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Chapter One
Hey Magellan,
Judging from the last video, it looks like you’re getting the hang of that agility course. Don’t let the teeter-totter balance mess with you. You’ll nail it soon. I’m telling myself the same thing about this data analysis class I just started, so you and I can slam through this together, right?
It’s good to be back at school, though. Being around my brothers 24/7 over the Christmas break was like being suffocated in sixth grade all over again: old enough to walk to school by myself but not old enough to do anything without asking permission. B won’t let up on the whole psychologist thing, and now R is on my case. They don’t understand that getting back to class and the gym is what saves my sanity, not some guy in an armchair wanting me to relive every minute of the last twenty messed-up years. Even if I can barely walk after hitting the presses yesterday.
Can’t wait to see your next course video. You got this. —G.
Hitting Send on the message, Grey Baker closed out the social media app, set his phone face down, tapped his water bottle, and returned his attention to his textbook before his older brother, Birch, caught him slacking off.
“Did you text River about the change to the septum-piercing appointment tomorrow?” Birch called from the back of Serpent’s Tongue Ink, the tattoo and piercing parlor Birch had opened four years ago. “I’m trying to stack his week so he’s not rushed before he flies out again.”
“Done and done,” he replied, his thumb flying over his screen to send the info off. “Do you need me doing the color on that tribal Saturday? You’re still tight on time with the touch-ups on the skull cover.”
His brother walked out front and placed a yellow sticky note on the computer screen. “Only if you don’t have studying to do. School first. Always.”
Always.
Most days, he was able to shake off the pressure accompanying the status of being the only one of the Baker brothers to not only finish high school but get into the University of Nebraska’s engineering program. But since the incident, most days was becoming looser in interpretation. Which led to guilt. Which made the interpretation significantly looser.
It was a vicious cycle he wasn’t breaking any time soon.
It wasn’t simply the fact that Winter, his oldest brother, had literally sacrificed his freedom to give the youngest two Baker boys a chance to break free of their white-trash reputation. Or the knowledge that Birch, the second oldest of the clan, gave up three years of his life, taking a jail term for a hefty financial payout after spending his teen years raising Grey and River.
No, the guilt came from knowing he was the reason Birch didn’t sleep well again. The reason Winter felt he had to call from jail every other day to check in. The reason River changed his work schedule to ensure he and Grey were on site at the same time as much as possible.
They all thought he was broken, thanks to one hellish week four months ago.
One hellish week he didn’t need to relive with some therapist, regardless of what his well-meaning brothers and their sweet girlfriends thought.
He had his own version of therapy going, on his terms.
Glancing at his phone to see if Magellan had replied, he wrinkled his nose and did his best to ignore the twinge of disappointment flashing through him when there was nothing. “Saturday will be good for me. I need time away from these books every once in a while, right?”
River’s SUV swung up in front of Serpent’s Tongue, and Birch nodded. “Better get out there. Angelina closes shop in twenty minutes and River has no qualms pushing you out of a moving car to get her alone. I’ll be home after the delivery.”
With his laptop, books, and phone in hand, he gave Birch a tight smile. “Thanks. I mean it. Every time.”
And he did, because he knew every delivery killed Birch a little. Knew every pickup did the same. And he knew it was one more sacrifice his brother continued to make to save him.
Removing his wireless earbuds one at a time, Grey shoved them into the pockets of his black track pants and feigned interest in his phone while the Sweatshop Succubus approached.
Or, as she had introduced herself three months ago when he’d signed up for the torment she called personal training, Melody.
“Phone away,” she stated without a hello, pulling her black hair back into a short ponytail. “We’re starting on the floor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he grumbled, wondering how he could claim sanity when he was continuing to subject himself to this torture for two hours a session, four times a week. Walking to the mats in the corner, he sat, draping his arms over his knees. “What does Her Royal Viciousness want to start with?”
Her dark eyes met his, and she cocked a brow, letting him know precisely what she thought of his smart-ass retort. “Grab a rope and jump for me, pretty boy.”
Fuuuuuuuck.
But he obeyed, as he always did. With the jump rope in hand, he locked his eyes on the stopwatch hanging around her neck and counted down the seconds.
It had taken a grand total of ten minutes into their first session together for him to realize two things about Melody Zeher.
One, she was a ferocious ballbuster who took no shit.
Two, she would give him the results he needed.
“Sixty crunches,” she barked when the timer dinged. “And for every fallback you do, we’re adding another ten.”
This was why he got his dig in right out of the gate when he saw her, because he would have neither the breath, time, nor fight left in him to do it after.
During his warm-up on the treadmill, he often watched other trainers and their clients around the gym, noting the encouraging words and camaraderie between them. There was a mutual respect. Support. Sometimes even friendship.
It was nothing like what he and the Sweatshop Succubus had.
At eighty crunches—because heaven forbid she let slide the lack of control he’d exhibited on two of the initial sixty—she passed the rope back and kept her thumb on her stopwatch, clicking it only when he started the first jump. He fixed his glare on the clock around her neck, growling when she took out her phone and blocked his view.
The cell in her hand was a deception tactic, one he’d fallen for repeatedly during his first weeks under her masochistic training. It didn’t matter how fast her thumb tapped on the screen or how focused she seemed to be, she wasn’t remotely distracted. Those onyx eyes caught every slouch of his shoulders, every change of his pace, every push that didn’t measure up. And, as though she was punishing him for even thinking he could slip something past her, the consequences for slacking off while her phone was out were worse than when she was standing over him barking commands.
“Back on the floor. Thirty push-ups, thirty crunches, repeat with twenty, ten, twenty, and back to thirty. On my count.”
Tossing the rope into the corner, he grunted his acknowledgement, swiped his face and neck with his towel, and got into position with a growl in his throat.
Hi G,
I guarantee my teeter-totter is way harder than your analysis class haha kidding. That teeter-totter is stressing me out, but I get a treat every time I try it, so it’s not too bad. Your professor should give you a treat every time you do an assignment well. It’s effective. Positive reinforcement.
You’re pretty lucky to have brothers who look out for you. But I get where you’re coming from. You need to do what works for you to keep your head on right. If school and exercise do it, then they should be happy you found a healthy way to deal. Lots of people don’t. Heck, lots of dogs don’t. I have elk antlers to keep me calm and happy, which is good because when I become a police dog, I’ll have something to help me when things are tough, too.
Keep studying! —Magellan
Grey leaned against his car and read over Magellan’s message in the gym parking lot, grinning at the response before he pocketed his phone and tossed his backpack onto the passenger seat. Schooling his expression, he got in and buckled his seat belt, running his hand across his face as he started the engine.
Okay. Maybe Birch had the right to be worried about him.
He’d made first contact with Magellan nine weeks ago when he stumbled on the future police dog’s social media page at three A.M. after waking from yet another cold-sweat nightmare. Seeing the beagle pup’s face for the first time since his rescue knocked him on his ass. The relief he felt in that moment was as tangible as it had been four months ago. Scrolling through the dog’s photos, he found himself smiling at the mischievous, playful beast who appeared to prefer snuffling around bushes and trees over obeying the commands of his trainer.
Grey hadn’t smiled without effort since the morning he was taken, hauled out of Serpent’s Tongue Ink by the drug dealers currently blackmailing Birch.
The night after he’d found the pup online, he’d lain awake and stared at Magellan’s page for hours before he’d sent his first message under a fake profile, of course. A simple hello. Waking to a cheerful reply he sanely knew came from the dog’s trainer, he’d responded.
And Magellan had answered.
Nine weeks later, the unruly beagle was firmly cemented into his life as a brand of therapy Birch and River would probably have him committed for indulging in. But his brothers would never understand it, never see the appeal of pure anonymity for both him and the trainer replying for Magellan. There was no pressure to talk, no timeline to follow, no ticking clock. Magellan didn’t ask for more details than he wanted to share, and he didn’t feel pushed to relive in front of a stranger the worst five nights of his life.
Hell, he hadn’t even brought up the incident.
But still, it helped.
Turning onto the highway toward his hometown of Epson, he cranked up his music and hit cruise control, enjoying his last hour of freedom before he was back under his brothers’ watchful eyes.
End of Excerpt
