughts summon him, a car comes up the street and parks in front of my neighbor’s house, the bane of my existence exiting the passenger side a moment later. Mr. Happy, as I like to call him, stumbles as he tries shutting the car door behind himself, nearly falling flat on his ass. The driver gets out and comes to him. He seems to try and steady Mr. Happy, but he just makes things worse. Or perhaps that was his intention because by making things worse, he ends up with Mr. Happy pinned between him and the car. Their laughter swirls through the night air, gathering power before slamming into my chest.