Sandbridge Box Set

Chapter 1-1

Nights in Sandbridge

Chapter 1

The entire world shuddered to a stop.

Andy Howard lifted a hand to the side of his face and it was already tender, hot to the touch, the sound of the impact still echoing.

“Andy,” Nick said roughly, his eyes wide in shock. “You…You know I didn’t mean to do that, I never would have done that if I wasn’t so stressed out over this presentation, baby, you know that.”

Dad had always had excuses, too. Nick waited for Andy to say something, but there weren’t words.

“Come on,” Nick cajoled, “it was just an accident, right? I’m not really mad at you, okay?” He crossed the room and reached out, then pulled back when Andy flinched away. “Don’t be like that, I’ll make this up to you, all right? I’ll—” His phone started beeping urgently.

Nick cursed and dragged it out of his pocket to glance at the screen and silence the alarm. “I have to get back. This presentation, it’s important.” It was important to Nick, anyway. His promotion—his future in the firm—hinged on it.

Andy kept watching Nick, only half-listening, more aware of the way his face was stinging as blood rushed into the damaged tissue on his cheekbone and the side of his eye.

Nick had sworn. He had sworn, when he’d asked Andy to move in with him, that Andy’s days as his father’s victim were done. That no one would ever hit Andy again. And Nick…Nick had a temper, but he took it out on things—dishes and knicknacks and books and Andy’s laptop, once—but he’d never hurt Andy. Not until now.

“I know I’ve been working too much lately,” Nick said, “but it’s just…it’s so important to me that I can be able to take care of you, Andy. I need to be able to make you happy.” He paused in front of the gilt-framed mirror on the bedroom wall, straightening his tie and running his fingers through his blond hair to settle the strands into their usual careless perfection. He caught Andy looking at him in the reflection and turned, putting on his most winsome smile and sad blue eyes. “You…know that, right, Andy?”

“I know,” Andy said, because arguing with Nick was pointless. Even that little bit of talking made his face hurt more. “You should go. You don’t want to be late.”

“Yeah, I just…You’re gonna be okay, right, baby?” Nick scooped up his suit jacket from where he’d dropped it when he’d come in to have lunch and check in on Andy. “This is going to change our lives, Andy, you’ll see. I’ll come back right after, as soon as I’m done, and then I’ll make it up to you, okay? Anything you want, tonight, I promise.”

Andy nodded, and Nick flashed a brilliant grin—he’d always been one of the most gorgeous men Andy had ever met, especially when he smiled. He swooped in and ignored Andy’s flinch to plant a gentle kiss on his uninjured cheek, and then dashed out the door.

What I want, Andy thought, his usually too-quick thoughts running slow like syrup but crystal clear, is to never be hit again.

It was several long minutes before he could even move, and then it was only to slump onto the edge of the bed, shivering and gasping for breath.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, waiting for his heart to stop fluttering in his chest like a frightened bird, fighting for air like he was sucking it through a straw, his skin running alternately hot and cold.

God, he’d been so stupid. He’d thought Nick was the best thing that had ever happened to him, given him a foothold and the courage he’d needed to get out from under his father’s thumb. Why hadn’t he seen that he’d just been trading one bad situation for another? And now that Nick had hit him once—it would certainly happen again, if Andy forgave it, let it go. It would happen again. And again. And again.

No. He couldn’t go through that again. He wouldn’t. Never again. He’d spent years coddling Nick’s jealousy, letting Nick pull him further and further from his few friends, letting Nick take more and more control of his life.

And now, what could he do? The apartment was in Nick’s name. The bank account was in Nick’s name. Andy had to leave, but all he had was the cash in his wallet and whatever he could carry, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone who wasn’t a friend of Nick’s in…two years? Three?

Fuck.

Andy scrubbed his hands over his face, hissing as he scraped over the swelling bruise, and gave himself just five more minutes to give in to the pain and the fear and the grief. Five minutes, and that was all, because he had to be long gone—out of the apartment, out of the city, out of the state—before Nick came back.

Five minutes passed, and Andy forced himself to stand and go to the closet. He considered the expensive travel luggage, but no—it would be too hard to lug around, and too conspicuous. He dug past it and found his old backpack, from when he’d been a student. (Nick had promised that he would go back to school someday. But those had been empty promises, hadn’t they?)

He pushed that aside; he didn’t have time to list all of Nick’s wrongs against him. Andy had to pack. Underwear and T-shirts. One extra pair of jeans. Socks. A hoodie. A minimal tool kit: multitool, some coiled wire, duct tape. He didn’t want to keep any of the things Nick had given him, and the things that might be worth pawning were engraved. Recognizable. He didn’t have time for it, anyway. He considered his books, but books were heavy.

Andy glanced at the clock. f**k, he’d wasted too much time to the shock. He had maybe an hour left before Nick finished his presentation and called to check on Andy, and he needed to be long gone before then. He tossed his phone onto the bed—his account was attached to Nick’s, of course—then fished his wallet out of his pocket and rifled through it. The credit and bank cards followed the phone as being too easy to track. Driver’s licenses had RFID chips in them now, too, didn’t they? His Metrocard was trackable, but it would get him as far as Grand Central, at least. He wouldn’t need his Kung Pao Takeout loyalty card, or half-a-dozen old receipts, or…Christ, there was a lot of junk in his wallet. Hurriedly, he dumped it all out and counted the cash; he had about fifty dollars. s**t.

One last time check—s**t, he’d have to run to catch the next train—and he was out the door. He left it standing open; if he was lucky, some opportunistic robber would come in and help themselves to Nick’s things and confuse the trail.

* * * *

Grand Central Station was a madhouse this close to rush hour. Andy clutched his backpack tightly and twisted through the crowds, making sure to drop his Metrocard in the crush. Someone would find it and use it, and if Nick had it tracked, it would go…somewhere that Andy wasn’t.

It was about a mile from Grand Central to Penn Station. The clock ticked in Andy’s ears like a bomb counting down, and he jogged the whole way.

Andy squinted at the bus destination board. No big cities, that was too obvious. No one-cow towns, either; there was no way to blend in. What he needed was a nice, middling-to-small city, with a bus leaving in the next fifteen minutes. And a ticket that, preferably, wouldn’t use up all his cash.

Virginia Beach stood out. Beaches were nice, Andy thought, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything like a vacation. Beaches were full of tourists, where Andy’s accent wouldn’t be remarkable, where people lost their IDs and credit cards all the time and so lots of places accepted cash that wouldn’t, otherwise. They were coming up on summer, so he might be able to find work doing odd jobs. And a transient population meant that it would be easier to not only blend in with the crowds, but to move around.

The ticket was only thirty-five dollars. And the bus was a red-eye due to arrive around dawn the next morning, which meant Andy had a place to sleep for the night, even if it was a seat on a bus.

Right. Virginia Beach it was.