The F Words Read online

  The F Words

  Enemies to Lovers #4

  Anyta Sunday

  Contents

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About Anyta

  The fun continues…

  Also Available: Signs of Love 1 - 3

  Also Available: Taboo For You

  Also Available: Made For You

  Also Available: Shrewd Angel

  Other Books by Anyta Sunday

  First published in 2012 by Anyta Sunday,

  An Anyta Sunday publication

  www.anytasunday.com

  * * *

  Copyright 2012 Anyta Sunday

  Cover Design 2015 Natasha Snow

  * * *

  Edited by Teresa Crawford

  * * *

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced without prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  * * *

  All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated to all those who wished to read Rory and Eric’s story.

  Thanks for motivating me.

  This is for you.

  Chapter One

  It didn’t matter how far Rory A. Phillips ran, he couldn’t get William Wallace to stop following him.

  God knows he tried to make it work living in Dunedin, but it was too much. Too fucking hard. He quit uni and ditched the place, hoping to start fresh somewhere new. But, two years on the move, there was no fresh start anywhere.

  In Invercargill, William had been the guy behind the dairy counter ordering a steak ‘n cheese pie; in Christchurch, the guy knocking back a Speights at Havannah’s; In Auckland, the cheery laugh at Avengers in Hoyts Cinema; Hamilton, the guy two seats down on the local bus, whistling It’s Another Fucking Fairytale.

  And there William was again, in Taupo Aquatic Center, in the lane next to Rory, beating him at the fifty meter butterfly.

  As he looked at William’s back arching out of the water two lengths ahead of him, he knew tonight he’d be packing up his shit and hitting the road with his blue Honda VTR1000.

  William flipped at the end, and pushed off the side to do another length. Yup. Given the flawless turn and the way he cut through the water, Rory was not going to be able to get him out of his mind. If he stayed, he’d be stalking the pool for just one more glimpse at his William. Always just one more.

  And that never turned out well. It was better he just got the hell out of there.

  He dragged himself out of the pool, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder, to keep staring ahead. Man . . . it took a shit-load of will to keep his eyes latched onto the men’s changing rooms. Most of the times before, when William had appeared, Rory hadn’t succeeded, he’d been all what if this is the last time I see him? and consequently turned and sought his old best friend out.

  But he wouldn’t let himself fall for that trick again. He wouldn’t let it work this time, because it’d been four years since William had died, and it was time to get a grip. Time to find the peace he kept running blindly after.

  Rory ducked around the corner of the men’s changing room and promptly fell against the cold tile walls, his breath shallow, scratching the back of his throat. He yakked up a cough and wobbled toward the basins. Splashing water on his face, he tried to get himself in control, but he could do nothing for the shaking in his hands.

  He refused to look up into the mirror and see what a pathetic fool he’d become; he wanted to hold on to the illusion that while he was shattered on the inside, he still looked calm and collected on the outside. Like a guy who knew what he wanted in life and how to get it. Not the guy who knew what he wanted but didn’t have a fucking chance in hell of getting it.

  As he dressed and left the Aquatic center, he punched in the contact number of the only family member he knew living in the North Island.

  After three rings, Uncle Davy picked up, letting out a chilled, “Yeah?”

  “It’s me, Rory.”

  Rory held his breath, bracing for the sound of the dial tone. Instead, his uncle cleared his throat, and addressed him kindly, which was more than he’d expected. It brought a lump to his throat that he struggled to swallow.

  “Ah, I was wondering,” Rory said nervously, “would I be able to stay with you and little Lily for a bit?”

  Within the hour, he was at his flat, packing his crap onto his motorbike. He carefully slung his art container over his shoulder by the strap and settled onto the cold seat. There was nothing and no one to say goodbye to, so he didn’t bother waiting for his flatmates to return home. They barely knew each other, and wouldn’t care anyway. The note and the rent for the next month would do.

  Without looking back, he revved his bike to life and rode out of the city, wishing the air blasting over him to numb him. But all it did was slow him down. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe it was the world telling him to stop. Not to run anymore.

  But he didn’t listen.

  There were a lot of ‘F’ words to describe Eric Graham. But the ones Eric ticked off his fingers as he drove his Nissan Navara toward Wellington—and his new job—were: fatigued, fickle, fundamentally flawed and the number one, the star of them all: fool.

  “Fool.” The word tasted bitter in his mouth. But that didn’t stop it from being true.

  Eric slipped his hands down the steering wheel, the grainy rubber scratching his palms. With his thumb, he scratched the ink spiral—koru—on the inside of his left arm, wishing it would come off. At sixteen, it’d represented being at harmony with a new beginning—hope for the future. Now it was a lie.

  Stained forever on his skin.

  Ahead of him loomed the almost-empty Desert Road, bluish in the darkening sky. Calm, settled. Everything he wasn’t.

  Blinking back sleep from his eyes, he cranked open his window a notch, letting cool spring air breeze over his face.

  Crap, he was tired. He hit the accelerator as he checked the clock on the dash. Another four hours until he hit the capital, and probably another hour after that before he could climb into a bed.

  The radio he’d barely listened to squealed with static and Eric switched it off, drowning the pickup in a heavy silence, his only company a low rumble of the engine and the vibrations in his seat as he hit some bumps in the road.

  He slowed. In the distance, a single red light shone, then cut out, and shone again. What the . . . ? Eric drew nearer, trying to make out what was going on. He peered through the beams of his headlights. When that didn’t help, he flicked on his long distance lights and took another look.

  A guy stood on the side of the road, kicking the wheel of his bike—a deflated wheel, Eric guessed. Ouch. Middle of the Desert Road. That had to be a bummer.

  He shifted down into second, dimmed his lights, and slowed to stop. Guess it was time for him to play the good Samaritan—

  The guy’s head came up, blinking hard against his lights. Eric froze in his seat as he recognized the dark haired figure. In less than a second, Eric was transported back to that late night during his Master’s year at Otago two years ago.

  Palms on the hard brick . . . smoky eyes flash . . . a hand reaching for his tattoo . . .

  Swallowing hard, Eric floored
the engine, peeling past the guy. What in the world? Of all frigging places . . . Rory? That was one guy he didn’t fancy seeing again. Ever.

  He felt the guy’s repulsion ripple through him—could hear him as clearly as if he yelled them into his ear right now. “Fuck. What the fuck was that? I’m not a fucking fag, man. That’s disgusting. That’s sick. Get your fucking faggot hands off of me. Jesus.”

  His gaze shifted to the rear-view mirror. He could see the bike light and the faint outline of Rory’s figure. But he had to be imagining the defeated-looking scrub of his face. That wasn’t Rory’s style. He was a stubborn prick is what he was, set to destruct; and he didn’t need to spend more than one evening—heck, more than one hour—with him to know it.

  He narrowed his attention to the road ahead. The long, deserted stretch that probably wouldn’t have many other cars coming by, anytime soon. And of them, how many had the space to tow a bike?

  “Shit-a-brick!”

  He lessened his vice grip on the wheel, groaning as he pulled over to the side of the road. Thing was, no matter how the guy had acted that night, Eric couldn’t just leave him standing there. Even if the guy called the AA, it would be hours before they arrived.

  With a muttered curse, he turned the pickup truck around. It was just a lift to the nearest mechanic; it would be fine. Besides it had been years since Eric and Rory had . . . met. There was no reason they should even remember each other.

  Yes, that’s exactly how he’d play it. He’d keep a straight face; the guy was a stranger to him, someone he’d never met.

  Who knew, maybe Rory had forgotten him anyway?

  He stopped across from the broken down bike. As he slowly wound down the window, he couldn’t help but note how time had changed Rory’s face. It looked more . . . hardened now. Even in the limited light, Eric noted creases splitting Rory’s forehead. But there were no other lines that he could tell. The space around the eyes and mouth was smooth, as if the guy never much smiled.

  Eric propped his arm on the open window frame, trying to play it cool. Then fought the urge not to tap his fingers. “You be needing a lift there?”

  Rory, who’d been staring toward him the whole time, blinked. But if he recognized Eric, he didn’t show it. Instead he gave a swift nod. “Busted tire.”

  “I guessed as much.” Eric cracked open his door and got out. “I’ll help you load her into the back.”

  Just don’t look at him too much. If Eric kept his eyes on the dark roads ahead, and stuck to ‘how’s the weather’ chit chat, then before he’d know it they’d be in Wellington, Rory would be none the wiser that he remembered him, and he could finally collapse into a much-needed coma.

  “So . . .” Eric cleared his throat, and glanced at Rory’s hands, drumming on a long, plastic art container he had clenched between his legs. “Where’d you say you’re headed?”

  “I didn’t say. But I’m going to try out Wellington.”

  “Try out?”

  Out the corner of his eye, he caught Rory shrug. “Haven’t been so lucky in the other places I’ve lived.”

  Eric felt his eyebrows shoot up with curiosity, and quickly schooled his expression. He wouldn’t ask what Rory meant by that. They were meant to be sticking to the impersonal crap.

  Rory stopped tapping out a beat on his container and scratched at a sticker on the lid. A and R were the only legible letters left. No doubt the letter T had found its way under Rory’s nails.

  “You an artist?” Eric said motioning to the art container.

  “Yes. No, not really. I dabble.”

  “Painting?”

  “Sketches.”

  “Landscape?” Eric asked, though he didn’t pick Rory to be the type. Maybe he was into dungeons or war scenes with lots of blood and guts and—

  “No. People, mostly.”

  Rory looked out his side window. He didn’t want to talk about it, obviously.

  Well, that was fine by him. He’d prefer to listen to the radio, anyway. Eric looked at the time and groaned.

  “What was that?” Rory said, swinging his head in his direction.

  “Nothing.” Just the exclamation of misery. They’d only shared the car ten minutes, and where was the nearest service station? One that would be open this time of night? Nowhere was where. Surely, somewhere inside him, he’d known this would be the case when he’d wound down his window and offered the guy a ride. He must’ve known he’d end up driving Rory all the way to his destination. That was the kind of guy he was.

  Why oh why did Rory have to be heading to Wellington?

  Three plus hours of chit-chat or weird silence was going to kill him.

  He cranked his neck either side and re-gripped the steering wheel as he pressed his foot hard on the accelerator.

  Rory jerked at the sudden speed, and flew one hand to his belt. “Jesus. Fast much?”

  “It’s a long way to Wellington, and I’m so freaking tired.”

  Eric felt Rory’s gaze as he studied him. He prayed the guy wouldn’t recognize who he was.

  “Look, I’m an insomniac; I can barely sleep even if I want to. If you like, I can drive some and let you sleep.”

  Well that was . . . that was not what he expected. That almost sounded nice. He looked over at the guy, their gazes meeting for an instant. Rory’s eyes were dark and flat, and Eric recognized something in them that he’d seen in his own. Rory was tired. Not ‘about to fall asleep tired’, but fundamentally, deeply, fucking exhausted.

  “Ah, no. No, it’s okay. I’ll manage.”

  “Oh,” Rory murmured. “I see.”

  “I see? See what?”

  “Nothing. Just forget it. Maybe you should grab a cup of coffee somewhere instead or something.”

  Light rain, appearing out of the blue, studded the top of the pickup. Eric flipped on his windshield wipers. But unlike the rain from the front window, he couldn’t shake off Rory’s words. “What did you mean: I see?”

  Rory shrugged, and Eric wanted to slap his arm on the guy’s shoulders and shove the shrug back where it came from.

  Instead he increased his pressure on the accelerator. He wanted out of this desert and away from the dark silhouetted mountains to a city, full of people and streetlamps lighting the way.

  “There’s a speed limit here, you know,” Rory drawled.

  He checked the speedometer. Wow, okay, maybe he was going a little on the fast side. He slowed down, and rubbed his forehead with the knuckle of his thumb. “Sorry.”

  Rory looked up at him, as if surprised at the apology. His voice went hoarse. “It’s all right. Shouldn’t complain, anyway. You did me a favor back there.”

  “Yeah, well . . . you’re welcome.”

  After that they sat in silence for the next half an hour; Rory with his head pressed against the glass looking out at the night sky as if he were counting all the stars of the Southern Hemisphere.

  With the swishing of the windshield wipers, Eric almost missed Rory’s soft voice bouncing off the foggy glass. “So how long does this go on?”

  “Does what go on? The trip? A few hours yet.”

  “No. I mean this charade.”

  Eric tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Charade?”

  Rory lifted his head off the window and rolled his head back on the headrest to stare at him. “This game, pretending we don’t know each other.”

  Letting out a long drawn breath, it was Eric’s turn to shrug. “I was hoping the whole way. But I see I’m plum out of luck.”

  “You didn’t help your case by never asking me for my name.”

  “Dammit.” Eric briefly looked toward Rory. “So, can we forget we ever met?”

  “What’s the big deal, anyway?”

  “You were a dick, Rory.”

  “You were a fag.”

  “I still am. Are you?”

  “Fuckoff.”

  That was the brilliant line Rory came up with. It flew off his tongue so easily. Guess that came with bein
g a potty mouth. No matter how he tried to change his ways, fuck, shit, and bugger were programmed into him. Huh. There was a thought. Eric worked in IT, right? Maybe if he could just un-program him or . . .

  What the hell was he on with weird thoughts like that?

  “So,” Eric persisted, “is that a yes or a no?”

  “It’s wrong,” Rory said, hearing his father speak through him. This was his mantra before the jackass left his mum; what he’d said about his brother over and over. Rory could see his father shaking his head while his mum smiled and nodded—it was the only thing they had ever agreed on. “It’s disgusting.”

  Eric switched the wipers so that they cleared the rain with faster and more furious swipes. He didn’t look at him as he answered. “You don’t really think that, though, do you?”

  Rory opened his mouth, forcing out another lame: “It’s wrong.” He used to feel the passion behind such statements, but he hadn’t the energy to muster it. Not tonight. Not for a long while.

  Eric pursed his lips and stopped for a red light—the first signs of town life. Rory felt the heat of Eric’s stare burning into the side of his face.

  “Actually,” Eric’s voice came out soft, sly. “That’s exactly what you fantasize about,”—He leaned over the console and Rory twisted toward him in his surprise—“getting some good man fucking.”

  “N-no.” He squeezed the armrest tight, the leather sticky against his palm. It made a slurping sound when he let go to pick at the sticker on his art container instead. He was going for nonchalance.