Chapter 3

Something was going on at the house.

Casey had been sitting in the sun on the back deck, when he'd heard the rumble of a large vehicle coming over the land bridge that connected them to the main land. He had thought it was Martin, returning from his errands in town at first. But this sounded much different, bigger.

The undercurrent had been rough this morning, and his muscles felt suitably weary and relaxed from the exercise. With his tablet in his lap as he played Cut the Rope, mindlessly listening to his ipod and singing along with Taylor Swift, he distantly had heard the rumble of a vehicle that wasn't Uncle Martins. He flipped off the tablet and laid it down on the small table next to him as he popped out the earbuds, listening carefully to the rumble of an engine. Obviously, it was on the island, but it didn't seem to be coming closer to the house. He slowly moved down the steps of the deck towards the forest separating his home from the empty cottage on the other side of the island

Casey crept through the thick underbrush and trees that separated his home from the abandoned one on the north side of the island. He stopped when he could just make out the source of the rumbling engine. A small moving van.

A couple of huge men swung down out of the truck. Casey hadn't seen many people, but these guys were rather rough looking. Both were buzz-cut, and they had tattoos on their shoulders. They perched themselves on the steps of the porch, one lighting up a cigarette. Casey eased himself onto one of the boulders deep enough in the tropical brush to keep hidden. They looked like maybe they were waiting for something.

Casey wondered if they were moving in and were waiting for someone to arrive with the keys. His heart sank as he realized he might not have free run of the island anymore. Martin didn't know just how much he'd explored this side of the island over the years. That house had been empty for as long as he'd been here and no one had ever come to it, not even for a visit.

Over five years ago, Casey had found a way in through a shoddily locked window. He'd been looking to escape for a while from Uncle Martin's broodiness, which happened every year around Uncle Thomas's birthday as well as the day he'd died. Martin was especially short with him at those times, drinking to excess, threatening to 'sell him off' as Martin would say. Casey knew the man didn't mean it, but it still hurt. And on that day, Casey had snapped back at his uncle. His uncle had hit him for the first time that day, and Casey had run off.

He'd snuck into the abandoned house, exploring every inch of it. There was still a lot of furniture in it, but it was older and musty smelling. Dust had collected on the surfaces. But Casey found himself thinking of the place as his own.

It had taken a while, but he had managed to clean it up. Without electricity or running water, he couldn't do a whole lot, like vacuum or anything, but he did bring over rags and cleaning supplies from his uncle's house and managed to get a lot of the dust and dirt cleared away. On nights his uncle was really angry, he'd even slept on the bed upstairs.

As he watched the men sitting there, he realized he probably should have locked the front door. But no one had been there in forever, so he hadn't thought it was an issue. Now, someone would probably realize that he'd been there. Fuck, his uncle would be so pissed with him if he found out.

A small jeep rumbled down the road toward the house, and Casey could just make out two figures. A man and a woman. Must be the owners. The woman hopped out, striding directly to the two waiting men and started issuing orders.

"Okay, let's get this door open and get the new stuff inside," she announced cheerfully. The man with the cigarette crushed it out as he rose with the other one to head to the back of the truck. "Shawn!" she called toward the jeep. "You need to come help decide where things go."

Casey's breath caught in his throat as he watched the dark haired man slide out of the jeep. His broad shoulders were covered in a tight black t-shirt and baggy khaki shorts hung low on his hips. Black sunglasses hid his eyes as his stony face swept over the area.

He slammed the door to the jeep, his stride and posture indicating he was not happy. "This is the middle of fucking nowhere," his deep voice grumbled.

The blonde woman smiled broadly, sweeping her arm out toward the open ocean behind the house. "But look at how beautiful it is!"

"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.

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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 in the doorway, 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 couch 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."