No Good Deed - Marie Sexton Page 0,2

who breaks up your band.”

“Fine,” Charlie relented, his voice breaking as he lost his battle against tears. “But why do you have to leave town?”

“Because getting away from Gray isn’t enough. I need to be away from Denver. Away from the BDSM scene completely. Away from—”

“Away from me,” Charlie said.

“Yes,” Jonas whispered. He ducked his head as more tears spilled down his cheeks. “If I’m in Denver, I won’t be able to stay away from you. I’m not strong enough for that. I need to be far enough away that showing up on your doorstep isn’t even an option, because otherwise…” He choked, shaking his head, crying even harder now than before.

Charlie didn’t think his heart had ever hurt so much. He pulled Jonas close, and for a while, they simply held each other. Charlie wanted to say he’d go with Jonas. That he’d leave his whole life behind to be with him. But he wasn’t ready to do that. He wasn’t ready to leave the house his abuela had left him, or the community that had learned to depend on him.

“I love you,” Charlie managed to say.

“I love you too. You have no idea how much.”

Not enough, Charlie thought later, as they finally said goodbye. Not enough to stay.

Chapter 1

Present Day…

Sometimes the hours between work and bedtime were hard to fill.

Charlie made himself dinner and ate it alone at his kitchen table. Afterward, he washed the few dirty dishes by hand and put them away. And then he leaned back against the counter, wondering what the fuck to do with himself for the rest of the evening.

He’d taken down his Christmas tree the night before. He usually took it down the first weekend of January. This year, he’d let it linger an extra couple of weeks. Now that it was gone, he felt depressed. The holidays at least kept him busy. Now, he had nothing in particular to look forward to.

Sometimes Charlie pictured himself walking a tightrope over his depression, buoyed up by the philosophy of people like Wayne Dyer, Brené Brown, and Humble the Poet. He often read them at night as he lay in bed. He thought they had the right of it—focus on today, stay present, count your blessings. His friends teased him about it, but it kept Charlie sane.

But sometimes following his own advice was easier said than done. Sometimes slipping into past regrets was all too easy to do.

Maybe one of his neighbors would come knocking on his back door, looking for medical help. As horrible as it sounded, Charlie treasured those evenings. They gave him purpose and ate up those empty hours when he might otherwise lapse into unpleasant memories or self-pity. At times like this, he often resorted to baking, but the last thing he needed was another loaf of banana bread. He could deliver it to neighbors, but that always led to invitations to come inside for awkward small talk. He liked his neighbors, but he had no desire to impose on their home lives just to appease his boredom.

Going to the Tap House was one of his favorite ways to fill his afternoons, but Avery rarely played past six o’clock. By now, he’d be home, spending the evening with the man he loved, just like Warren would be doing, and Phil as well.

Charlie sighed. Being the last single guy in the group sucked.

He eyed the manila envelope on his kitchen table. Another offer to buy his house. Charlie lived in an older Denver neighborhood—one that had been on the decline until ten years earlier. But Denver had put a lot of money into reinventing the downtown area, and suddenly, Charlie’s neighborhood was hot property. Over the past decade, rich developers had been buying up the tiny lots in the area. They’d purchase neighboring properties, knock down both houses, and build a bigger one in their place.

On one hand, property values were way up. He could make a damn decent chunk of money if he sold. On the other hand, he liked his neighborhood better before the influx of cash. He’d known his neighbors. He still knew the majority of them, but the newcomers had no interest in hanging out with riffraff like him.

He picked up the envelope and dropped it in the trash on his way to the living room. He turned on some music and settled on the couch to work on the afghan he’d been knitting for ages. Working on a blanket in the summer sucked—he didn’t have