Collide sunrise island b.., p.1
Collide (Sunrise Island Brothers Book 1), page 1
About This Book
OUT OF THE GAME BUT NOT THE CLOSET.
CARTER:
Hockey was all I ever wanted, but a collision put my career as a star centre on ice. I’m back in my hometown, the one place I felt free: Sunrise Island.
Fox Harris is back, too. My best friend's little brother isn’t much wiser, but he’s all grown up. He’s my perfect opposite… a little too perfect.
Can I resist the one thing I shouldn’t touch?
I CAN’T STOP BREAKING MY OWN RULES.
FELIX:
Carter was so out of my league that he doesn’t even play for my team... but that never stopped me pining. I can’t believe I’m falling into the arms of the one man I never dreamed would want me.
His only rule is that we stay quiet. And I’ve got a rule, too. I’ll take his warm lips and strong arms—but that’s it. I’m playing goalie for my broken heart, but he’s got his eye on the puck.
When Carter takes his shot, can we trust in love… or will everyone lose this riskiest game of all?
Collide is a steamy, standalone gay romance novel with a HEA ending and no cliffhanger.
Copyright © 2023 by E. Davies
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.
Amazon Kindle Edition.
Collide
SUNRISE ISLAND BROTHERS
BOOK ONE
E. DAVIES
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
Also by E. Davies
Prologue
FELIX
Nothing can kill my mood tonight.
I’m finally free. I have the apartment to myself. Hell, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me again, and I feel amazing.
No more angsting about what I’m doing wrong and how I can make my fiancé happy enough to say something nice about me. I’m done—with that, and with him.
Fuck Garth.
And—if the stranger manhandling me through my front door is everything his profile promised—fuck me.
I don’t even know his name. Nobody who knows me would believe this. But I’m a new man now. I’m done letting my heart get broken.
All I want is a stud to overwhelm me, rail me out of my goddamn mind with his proportionally hung cock, and then leave me the fuck alone to keep packing my shit.
Or, you know, eating ice cream and crying… but who’s counting?
A wolf-whistle in my ear makes me nearly jump out of my skin. “Jesus!” I yelp, shoving the guy’s chest. “What’s that for?”
But I already know. He’s staring over my shoulder at the expensive view of Stanley Park and Vancouver’s waterfront.
Great. Even tonight, something can send my mood crashing through the floor like a ten-ton cannonball en route to the basement laundry room.
“This place all yours?” the guy asks, making my cheeks burn with anger—and humiliation.
He isn’t trying to piss me off. But one question and my brain is all too happy to fall into line, singing the silent refrain until my skull echoes with Garth’s voice.
This is his place, not mine. I’m just an ornament. Indoor topiary. No, worse than that—a garden gnome. Something to be seen and not heard—and eventually, Garth stopped wanting even that much.
My self-respect, my friends, and five years of my life... all gone, just like that. But after everything Garth took from me, I’m taking one thing of my own: a tiny pinch of his galaxy-sized overconfidence.
“What does it matter?” I challenge Mr. Not-So-Right Now.
I’ve got all the power tonight. I can kick Brad out whenever I want. I don’t have to wait for him to tell me he’s taking a long break from all my shit, and he expects me to be gone when he gets back in two weeks.
Fuckhead.
And where’s Garth now? Some tropical beach, drunk-posting hot pieces of ass while he “recovers” from the “betrayal” of me growing a backbone…
The guy smirks at me. “Thought so,” he tells me, casual as anything. “So, which is it? Rich daddy or sugar daddy?”
I think I’m seeing red. “Excuse me?” I ask, ice dripping from every syllable.
The guy pulls away. “Jeez, man. Don’t be so touchy. You’ll kill the mood.”
And I almost fall for it.
A knife tip of loneliness twists between my ribs, and my hard-on pushes insistently against my jeans. But I see the ugly, gleeful look in his eye. He’s waiting for me to apologize and beg him to stay.
It’s so hard not to be tempted.
I need to be touched. Held, picked up, crushed against Brad’s body. Thrown onto the bed. Covered with his weight. Fucked, fast and merciless, until my cries echo against every single goddamn floor-to-ceiling window.
But underneath all my desires lies the hard truth: I’ve never been able to resist a guy who doesn’t even want me half as badly as I want him.
It started with Carter Haywood, and it never really stopped.
Shit.
Maybe I’ll never get what I really want, but I’m done settling for second-best.
“You should go,” I tell him.
“What the fuck?” Just like Garth, the moment he doesn’t get what he wants without reservation, the mask falls away. He sneers at me. “Man, you’re a real piece of work, you know? Lead a guy on—”
He launches into his rant as I pull back and lead him down the hallway, but I just tune it out. The moment he steps outside and turns to keep belittling me, I let go of the door.
It swings shut in his face, and I turn to head for the bedroom.
It’s a miracle: my boner hasn’t wilted.
Okay, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s not a miracle—it’s as predictable as clockwork. Just the thought of Carter’s name is enough.
I collapse on the bed and wrestle my clothes off.
After that first year, Garth never bothered finishing me off, so I know the drill. Close my eyes, tug my dick like I’m competing in an all-stars championship, and call up the same fantasies as always.
Me, bent over the locker room bench, clutching on for dear life.
Carter behind, above, inside me. One fist in my hair and the other hand on my hip.
Our bodies slamming together. His cock buried balls-deep inside me. His grunts mingling with my whimpers. Louder, faster, harder, more more more—
My phone just lit up.
And I know I didn’t give that random guy my number… but I can’t help glancing at my screen.
Garth.
Of course it is.
“Fuck,” I groan at the phone. My dick throbs in protest against my fingers. “Fuck you so much.”
I’ve checked the place a dozen times over for hidden cameras. It’s just bad luck. But with his presence suddenly looming large over me again, I can’t bring myself to keep going.
Okay. I’ll just read it and keep going.
I’ll be back tomorrow night. Work needs me.
Shit. I should have expected that.
Keeping one hand on my semi, more out of hope than expectation, I peck out my response with one thumb.
I’m not done packing.
His answer comes within seconds.
You have until 5pm. My people will finish up. Send me your forwarding address.
Holy shit.
I don’t even want to figure out a response to that. So I let my phone thump against my chest and squeeze myself gently, letting spite fuel me. I need a few minutes to forget everyone but me.
Even Carter.
There. It’s happening again. It always works, no matter what.
Heat makes my belly tense up, and then a fresh wave of sparks tingles along my skin, electric and sharp.
Fuck it.
I grab my phone, blindly swipe away from the messages, and open up YouTube. When the autocomplete history pops up, I scan it.
Carter Haywood locker room interview wardrobe malfunction
Carter Haywood hockey team charity car wash
Carter Haywood summer workout routine
Carter Haywood underwear photo shoot
Yeah. I’m gonna treat myself to that last one. I tap it, and before the ads are over I’m stroking myself again. I want to be ready when my favorite photo comes up in three and a half minutes.
Blackness closes around my field of vision, and I lose myself in the bliss as I writhe in the sweat-soaked sheets until the final surge of heat slams into me.
Why the hell did I bother with Grindr? Hell, with Garth? This is a
This is all I’m ever going to get.
Chapter One
FELIX
“Catch.”
“Augh!”
The noise I make is like a dying whoopee cushion. I stumble on the slippery concrete ramp, nearly flinging my phone straight up in the air as I bring my hands up to protect my face.
Who in their right mind would throw me anything? It’s been a few years since high school gym class, but I can sense incoming expected masculinity a mile off. Doesn’t mean I’m going to be able to catch whatever it is.
Splash.
Shit. That’s the sound of a rope hitting water.
To be precise, a bowline from the tiny barge that’s currently bringing me half of my worldly possessions.
Now that my pretty nose is safe, I peek through my fingers to assess the situation.
It’s… not great.
My first problem is the bowline bobbing in the waves. It’s five feet away already, and drifting further—along with the boat it’s supposed to be mooring.
My second problem is Captain Murphy. The skipper of Sunrise Island’s one and only barge isn’t a cheerful guy at the best of times. Even while we were growing up, I’m not sure I ever saw him smile.
And Murph’s about to learn to walk on water, just so he can throttle me.
The third problem? Never in a million years would I have imagined this.
“Is… is… a-are those—” I stutter.
“Shoe boxes?” Murph cuts the engine. “If it walks like a shoebox, quacks like a shoebox…” He shuffles along the side of the boat, heaves a terse sigh, and starts hauling in the rope. “I left my guy with the other half of your stuff. But if we don’t hurry, I can’t make it to the next job.”
Shoeboxes.
Garth Motherfucking Roberts hired people to pack the rest of my stuff into shoeboxes.
“Other half of my…” I trail off, still staring at the barge.
Murph doesn’t say any more than that, but the guilt still hits me like a ten-ton brick. He’s already doing me a big favour by squeezing in one trip with less than a day’s notice.
I’ve been wrong about one thing: Garth did listen to me sometimes.
He knew exactly how to plan the worst possible day of my life.
“Ready?”
Salt water drips from the loop of rope in Murph’s hand.
It would really help if I could stop imagining how heavy it is, and what will happen to me when I inevitably get concussed, swept out to sea. I bet I’ll get found three weeks later by the Coast Guard. Naked and clinging to a hunk of driftwood. Living off seaweed and whatever fish I can catch with my bare hands…
“Felix!”
“R-Ready!” I spread both hands, imagining myself as a goalie defending a net, but I probably look more like that scene from Titanic.
Murph flings the rope.
I lurch forward.
All the consequences arrive at once.
I flailed for the rope, my feet slipped across the algae, the world lurched toward me, the rope magically appeared in my hands, and…
And now I’m in the ocean.
“Shit shit shit shit ow argh shit fuck—” I yelp, scrambling to my feet and back up the ramp.
Cold cold ouch wet oh fuck cold ouch my palms and is that my knee and ow fuck cold…!
I’m soaking wet and numb from the waist down.
At least my instincts worked: hang onto the rope, and get away from the water. The barge is close enough that Murph hops off it. He’s prising the rope off my hands and mooring the barge.
“Fuck!” I whimper, jamming my fingertips into my soaking wet pockets to find my phone.
Dead. Of course. Turns out my day can get worse.
“You all right?” Murph grunts. There’s no slippery death trap algae beyond the high tide line, but he ushers me away from the boat and up to the gravel road anyway. It’s clear he’s not going to let me help unload.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Um. I’m fine,” I shake my head. It’s a warm spring day, so I’m not going to die of frostbite, just mortification. That feels way more pressing right now. I have to say something. “Murph. God, I’m sorry. I had no idea—”
Murph claps my shoulder and squeezes once. “Guy’s a douchebag.” Then he strides back down the ramp to the barge.
I’m floored. I’ve never seen Murph be that nice to anyone. I’m not used to seeing anyone be nice to anyone lately.
But this is why I’m coming home.
My chest goes tight, and I press my hand against it as I blink back the tears.
Murph must have taped together the shoeboxes into big, cube-shaped bundles. One at a time, he’s hauling them to the top of the ramp. And I’m the kind of twink who gets a sprain grinding coffee, but I feel bad just standing here.
“What can I do?”
“Frog? If he’s running today.”
“Ohhh. Yeah,” I smack myself in the forehead, turning to look around.
There’s only one car on Sunrise Island: Ladybird, our universally-beloved ceremonial red vintage Beetle. If I asked to borrow her to move house, I’d never live down the scandal.
The only vehicles allowed are golf carts. If someone sells theirs, everyone scrambles up the hierarchy like hermit crabs exchanging shells. I’m a brand new crab without a shell… so I get to borrow the loaner golf cart, AKA Frog.
Sunrise’s most notorious villain is hideous, lime-green, and doesn’t go faster than five miles an hour. And, like Murph just reminded me, that’s on the days he runs at all.
And I don’t see him anywhere.
Worst.
Day.
Ever.
I shield my eyes, pointlessly scanning the gravel road again. All I see are a couple of wheelbarrows—the truly entry-level vehicle—and some kids’ bikes.
What am I going to do? Lash a wheelbarrow to a bike? Pedal home with teetering stacks of shoeboxes, my knees by my ears?
May as well put on a big red nose and sell popcorn, like a fucking clown.
The thump behind me announces that Murph just set down the last of the shoebox piles. “I’m heading back for the rest,” he tells me. “I’ll be about an hour. If you’re not here, should I leave it here?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and nod. As nice as he’s being, Murph will run straight into the Pacific Ocean if I start crying in front of him. “Thanks, man.”
Murph grunts again as he retreats to the boat.
I hold it together until the engine kicks on and sputters into the distance. And then I let the tears roll down my face as I march down the gravel road.
Frog was supposed to be here, waiting for me, and obviously he’s not. But in the row of a dozen parked wheelbarrows, there is one that catches my eye… the kind that’s a fancy four-wheeled yard cart.
I’m going to steal a wheelbarrow.
Temporarily, of course. I’ll bake an apology pie. But this still isn’t how I wanted to start my first full day back on Sunrise Island.
Mind made up, I haul the cart toward the boat ramp, and then I start wrestling the first cube of shoeboxes on top of it. Physical labour isn’t my thing, but everything is ten times worse when my palms are still raw and stinging from my boat ramp fall.
“Fuck Garth,” I grunt. “And fuck me. And fuck me for fucking him. And fuck him for—”
I’m too sweaty and out of breath to swear and wrestle.
Once the damn thing is finally balanced, I cross myself and pray that my unsafe load stays intact. Otherwise I’m gonna end up leaving a trail of dandruff shampoo and embarrassing teenage diaries.
I can’t believe Garth won again.
As always, I’m the butt of the joke.
Every squelching step feels more and more like I’m pushing my temporarily-stolen wheelbarrow right back into the past I’ve been trying so desperately to leave behind.
