The Other Side of Winter Read online

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 6652

  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Other Side of Winter

  Copyright © 2015 by G.B. Gordon

  Cover art: Reese Dante, reesedante.com

  Editor: KJ Charles

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-266-0

  First edition

  March, 2015

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-267-7

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  Not all wounds are visible.

  Skanian investigator Bengt fell in love with fellow policeman Alex Rukow in a week. But that was a year ago, and they’ve been apart ever since. Then Alex escapes the corrupt and destitute island nation of Santuario and comes to live with Bengt. Happy ever after . . .?

  Alex’s lifelong dream of leaving Santuario has come true at last. But he finds himself adrift in a society he doesn’t understand. Worse, past nightmares come back to haunt him, and after so many years of suspicion and self-reliance, it’s harder than he imagined to trust someone else.

  Bengt just wants Alex to share his comfortable life. But the more he tries to give, the more Alex pulls away. Their physical connection couldn’t be better, but Bengt can’t seem to get through to his difficult, taciturn lover outside the bedroom. Meanwhile, he has his own demons to confront—not to mention a serial killer on the loose.

  Bengt and Alex must dig deep for the courage to face their pasts, but it may be too late to save their relationship or their lives.

  This one’s for all of you out there who are fighting and living with post-traumatic stress disorder, those of you who’ve found the strength to ask for help, and those of you still struggling along alone. And for all the spouses and family struggling along with you and trying to understand. You are all warriors and survivors.

  Don’t wait until you break. Asking for help is not weakness. Reach out.

  http://www.helpguide.org/articles/ptsd-trauma/post-traumatic-stress-disorder.htm

  In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.

  —Albert Camus

  About The Other Side of Winter

  Chapter 1

  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

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Also by G.B. Gordon

  About the Author

  More like this

  “You’re not eating.”

  The sun poured across the breakfast table like honey. Bengt smiled at his mother, but raised his hands in a no-thanks gesture when she held out the basket with fresh buns for him. “I’m fine, Mamma.”

  “But you’re not eating.”

  “He’s nervous.” Svenja winked at Bengt. “I don’t think I’ve seen you quite this worked up over a guy before. You only knew him for a week.” When he scowled at her, she grew more serious. “You’re not sure your friend will be on that plane, are you? Have you heard from him?”

  Bengt pushed his chair back and got up. “He will come.”

  “I can hardly contain my joy,” Halden said from the other end of the table. “Sören predicts the city’ll be inundated with social aid applications. And that’s gonna come out of your tax pocket too, brother.”

  “Your friend Sören is not all that well-informed, I’m afraid.” Bengt couldn’t stand the guy. He had no clue why Halden hung out with him. “The Þing is still hammering out the details, but whatever social aid the Santuarians apply for won’t be coming out of city coffers until full integration. Though, it will, of course, still be our tax money.” He leaned toward his brother across the table. “But what’s the alternative? Do you really want to leave things as they are? I don’t think I could live with that.”

  Halden scoffed. “I doubt it’s all that bad.”

  “Yeah, because I’m so likely to make things up.”

  “Well, no, but you’re hardly objective in this.”

  Bengt threw Halden a shut-up look, grabbed the newspage, and retreated to the swing on the deck to lick his wounds. He loved Familydays at his mother’s, but today his brother and even his aunt were getting on his nerves.

  A gentle breeze rustled the first fallen leaves and dried the sweat on his skin. Everyone and their grandmother would be cooking outdoors this weekend to milk the last rays of sunshine from these hot, dry days that sometimes prolonged the end of summer but that could turn to first snow almost overnight.

  Truth was, he was far less sure that Alex would be on that plane than he dared to admit. He’d put in two weeks of vacation to be with him and ease his transition into a new life. Wouldn’t he look stupid if he showed up at work on Monday. Though, if Alex didn’t come, that would be the least of his problems.

  Almost a year now since they’d worked that case together on Santuario. A year since that heady night in the house by the ocean. A year since that promise the next morning that had sounded like a dismissal. And still Bengt woke up at night with the taste of Alex’s skin on his lips.

  A squirrel ran up the steps, threw an accusing look at the empty bird feeder, and scurried away.

  With Alex more or less on the run or in hiding, and the political situation on Santuario very much in flux, Mendez had been their only point of contact. Bengt hadn’t dared to write any letters. The political situation on Santuario was still far from stable, the opposition only able to operate from behind the walls of the Skanian embassy. How Mendez contrived to stay in touch with the resistance, Bengt had no idea. He’d sent a couple of novels to give Alex a chance to practice his Skanes, and Mendez had somehow managed to pass them on and had sent word back whenever he’d had news, so that Bengt at least knew that Alex was alive.
br />   It had been a relief when Mendez wrote that Alex had applied for and been granted a visa, and Bengt had been on tenterhooks ever since.

  He checked his watch. The hands didn’t seem to be moving at all. He tried to concentrate on his newspage, but caught himself staring at a sliver of sunlight on the railing, watching it creep closer to the post.

  Alex had promised to be on the first plane out, but the way he’d said it had left ample room for doubt and had haunted Bengt’s nightmares for so long that he’d had time to analyze every nuance, every movement, every expression to the point where they’d lost all meaning. His gut feeling told him Alex would keep his promise, but then, gut reaction hadn’t been his strong point these past years.

  Had Alex even bought a ticket for that flight? The only way to get the information from the airline would be to flash his badge, which would constitute exactly the kind of misuse of power he hated so much about the Santuarian system. Not that he wasn’t sorely tempted.

  He checked his watch for the millionth time that morning and decided to drive to the airport. He’d fret as much there as here, but being early might at least get him decent parking.

  By the time the first passengers trickled through the gate, he’d worn himself ragged with worry and longing. More and more memories flooded back as he searched the crowd that looked so exotic and so familiar at the same time. The deeply tanned faces, the foreign clothing, the men with their short hair—anticipation made his skin tingle.

  Then his heart skipped a beat.

  There, at the back of the crowd.

  He’d recognize that lithe walk anywhere. Black boots, black pants, white shirt—his out-of-uniform uniform. A scuffed and faded olive kit bag slung over one shoulder. Alex. He’d come.

  It finally hit Bengt how improbable that was, or maybe he could just now bear to acknowledge it. They’d known each other for little more than a week, had spent one night together. How likely was it that either of them would even remember, much less be obsessed with the other to the point of exclusion? Bengt’s sex life had been virtually nonexistent this past year. He just hadn’t been able to get interested in anyone else beyond the occasional one-night stand that was purely about blowing off steam. Had Alex?

  He was leaner than Bengt remembered, his cheeks hollow, with that five-o’clock shadow Bengt could still feel rasping against the palm of his hand. He’d taken Bengt’s advice and grown his hair, now shoulder length, curling at the ends, begging to be grabbed. Bengt swallowed hard.

  Alex walked carefully, trying not to bump into anyone, keeping his eyes low. Bengt watched him make his way through the crowd, willing him to look up. When he finally did, right into Bengt’s eyes, he stopped dead, eyes going wide, and the expression on his face went straight to Bengt’s cock.

  Soul, he wanted to kiss those half-open lips, rip every thread of clothes off that body, and make sure once and for all he hadn’t just dreamed that night by the ocean.

  Jostled from behind, Alex started out of his trance and hesitantly made his way through the barrier to where Bengt was waiting. He scanned the crowd milling about the arrival hall, then looked back at Bengt and held out his hand in a wooden welcome.

  Bengt went to pull him in for a hug, but Alex’s stiff embarrassment forbade that kind of familiarity, so Bengt made do with the buddy greeting of holding Alex’s arm just below the elbow and giving his biceps a gentle squeeze with the other hand. Trying to breach the awkwardness of the moment, he leaned in to whisper, “We’re a little more greedy here. We grab the whole arm.”

  Alex didn’t smile, just gave a brief nod and hitched his kit bag farther up his shoulder, eyes and face more noncommittal and shuttered than ever, and with Alex that was saying something.

  Bengt pulled back, suddenly cold in the air-conditioned hall. Had Alex come for him, or just to escape? Or because he’d felt obliged? Bengt nodded toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here. Car’s parked in front.”

  They didn’t speak as Alex stowed his meager luggage in the back, nor when Bengt navigated the big Forstmann off-roader out of airport traffic. Now and then, Bengt stole a glance at Alex’s profile, trying to gauge his mood, find a starting point, a connection, anything. But all that was abundantly clear was how wired Alex was, tension rolling off him in waves to the point where Bengt felt like a man standing on a tower made of china teacups. One wrong move and the whole thing would grind to dust beneath him.

  He saw Alex glance at the radio and, glad for the opening, turned it on and indicated the tuning button. “No Son music here, I’m afraid, but feel free to hunt for a station you like.”

  After a bit of fiddling, Alex, to Bengt’s surprise, settled for classical music, and turned up the volume a bit. He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him, and some of the tension finally bled from his shoulders.

  Bengt pressed his lips together to keep the questions from spilling out. Are you okay? What happened to you? Have you had enough to eat? Where did you live? Did you get the books? Do you love me?

  What he finally asked, as neutrally as he could, was, “So, how’ve you been?”

  “Well enough,” Alex said after a brief pause without opening his eyes. “Thanks for the books. They were a brilliant idea.”

  His voice and that soft, lilting accent made Bengt’s knees weak. He had to clear his throat before he could say, “Thought you might like them.”

  They fell silent again as Bengt left the bustle of Hentavik behind and turned onto the short stretch of country road that would bring them home. The trees threw long shadows now, and by the time Bengt parked the car, there was a chill in the air that had Alex rubbing his hands across his arms when he climbed out.

  Bengt retrieved Alex’s kit bag, way too light to be the luggage of a man traveling with everything he owned. He watched Alex study the house, then scan his surroundings, wary to the point of skittishness. He followed Bengt inside, turning this way and that to take in everything at once, looking as if he were ready to bolt.

  Bengt set the bag down, trying to let Alex be, to give him space, but wanting so badly to touch him that he couldn’t breathe. “Alex,” he said softly.

  Alex stood with his back to him, fists pressed to his thighs, neck muscles taut. “I . . . don’t know how . . .” His voice was rough with strain.

  Bengt could have kicked himself. This wasn’t about Alex rejecting him. This was just Alex. Mr. Iron Control. The man who couldn’t let go if his life depended on it. Except that he could, spectacularly so, given the right incentive.

  Tenderness welling up inside him, Bengt closed the distance and enfolded Alex in a loose embrace with a whispered, “Shhh . . .”

  Alex stood as still as a deer in headlights, his back rigid against Bengt’s chest, his heart beating a rapid tattoo against Bengt’s wrist. Bengt placed a kiss on his neck, felt it jolt through Alex’s body, then Alex took a shuddering breath and turned in Bengt’s arms to face him, to crowd against him. His body was hard as glass. Everywhere.

  Bengt cupped his face and tried another tender kiss, but found his lips crushed in a greedy response. Nothing tender about Alex’s kiss or the way he ground against Bengt’s body with the desperation of a man drowning. As if he knew only two ways to deal with strong emotions: fortress mode or no holds barred.

  So Bengt did what he’d been wanting to do ever since he first saw Alex at the airport: rip his shirt off his body—fuck buttons—and bite those strong neck muscles, lick the salt off the dark skin, and bury his face in that silky black hair.

  But before he could really get going, he felt Alex’s body buck against his, once, twice, and Alex came hard in his pants with a strangled sound, quickly muffled against Bengt’s shoulder.

  Too stunned to do anything but hold him, Bengt stood and waited out the series of smaller shudders that raced through Alex’s body as it went limp. The comedy of their tongue-tied reunion, of the two of them standing locked in comedown in the hallway on a summer evening, and of the outra
ged consternation of his cock broke his tension, and he chuckled against the top of Alex’s head.

  “That must have been the worst incident of blue balls in the history of mankind,” he murmured into Alex’s hair.

  Weak laughter vibrated against his shoulder before Alex raised his head and looked at him, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “You have no idea.”

  “Shower?”

  “If I can move.”

  He did manage to make his way up the stairs, even had an interested glance for the loft and especially the king-sized bed.

  Bengt led him through to the en suite and gave him a stack of towels, then left him alone and gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, scratching his eyebrow. Trust a couple of guys to utterly mess up what should have been sheer joy.

  He heard the shower start in the bathroom, then a yelp of pain that brought him to his feet. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Then, “The fucking water’s hot.”

  Bengt recalled the tepid trickle of showers on Santuario and realized this was probably the first hot shower Alex had ever had in his life. “It won’t scald you,” he yelled back. “It’s not set that high. You need help in there, let me know,” he added, grinning.

  “You offering?”

  That was all the invitation Bengt needed. He was out of his clothes in two seconds flat and opened the bathroom door to the spectacle of Alex’s lean, long body glistening under the spray of water.

  He was greeted by a shy grin, and had to forcefully remind himself that hot water wasn’t the only thing new for Alex. But, soul, it was hard to remember to take things slowly when the guy looked good enough to eat.

  He stepped into the shower, squeezed some gel into his hand, then turned Alex around and started to massage his shoulders and back, arms, chest. His cock twitched when Alex leaned against him, and his hands wandered south of their own volition, spreading the soap over Alex’s cock and balls. It didn’t take much to spark renewed interest there, and cause Alex to breathe more rapidly. Bengt rinsed him off and turned off the water, before holding out a towel for Alex to step into.