Surviving the Merge Read online

  Surviving the Merge

  Chadwick Book One

  C.P. Harris

  Copyright © 2020 by C.P. Harris

  All rights reserved.

  Cover designer - Natasha Snow Designs, www.natashasnow.com

  Beta reader - Lauren Griffin, www.laurengriffineditor.com

  Copy editor - M.A. Hinkle, LesCourt Author Services

  Proofreader - Jill Wexler, LesCourt Author Services

  Formatting - Leslie Copeland, LesCourt Author Services

  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.

  Contents

  Warnings & reader advisory

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Warnings & reader advisory

  Surviving the Merge is an M/M romance with adult and, at times, dark themes. It is intended for mature readers. Possible triggering content includes mental illness, rape (off page), codependency, and dubious consent.

  Surviving the Merge does not contain cheating.

  Chapter One

  Midnight approached, and even with the heavy storm that raged outside, the city felt alive. Bright lights blazed for those who weren’t yet safely tucked within their homes. The possibilities for what they could still be doing out there were endless.

  Wearing only my flesh, I pressed against the windowed wall of my living room, fourteen stories high, and attempted to get a feel for it. Wanting to be swept up in it. Because I too wanted to feel alive.

  I loved the rain. Its presence a part of what kept me shackled to Kisla, Oregon. It rained there, on average, two hundred days out of the year. When not raining, a potent gloom enveloped the city. Like we were on the precipice of something dooming that would soon take place.

  Stepping away, I took stock of my surroundings. Tables and chairs overturned, paintings hanging lopsided on the walls. I resisted looking to the adjoining dining room—barely. Specifically, the dining room table, which served as a reminder that in my rage, I nearly did something we wouldn’t have been able to come back from. Something so unlike me.

  “You want to rip this place apart? You go ahead, but think before you turn your anger onto me.”

  I shook those words from my head and exhaled deeply, finding my body once again plastered to the cold transparent barrier separating me from the outside world.

  I shivered, wishing I’d thought to start up the fireplace. The high ceilings and lack of walls made it difficult to keep the condo warm during the colder months.

  The immediate need for heat caused my thoughts to drift to a certain someone, wondering how I’d gone so long resisting the pull. It took everything in me now to stay where I remained.

  It’d been six weeks since our last encounter. And I was in need of what only he could provide. I tried to stay away, but did I really believe that I could? That I could stop the madness that had been unfolding? My laugh was self-deprecating. Who am I kidding? This could only end one way. The ultimate price must be paid. The only question: who would come collecting?

  Mind made up, I slipped through the dining room and made my way upstairs to do what needed to be done.

  Entering the bedroom, I yanked open the walk-in closet doors, nearly stumbling in my effort to get to my side. The hangers rattled on their racks as I blindly grabbed at garments, suddenly unable to breath through my quiet desperation.

  My pulse raced with anticipation as I dressed.

  He stirred behind me as I sat on the edge of our bed to lace my boots. Stretching out the process longer than needed, wanting desperately to avoid his knowing gaze. I finally peered over my shoulder, unable to circumvent the inevitable and also needing to ensure that the message of what my actions implicated had been received. He looked weary but resigned, and I felt guilty but not enough. I lowered my head and shut my eyes in acknowledgement of my shame, but I stood and left anyway.

  Exiting the elevator into the underground parking garage, my boots struck the tarred concrete, echoing through the desolate, cavernous space, my gaze laser-focused on the matte-black car ahead of me.

  Twenty paces away.

  I retrieved the key fob from the side pocket of my tight denim jeans.

  Fifteen paces away.

  The chirp indicating that the alarm had been deactivated sent a lick of heat down my spine.

  Ten paces.

  The faint sound of the car door locks being thrown back almost cost me my stride.

  Five.

  It’s not too late to turn around, I thought. I looked behind me at the waiting elevator. Its opened doors whispered, “Come back to me.”

  I faced forward and held my breath until I sat wrapped in a cocoon of leather and chrome, until the locks re-engaged, effectively jailing me inside.

  I took a white-knuckled grip of the steering wheel, both hands at twelve o’clock, leaning forward and asking myself, “What the hell are you doing, Justin?”

  Through the rearview mirror, I watched the elevator doors close. A sign: too late to turn back now.

  I’d left the comforts of heaven to willingly lay in the arms of the devil.

  One foot pressed on the brake and a finger on the push-start ignition. The engine purred, and soon, so would I.

  I tried to work out what made me this way as I rode down the slick, darkened highway.

  Destination: Hell.

  Julie would have me believe my proclivities were a product of having been orphaned at a young age. I tended to disagree. While true I’d lost my mother before those precarious teenage years, I did have my father—or some version of the man—well through high school.

  On a good day, I preferred to believe I’d been birthed into my nature. On a bad day, I settled for not thinking about it at all.

  I turned up the dial on the windshield wipers. Aside from actually needing to, the sound of rubber grating against glass helped to calm my frayed nerves. Gave me something else to focus on.

  My headlights illuminated the sign a few meters ahead: South Kisla, half a mile.

  So close.

  While Kisla overran with cosmopolitans who thought it chic to live in high-rises and sit cross-legged at bars downing drinks named Cosmopolitan, South Kisla sat a few centimeters shy of the other side of the tracks. That could all change depending on which way the wind blew the pimps and the dope peddlers.

  Short stucco buildings made up the vast majority of the neighborhood, spattered with your mom-and-pop shops and timeworn cafes along the main avenue.

  With my unencumbered hand, I pressed down on my left leg to stop the shaking, while my right foot unconsciously put the pedal to the metal. I’d soon be at the gates of my damnation.

  He’d be mean tonight—if he showed up. And I didn’t know if that knowledge terrified me or electrified me.

  Yes, I do… I know...

  I both trembled and hardened in my seat, knowing that whateve
r mood he brought to me, I’d welcome it. Open arms.

  As always…

  I pulled into the gravel parking lot of a one-story, nondescript brick building. The blue flickering sign above the steel door read Elite.

  Elite held the title of “most exclusive gay strip club” in the city. Strange, considering its location near the heart of the city’s underbelly. The perfect location for the upright pretenders to go unseen.

  The line spanned the corner entrance of the unassuming building. Curling around the alleyway. Sitting to the left and the right of nothing but trouble and across the street from the rumbling expressway overpass.

  The right price made almost anything possible at Elite. Some described it as seedy with a touch of class.

  I raised the collar of my leather trench and rushed to the side entrance, knocking once, pausing, then knocking twice. I repeated the Morse code and blew into my cupped hands to fight off the chill. The overhanging roof protected me from the worst of the rain.

  The rusted metal door creaked open as Black-Bobby the bouncer answered “the call.” I craned my neck up to greet him and sucked myself in to get around him.

  The side entrance stood adjacent to the dressing rooms and was the dancers’ preferred method of entering and exiting the club. Wanting to avoid the grabby hands of the inebriated patrons as long as possible.

  I made quick work of changing into my costume, which consisted of a thong and skin. I’d never been one for the theatrics. Looking at the time told me I needed to get onstage. I had a head start getting here, but that would only get me so far.

  What if he doesn’t show up? I thought.

  I closed my locker and squeezed between two dancers at the wall-to-wall mirror, braiding my hair into a plait down my back.

  Many didn’t know what to make of me. At six foot tall with green eyes on an elfin face and ashen-colored hair that hung past my shoulders, my looks leaned toward androgynous. And although I wasn’t heavily packed with muscle, by no means could I be called thin or feminine. I had a dancer's body. Lithe but strong.

  “Hey, Bambi,” someone called from behind.

  I stared past myself in the mirror to see Glitter strutting by; he winked at me. Glitter was Elite’s resident flame-boyant. A short, ginger on ‘roids whose name spoke for itself. He’d taken to calling me “Bambi” in reference to my wide eyes. “Wide as a doe,” he’d said.

  My eyes entered a room before I did.

  “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Thought you’d finally gotten tired of doing this for fun,” he said, pausing with his hand on the dressing room curtain.

  I loved the high I got from dancing erotically against a pole. Not enough to quit my day job, but still, this was what tethered us together.

  “Me and some of the guys are heading to Club Spotlight after our set. Wanna come?” he asked. Before I could answer, he jumped in. “Let me guess, maybe some other time?”

  “Yeah. Maybe,” I said unconvincingly.

  “Uh-huh,” he responded as he cleared the room.

  I stood there watching the curtain swing from his departure, not enjoying the flutter of regret and a different type of loneliness that churned in my gut. I pushed it down, exiting behind him.

  One large square space made up the club level, with a circular stage in the center. Several poles were positioned along it, so multiple dancers could be on at once.

  Center stage, on a raised dais, stood a pole for the dancers in high demand. The only pole I worked. Along the edges of the room were small, sheer, curtained-off alcoves where paying customers could have a meager semblance of privacy. Legally, a lap dance was as hot as things could get.

  I whispered in the DJ’s ear, then made my way languidly to my spotlit position just as the music changed.

  The lights strobed, and the music pulsed through the club like a heartbeat. The deep bass tempo escorted me right where I needed to be.

  I’d reached the top of the twenty-foot pole, arms above me gripping the warm steel, descending into a split, when the hairs prickled at the back of my neck.

  He’s here…

  I could feel his eyes on me as I danced. I’d been dancing for the last half-hour, awaiting his arrival, and was beginning to think he wouldn’t show. That maybe, he’d finally had enough. But no, he was here and seething.

  His fury brushed against my skin like a lover’s kiss. It made me want to both fall to my knees before him in supplication and refuse to submit in defiance of his audacity.

  A touch of anxiety ran through me as I maneuvered my way down the pole. The spotlight forgotten, the loud music a distant hum. My sole focus: him.

  Lowering my legs and taking several deep breaths to get my nerves under control, I continued on with my set.

  What’s in store for me tonight? I wondered as my gaze made a subtle circuit around the room. I spotted him by the back of the bar, partly hidden by the shadowed corner he occupied. He stood there watching me dance for the crowd that had gathered around the stage to rid themselves of their hard-earned cash. Green blanketed the floor beneath me.

  His obsidian eyes glowed in the dark with a barely banked hunger, betraying his need for me. I should’ve ended my set right then and there. Hopped offstage and made my way to him obediently. That’s what he would’ve wanted. But where’s the danger in that? As if I needed him any more dangerous.

  With a weary sigh, I climbed off, to the disappointing cries of the crowd. Leaving the unneeded currency behind.

  Private rooms filled the lower levels, where one could pay for the type of debauchery that couldn’t be had upstairs. As the club’s most popular dancer, I negotiated a room to be permanently reserved for me. I walked that way now, sensing he’d had enough of my games.

  A tingling up my spine and a heat washing over my skin were only a few sensations that served to alert me of his nearness.

  Entering the spartan room, I flinched when the door slammed shut, cutting us off from the rest of the club. I braced myself for his rage before pivoting around to face him.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” he asked, narrowly holding onto his control.

  One wrong move, one word misspoken by me was all it would’ve taken for him to grant himself permission to let go. That’s what he was after.

  Though considered tall myself, Damon towered over me by more than a few inches. His body composed of pure muscle. Part of the allure was knowing he could overtake me.

  “Hello, Damon,” I said with an air of unconcern. But if anyone could’ve peered inside me, concern would’ve been all they’d find.

  Stepping closer than the space between us allowed for, black eyes bore into mine.

  “Don’t fuck with me. Not right now,” he squeezed through gritted teeth.

  I gave up the act. “We can’t keep doing this, Damon. Meeting here like this. We have to find a way to fix things. It doesn’t have to be this or nothing. Please say that you believe that?” Did I pick the wrong time to do the right thing? To be rational with him? If I had to go by the look on his face, then yes, I did.

  “You. Are. Mine!”

  Damon seized me by the throat, shoving me against the wall. Out of reflex, I grabbed hold of his forearms, but I had no plans to resist.

  “You won’t do anything that could potentially keep us apart. I’ll burn everything down before that happens.” He cocked his head to the side, and his dark, penetrating gaze exposed me for what I truly was. “You need this as much as I do,” he said. “We both have an affliction. Your sickness finds kinship with mine.”

  He knew me well. I couldn’t hold his stare.

  “He’ll never be enough for you,” he promised.

  His words caused a wet spot to form at the front of my flimsy underwear. But as turned-on as his possessiveness made me, I couldn’t help but to defend my husband in some way. “I love Blake, Damon,” I said with a type of calm defiance. The fire in my eyes reflected off his.

  “No, you love me.” He stroked my hair with a deceptive
gentleness. Coming from Damon, the touch was worse than the violence of a second ago.

  Leaning in close, he added on a whisper that matched the feel of his caress, “And when I’m done with you, you’ll know to whom you belong.”

  Chapter Two

  I rolled over, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. Sitting up, I rubbed at my eyes with the heel of my palms, trying to piece together how I ended up in our bedroom.

  I remembered entering the condo and collapsing onto the couch fully clothed. Still dark out. Now, the sunlight speared through the blinds, and I lay in bed naked.

  Shit, Blake. I groaned, flopping to my back.

  Which meant he saw the fingerprints from Damon's grip on my hips, along with the bite mark on my shoulder and slight bruising on my throat. They must look worse now than they did hours ago.

  Getting up—wincing in the process—I threw something on to go search Blake out.

  Blake leaned against the kitchen island, staring unseeing at nothing in particular. Already dressed for the day, holding his morning cup of coffee. The steam long gone. I watched my husband from the other end of our open-plan condo, belatedly spotting the packed bag by his feet. My pulse hammered in my ears, and my feet—of their own will—carried me closer. “Where are you going?”

  “Away,” he said in a detached voice. He wouldn’t look at me.

  “Blake, let’s talk this out,” I said, approaching him.

  “No talking. Not now, Justin.” He turned to me. “Look what Damon did to you...” His voice cracked at the end.