Out of the Blue: True Colors #2 Read online

  Out of the Blue

  True Colors #2

  Shea Phoenix

  Copyright © 2018 by Shea Phoenix

  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 from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my Family and my stalkers

  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

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Also by Shea Phoenix

  Blurb

  “I wanted to write romance novels, but maybe I should try horror instead.”

  * * *

  Slate

  Gavin Ross and I are destined to be friends. I want to be a writer like him. So much that I booked this beach house next to his so we can hopefully become friends and help each other out writing. I’m NOT a stalker. I’m his neighbor. Neighbors are supposed to be neighborly.

  Especially when that neighbor gets hit by a jet ski and loses his sight.

  This could be our chance to get close, and I could even help him write, and he could help me write too.

  The only problem is I’m the one who hit him with that jet ski and made him just a little bit blind.

  1

  How lame is it that I’m texting with my Boss while I’m on vacation and he’s the one saying stop bothering me?

  Rowan: He’s going to think you’re a stalker

  Me: I’m just a really big fan

  Rowan: Really! Big! Fan!

  Me: OK. .I might technically, sort a kind a stalk him, but that doesn’t make me a stalker.. not the bad kind

  Rowan: there’s no good kind… also fan is short for Fanatic, which is pretty damn close to stalker too

  Me: Yeah but…

  Rowan: Go lay on the beach. I’ll fire you if you come back without a tan. NO STALKING!

  I wanted a second opinion. My boss, Rowan, was right most of the time, but google was right all the time.

  fa·nat·ic | fə-ꞌna-tik :

  noun. A person filled with excessive and single-minded zeal, especially for an extreme religious or political cause.

  Without that especially and everything that comes after it, it sounded pretty good for me. But fanatic is not me. I like Gavin Ross’ romance novels, that’s all. I like them a lot. When Finn told me where his beach house was I spent all my savings to rent a place near him on the off chance we would bump into each other on the beach, start talking, become friends…

  Shit, I am a stalker. Come on google!

  fa·nat·ic | fə-ꞌna-tik :

  adjective. Filled with or expressing excessive zeal.

  I’m going to go with adjective. Hmmm. What is excessive zeal?

  zeal | ꞌzēl :

  noun. Great energy or enthusiasm in pursuit of a cause or objective.

  Okay zeal is not so bad. I have zeal. I’m not a fanatic. I’m not a stalker. I have zeal and that’s all. Nothing weird about zeal.

  Stalker is one word I’m not going to ask google about. I have a feeling this might be the one time it’s completely wrong.

  I hand wrote two of Gavin Ross’ novels just to see how it feels to write something so perfect. That’s way more zeal than fanatic or even stalker (probably). It might be excessive zeal, but it’s still just zeal.

  I can’t help it, I want to be a writer like him. I want to make that same magic out of squiggly lines on dead trees (or electronic-ink) that he does.

  But I don’t want to be him. And I definitely don’t want to break his ankles like that chick from ‘Misery’.

  Although having him rewrite the ending to that one book…

  No.

  Just… stop.

  I missed Rowan and Finn, being alone in this vacation house was making me weird. More weird. I should work on my tan- not that Rowan’s threat to fire me was serious. He never would. Not because we’re best friends- I’d never take advantage of his friendship to slack off at work. He’d never fire me because I totally get how nuts he is about his work and his business- planning weddings and matching omegas with their alphas. And I get and help with his sort of “underground railroad” for omegas who need to get away from a bad match and are willing to risk everything for true love. I even know why he cares so much, why he risks himself and his business to do it. He’s never said why in so many words, but it’s clear as day to me. I thought it was beautiful and I wanted to write a novel inspired by him and what he does. And give him that happy ending that he needs so badly. But I was stuck and needed Gavin Ross’ help and he was making that impossible. Not to mention the horseshoe crabs not cooperating.

  I only had a few days left on this rental and I hadn't even talked to Gavin- Mr. Ross since we weren’t on a first-name basis yet. I never talked to him- not even at Jay and Seth's wedding since he left while I was working on stuff with Rowan. But I did watch him through binoculars, not like a stalker, just worried about him. Neighborly is what I would call it. Rowan might disagree but neither him nor google were going to convince me otherwise.

  Gavin had the habit of pacing up and down the beach with an intense look on his face. I figured he was looking for a new idea or struggling with some book, and I didn’t want him to walk into the ocean or something because he wasn’t paying attention. That’s why I watched him. I almost never fantasized about him slipping on a horseshoe crab and needing me to rescue him and nurse him back to health.

  And it wasn’t a sex thing. I wasn’t that kind of stalker. There was no way he’d be interested in me and I accepted that. Friends would be good enough for me. As long as we were best friends.

  The dude kept strange hours so there weren’t many chances to see him unless I stalked him a little. And these nighttime strolls of his weren’t a good time to meet him. He wasn’t very approachable with that sour face, plus the last thing I wanted to do was interrupt a new book. It had been way too long since he published anything.

  That was another reason why I wanted to meet him. I hoped that maybe I could help him through this rut or block or whatever and then he could help me. But the only time he ever came outside was at night, with that sour face and his aggressive pacing. He wasn’t out there for a relaxing stroll. At least I hoped that wasn’t how writers do relaxing strolls.

  I had no idea how I could even help him aside from typing. He was notorious for still handwriting his books, then having someone type them up. That’s why I wrote his books by hand- just the way he did. But maybe talking it out instead of writing it out by hand would help him. It would definitely help his chances of avoiding carpal-tunnel-syndrome.

  For most of the week, I had been laying out on the beach during the day and creeping closer and closer and closer to his property each day. But it wasn’t working because the odd hours thing. It took a few days to figure out the light on in his upstairs window was on most of the night and that it must be him. He had a bunch of house guests who spent a lot of time on the beach during the day but he was never with them.

  I really hoped he was writing up there. I hoped it was a monster of a book since nothing new had come out in over a year. I hoped it was just really really amazing and about a million words long. Or maybe it was ten books and they all ran together and he wanted to publish them all at once.

&nb
sp; I rooted for that, but by the way he punished the sand during these strolls, it felt like he was stuck. It looked like his book or books were terrible the way mine was- a jumble of good ideas mashed together so it didn't make any coherent sense though it was sort of fun to read. I figured he outgrew that stage, or never went through that stage, but clearly there was something wrong with what he was doing or he wouldn’t be walking in the middle of the night

  That’s the sort of thing we were supposed to be talking about as best friends and confidants but he was making that extremely difficult.

  And the horseshoe crabs weren’t helping either.

  But I still had a couple more tomorrows.

  Today his guests weren’t laying out on his beach or stretching out on his dock, so I decided to set up just about in front of his house. I had my beach chair, sunblock, and a stack of books. Two Gavin Ross paperback books and two random hardcover books.

  His books were small, so I could hide one inside one of the hardcover ones- I was still going for casual, not stalker and felt like reading his book in front of his house might look a little creepy. This way I could read his book in front of his house and be creepy but not look creepy and scare him off.

  The wind was being a jerk by bending my pages over and nearly tearing my “beard book” out of my hands, but pretty soon I slipped into the story and there wasn’t any jerk wind, there wasn’t any beach, there wasn’t even me. I was completely sucked in, hallucinating from staring at squiggly lines on dead trees. I forgot about the world and everything in it for about an hour and if anyone was drowning in the water in front of me I wouldn’t have noticed.

  But when a shadow creeped across the page I was reading, it snapped me out of the story like I was stung by a bee. I looked up to see cold, leaf-green eyes glittering out of a deeply tanned and deeply annoyed face. It was startling to see that face up-close and so different from the smiling, kindly face that I knew so well from the back of his books.

  Then I noticed a second person standing there, and a face even less friendly than Gavin Ross’. It was this second person who spoke gruffly, “You’re trespassing. Gavin Ross is the owner of this beach. He owns this house and the sand in front of it which you happen to be sitting on. He comes here for privacy, not to be hounded by wanna-be writers or stalkers.”

  2

  I wished he didn’t have such a terrific ass.

  If it were fat or saggy or flat as a board I would have no trouble ignoring him.

  But it wasn’t. It was a world-class, tight, round, delicious ass that sent my dick straight up as he walked away.

  Those stormy blue eyes looked at me like I just slapped him across the face- like they could kill me. They were unforgettable, the same color as the white-capped water in front of us and just as hostile. This kid was not the little boy blue that I imagined. He was so beautiful and that look so filled with daggers that I couldn’t speak.

  Dillon spoke for me, but all the wrong words. I was still frozen as he rudely threw my fantasy-come-to-life off my beach. I had planned on doing it alone, I was the one angry and worked up, but my second, Nate insisted on coming with me in case “blue-boy” turned out to be some crazy stalker. When Dillon saw how hot this trespasser was, he insisted on getting rid of him himself. More out of territoriality than jealousy.

  I should be nice to fans, even if they are crazy, especially ones that looked this delicious and so lamely wanted my attention. I had been watching him inch closer to my house all week. He always sat alone, always read one or two of my books on the beach, and sometimes hid one of my books under another one and then forgot he was supposed to be hiding my book and let the ‘beard book’ drop away. He was always ridiculously distracting, to the point where I couldn’t string a sentence together after watching him. Me not good at words whenever he was anywhere within view of my window was interfering with my writing to say the least.

  I was especially sour today because I was sitting in my writing room and actually writing for the first time in god knows how long- and as I glanced out my window at the cool grey-blue water that always had inspiration and answers for me, I saw him instead. On my property this time. All of a sudden I couldn’t write anymore. Blue-boy from my story was sitting right outside my window and he was impossible to ignore. I debated jerking off or setting my desk on fire, but instead I decided to go meet him and tell him to get the hell off my beach so I could write about a pale imitation of him. Never before had one of my characters had the gall to walk off my page and bother me in my real life- and none had ever tried to screw with my writing time.

  I expected more than silence from what I assumed was an arrogant little brat. But that’s all I got from him as he huffily packed up his books- my books- and his chair and stomped off. I admired the way those slender hips swayed as his feet punched the sand and for a moment I was sorry to see him go, and even more sorry that I upset him.

  I couldn’t go chase him down and apologize. Not with the way his eyes looked at me. If I let him settle down, he might accept my apology once the storm left his eyes. It always worked with the ocean. And I selfishly – and foolishly- thought to myself, now I can write.

  But I couldn’t. After 45 minutes of staring blankly at all that white on the page I thought of those angry, hurt, dangerous looking eyes, and looked at the dangerous ocean and decided a swim was safer.

  But jerking off and burning my desk were close seconds.

  My floating dock runs almost 100 feet out. I built it so long for two reasons. First, because a ten foot dock is too easy to run a few steps and jump off. With a one-hundred foot dock you have to run for long enough that your brain will start thinking about it. That voice in your head will remind you how cold that water is going to be, how you can’t see the bottom and anything might be lurking below the surface. That voice would try its best to talk you out of it, to scare you out of it before you ever reached the end. With a ten foot dock, that voice doesn’t have any time to scare you, and you don’t have any time to overcome that fear, to tell that voice to shut the hell up. Most of my pack- all of my current guests, even Nate and Dillon- jumped off the side before they reached the end. The water was plenty deep ten feet in, but they missed the point. They missed the voice telling them to stop and worse, they missed how it felt when you conquered it. The second reason was that a green light at the end of a short dock just doesn’t work. It needs to be a long way off to work. You need to look out over the water in the darkness and strive for it. Hope for it. My light plagiarized The Great Gatsby, but the rest was all mine.

  When I dove off the end, I stayed under water for as long as I could and swam straight out. When I surfaced, I saw I made it about 20 feet from the end of the dock. I used to make it farther, but my lungs haven’t been tested in a long time. Drinking with Dillon, screwing Dillon, and not writing when Dillon was around was making me lazy, and that was making my writing lazy. Maybe it was time to get rid of Dillon. He was smart and good looking, but we had gone about as far as we were ever going to go. And now that I realized how he was interfering with my writing, it was time to end it. Besides, he was treating some of the pack like he was above them. Nate was my second. He should have been there with me to deal with our trespasser, not Dillon. But I allowed him to dismiss Nate just like he was in charge. I had a dozen reasons to end it now, and even that thought felt good.

  The water felt good. My aching muscles felt good. I felt good. This is what I needed to get back into writing good stuff. This and saying goodbye to Dillon.

  I didn’t need him. I didn’t need blue-boy either. This is how I used start every day- swim for an hour then drink as much coffee as I could then sit down and write until my hand hurt and the pen begged for mercy.

  It seemed like a distant memory. Why the hell did I let myself get out of my routine? Dillon got me out of it, late nights, lazy mornings, and no discipline. Discipline was everything to writing. It was so easy to do anything else when that white page was staring back at you. I redid m
y taxes last week to avoid that blank page. But now I felt good, it was coming back to me.

  I had renewed energy. I had been neglecting my pack too out here. It was past time we go home. I was the alpha, I should be worrying about those missing omegas that the other packs have been asking me to look into. Eli was on it. I should be worried about Caden Cameron and whatever he was up to. He was dangerous, out of his mind. Writing is what makes me a good alpha. Once I get rid of Dillon, then I can get back to my old self.

  And I really should go find blue boy and apologize. I wanted to see more of him, to be distracted by him.

  I tried to dive down to the bottom as far as I could go before the air in my lungs made me bob back up to the surface. Without fins attached to my feet I couldn’t make it very far, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was opening my eyes in the dark water, feeling that fear in my belly of moving away from the sun and the light and the warmth and towards that cold black nothing. Conquering that voice.

  The wind was blowing pretty good and I started diving closer to the dock in case a rip tide pulled me out while I was under. I wanted a little bit of fear to stretch my writing muscles, to give me a spark. I didn’t want the great big fear of being tired and too far from shore and not sure if I could fight the waves and the wind to reach solid ground. I’d never get to apologize to blue-boy if I did that. I was dumb, but not stupid.

  On my last good dive, when I was coming up for air and thinking that I was ready to face that empty page, I surfaced and saw those stormy-blue eyes bearing down on me. I didn’t even see the jet ski underneath him but I could hear it as the wind shifted towards me. For a moment the wind carried the most delightful scent I had ever experienced and I filled my lungs with it. Then instinct took over, all I could do was try to dive as deep and as fast as possible.