The Deeper He Hurts

The Deeper He Hurts
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Loveswept eBook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Lynda L. Aicher LLC

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

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OVESWEPT
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OVESWEPT
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ebook ISBN 9780425285138

Cover design: Diane Luger

Cover photograph: © Art-of-Photo/iStockphoto

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v4.1

ep

A scan of the oversized storage garage left Sawyer Stevens impressed. Organized racks, bins, and shelves housed every kind of equipment required for the excursions Adrenaline Kick Adventures offered. A list next to each type of gear contained a numbering system along with columns for checking pieces in and out and signing off on their condition.

Whoever managed this area was one anal fucker who'd just stepped up a notch on Sawyer's respect level. This spoke to his own over-the-top demand for safety, order, and precision, backed by a defined procedure that was obviously enforced here.

“Sawyer,” Grady Kelley called, motioning him over. “This is Warren—most call him War,” he said, pointing to a tall, broad, buzz-cut dude. “And Axel.” The second guy was just as wide but about three inches shorter, with just enough hair to hide his scalp. They both screamed military, from their ingrained posture to their assessing study of him.

“Hey.” Sawyer did the handshake routine, sizing the guys up with steady eye contact. Both direct and intent, grips firm without being assholeish.

“They're partners,” Grady explained. “War is whitewater and rock climbing. Axe here is mountaineering and biking.”

“And snow kiting,” War said, an excited gleam in his eyes. “That's kick-ass and a fucking thrill.”

“If you want to freeze your nuts off,” Grady griped.

“You won't if you keep moving.”

“You're the new whitewater guide, right?” Axel interjected. He was about equal in height to Sawyer, but his girth and almost bursting shirtsleeves gave him the size advantage.

“Yup.” Sawyer motioned to the garage. “This is impressive.”

He wasn't sure what he'd expected when he'd agreed to work here for the summer, but then the job itself hadn't been the draw. Not for him.

War grinned, a toothy expression that cracked the hard lines of his cheeks and waffled between menacing and kind. “Ash is a fucking sadist…when it comes to safety and procedure.” The second part was added after a slight pause.

Grady snorted and Axel coughed into his fist before War's glare shut them down. But Sawyer logged the info into his growing perception of this Ash guy.

“I'll walk you through it so Ash doesn't chew you out,” Grady assured him.

“Or ground you,” War added. “That really blows, because he usually assigns you days of cleaning, fixing, and cataloging all of the shit in here.”

Sawyer couldn't stop his grin. “Sounds like the best form of punishment for breaking the rules.” Not the type he craved, but perfect for the grievance.

Axel's brows winged up before his eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, closed it. “Welcome to Kick,” he finally said. “Hopefully, I'll see you around this summer.” He saluted them all and strode out of the garage, his boots clumping a steady beat.

“He's headed to Bend,” Grady explained. “He'll stay there for most of the summer.”

“And the three of us are booked at White Salmon tomorrow.” War's phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket, checking it.

“We need to head in,” Grady told War, motioning to the back of the garage. “Sawyer still needs to meet Ash and Rig.” War waved at them before refocusing on his phone. “The business offices are this way,” Grady said, heading down an aisle.

Sawyer followed him, absorbing the new information. He'd worked at a dozen different outfitters since he'd started guiding in his teens, and every one of them had their own rhythm and atmosphere to navigate. But all of them had that earthy laid-back sense that naturally paired with outdoor recreation. So far, he wasn't feeling that here.

Kick's professional reputation throughout the adventure community was top-notch. The owners knew their stuff and they'd earned every bit of the respect they were given in the relatively short number of years they'd been in business. The unfortunate death of one founder that spring and the near-fatal injury of the other had rippled through the newsgroups on a wave of shock and sadness. Death was a hazard and risk of their jobs that even the best weren't excluded from.

Those depressing circumstances might have brought Sawyer here, but they'd had nothing to do with why he'd accepted the summer position when Grady had approached him. Not even slightly.

He'd agreed solely for the possibilities that came with working with a group of gay Doms. A rumor Kick didn't advertise, but that still wound its way through the community.

“Wait here a second,” Grady said after they stepped through a back doorway into a more formal office area. He crossed the room and headed down a hallway before Sawyer could respond.

Unbothered, he leaned against a concrete pillar and studied the only other occupant of this area. The open blinds on the office window didn't hinder his view, and his smile grew as he took in the sight. Neatly cut black hair, black framed glasses perched on a straight nose, model-worthy cheekbones, and jawline etched in stone.

A gay yuppie's wet dream.

Mr. Preppy stared intently at his computer, lips compressed into a firm stroke of concentration. Papers were stacked on his desk in disorderly piles that contradicted the pressed lines of his dress shirt. His
dress
shirt. Seriously?

Sawyer glanced down at his own T-shirt and cargo shorts, a smirk layering under his indifference. He didn't even own hangers. Hell, his flannels were his only shirts with buttons, and he rarely bothered with them.

The wall near the main entrance displayed an array of high-end adventure gear along with company paraphernalia in a makeshift shopping area. Framed photographs and posters adorned the walls, each providing visual examples of the trips Kick provided. Mountaineering, windsurfing, extreme skiing, whitewater rafting, kayaking, mountain biking, base jumping—the images detailed them all, and not one of them featured a guy in a dress shirt.

“Hey,” Grady said, walking up, smile cocked. His shaggy casualness was a match to Sawyer's and further distinguished Mr. Preppy as the odd duck among them. “Rig has a call to make. He said to see the Ash man first.” He nodded toward the office Sawyer had been staring at. “Ash takes care of the paperwork. He'll give you a rundown on the business shit, then Rig will take you through the trips and our way of doing things. War and I will join you for that one, so come find us when you're done with Ash.”

“Wait.” Sawyer frowned. “That guy”—he nodded toward the office—“is Ash?” He raised a brow, letting the unspoken question hang between them. Had he misunderstood the references on either who the guy was or his kinks?

Mr. Preppy came nowhere close to the profile he'd been building of Ash. Precise. Demanding. Smart. Sadistic—if he'd followed the hints right. A cool motherfucker who didn't take shit. None of that had “uptight preppy dude” stamped on it.

Grady chuckled around a “yeah.” He turned his back to the window, voice lowered. “So look.” He glanced over his shoulder, winced. “I shared more than I should've. We don't talk about our personal kinks with outsiders and they aren't discussed in the workplace.”

Sawyer barely resisted rolling his eyes. “Tell me something I don't know.” He smacked Grady upside the head for good measure. Most people would call him all kinds of sick if they knew about
his
personal kinks.

“Hey.” Grady objected, ducking but not fast enough. “Fucker.”

“When I can be.”

Grady flipped him off, then flicked his chin at the office. “Let me introduce you.”

“I can handle it.” Sawyer waved him away. This was one introduction he wanted to do by himself.

“All right.” Grady flashed a last grin, then headed across the open office space to the garage door. “I've got gear to organize.”

He waited until Grady was gone before heading in to meet Mr. Preppy. Grady's unintentional confirmation of the gay Dom rumor had been the catalyst that'd launched Sawyer out of his hermit zone. He was here for eight weeks. A short break in his routine. A chance to explore and hopefully appease the unrest that was growing into a monster he couldn't control, before he lost the will to control it at all.

And maybe, if he played it right, Mr. Preppy could help him out with that.

“Hey.” He knocked on the partially closed door and stepped inside the office. “Grady said I should see you.”

Ash whipped his head up, eyes narrowing as he took him in. “Sawyer.” No question or doubt in his tone.

“You'd be correct.” He stuck his hand out, two strides taking him to the desk. “Nice to meet you.”

“Asher Ruggiero.” Ash's grip was strong and crisp, like his voice. “And likewise.” He motioned to the visitor's chair. “Have a seat.”

He eyed Ash—Asher. The distinction was minute, yet it came across as important. Formal versus casual. It was better for him anyway. Ash was a reminder of everything he couldn't forget.

Despite its illusion of comfort, the seat cushion didn't give an inch when he sat down. He chuckled to himself and tried to fit Asher's outward appearance into the information he had on the guy. If the dude was the sadistic fuck he'd been led to believe, then Asher would fit Sawyer's needs perfectly—as long as he didn't have to call him “sir.”

A smile crept over his face on a wicked slide of interest. Asher's hidden facets definitely added to his surface appeal.

“When'd you get into town?” Asher asked, gaze direct behind his glasses.

“This morning.” He propped his ankle on his knee and leaned back, unbothered by Asher's reserved demeanor.

Asher inclined his head. His ramrod-straight posture appeared natural, his chin tilted just a notch upward. “I'm assuming Grady's given you the basic rundown of the company—our mission, offerings, et cetera.”

“Yes.” Kick could've offered him a summer of tame Class II and III river runs and he still would've taken the job.

“Good.” Asher swiped a manila folder off a stack at the edge of his desk and flipped it open. “We appreciate you helping us out like this mid-season.” He waited for Sawyer to acknowledge him before going on. “I have your standard employment papers here.” He laid a number of sheets on the edge of the desk in front of Sawyer. “I'll need them back before you leave tomorrow morning.”

Sawyer raised a brow. “For White Salmon?” he asked, glancing through the papers, noting the typical forms, including a liability waver.

“Rig will go through the details, but you'll be joining the crew working the White Salmon River in Washington.” Asher paused, face impassive. The man hadn't flinched once. His steely calm would've been unnerving if Sawyer cared even slightly about impressions. “You'll be riding shotgun on the first trip to learn the river, which is standard procedure. The White Salmon is Class III/IV. We're planning on you taking lead on some of the trips once you get up to speed.”

A task he could easily manage. Hell, he'd been leading trips down the Colorado and Green Rivers since he was twenty. “Does Kick have an outpost on the river?”

“A small one near the city of White Salmon. We have them on all the rivers we run regularly.”

“Will I be bunking out there then?”

“If you want.” Asher handed over another paper. “It's just over an hour from Portland, so you can commute, too. We have land behind the building where some of the staff camp. Basic kitchen and bathroom facilities are provided, and we have one bunkhouse in White Salmon.” He pointed at the document. “Those are our rental rates for the beds. There're a couple still vacant. You can camp on the land for free.”

Sawyer glanced at the information, not really taking it in. He'd stopped caring after hearing he could camp there. The other amenities were nice, but not a necessity for him. All he needed was a place to park.

He studied Asher, all clean and put together. Not a hint of a beard shadowed his jaw, nor was a hair out of place. The frames of his glasses sported a label he couldn't read but was undoubtedly meant to impress—someone, but not him. It was hard to imagine Asher on any river or getting his manicured nails dirty.

He glanced down at his own clipped but far from groomed nails. The ratty hem of his shorts had a few threads hanging free. His socks were bunched over his well-loved hiking boots. Dirt scuffed the toes and if he looked at the bottoms, he'd bet there were remnants of red dirt stuck in the treads.

A clump of his hair tickled the side of his face now that he thought about it. Hell, he usually didn't care about his hair, which was why it was currently a good three inches longer than he normally kept it.

They were about as visually opposite as a peacock and a buzzard—but how far did their differences extend?

“So what's your expertise?” Sawyer let that hang before adding, “Adventure-wise?”

Asher lifted his brow, a smirk curling over his lips to lessen the stick-up-his-ass expression. “My brain and my ability to apply my knowledge where it's needed the most.”

Sawyer's laugh burst free in a quick flight before he dug in to play. “And your knowledge is?”

Asher leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “Vast.”

“Massive?”

“Huge.”

“Enormous then?”

Asher's lips twitched, a spark lighting his eyes, obliterating the stern formality. “And still growing.”

A snort leaked out on a scoff as Sawyer shifted forward to mask his own growing “knowledge.”
Shit
. When was the last time he'd gotten hard from talking to a guy? He rubbed a hand over the back of his head and stretched his neck, digging his fingers into the ridge of bone that formed the base of his skull. A reminder and a warning.

Being interested in anyone was a setup for pain. And not the good kind.

He straightened, gaze clashing with Asher's. “Do you need anything else from me?” He needed to shut this—whatever it was—down, quick and hard.