Destiny Calls by Samantha Wayland (100 best novels of all time TXT) 📗

three men standing over him. Two looked enraged. One looked terrified.

Struggling to free himself, he swung out his foot but met nothing but air. Even as he fought to roll away, to get loose of their hold, he tried desperately to memorize everything he could about his assailants, blinking furiously to clear the blood from his vision.

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Destiny Calls

Young, maybe in their twenties, the biggest no more than twenty-five. Dark hair, dark eyes, a cross tattooed on his arm. The kid next to him looked half starved, his eyes darting, his body twitching. Another tattoo. He compulsively scratched one arm.

Tweeker?

He tried to focus on the third man, but then the first boot struck. He could actually feel his ribs bending beneath the impact.

His head swam, his focus lost. They freed his arm and he fought again to get up but couldn"t, barely making it to his knees. Shaking his head, he tried to get his bearings. He opened his mouth to call for help, but before he had a chance, there was another hard shove from behind and he fell back to the pavement and onto his shoulder. He cried out as pain took him to the edge of consciousness.

Shit. He had to get up, damn it. He had to. He knew it, fought for it, but his head was out of whack and his ribs burned so that he could barely breathe and goddamn it, he couldn"t get his legs back under him. God help him, he couldn"t fucking do it.

Fear roared though him, bitter on his tongue as another kick hit his shin. Instinct forced him onto his side and into the fetal position, protecting his sensitive belly. His tortured arm was alarmingly numb, but he managed to bring his hands up to protect his face.

The part of his brain that wasn"t still reeling from the blow to his head knew that his kidneys were exposed. Vulnerable.

The next kick missed them by inches.

He was helpless.

The assault was swift. A fourth kick landed on his thigh. Then another on his already-screaming shoulder. He heard himself cry out as if from a great distance.

The next kick hit the mark in the soft tissue of his lower back.

Sweet Jesus, it hurt. He tried to keep focused, but nature takes mercy on those in pain. Brandon knew he was close to losing consciousness. He struggled once more.

Tried to yell for help.

“Shut up, faggot!”

Faggot? These men were going to kill him because he liked to fuck men?

Before he could work that out in his dazed mind, he heard the sweetest words to ever grace his ears.

“Hey, you motherfuckers, what the hell are you doing?” As quickly as they"d come, his attackers took off running away from the voice. He could hear heavy footsteps coming toward him and prayed for help. When he was gently rolled onto his back, he moaned. It was agony. His ribs, his kidneys, screamed in pain.

“Jesus, it"s you.”

He fought to open his eyes, grateful for the gentle hand wiping away the blood. It was the Big Ugly Biker Dude. Who knew he would be so damn happy to see this guy 53

Samantha Wayland

again? He wondered fleetingly if the man had any idea just how much trouble he"d managed to stir up by hitting on him. Probably not.

Wasn"t important now.

“Don"t move. I"ve called an ambulance.”

Brandon tried to murmur his thanks, but no sound came out. He was pretty sure his lips moved. Maybe. Closing his eyes, he told himself to focus, to stay in the here and now, but he couldn"t. He was going under, the black void rushing up to meet him as he lost consciousness.

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Chapter Six

Patrick lay in bed, staring up at the ugly and irregular swirls that coated the ceiling.

He and Brandon had done the plasterwork at Ethel"s command the summer after their freshman year of college. They"d had absolutely no idea what the hell they were doing and it really showed. Smiling, he could still picture Ethel thanking them for being such good boys, even as she eyed the ceiling with dismay.

He"d been living in the house, sleeping in this room for almost five years and he still couldn"t bring himself to fix it. He doubted he ever would.

Just as he seriously doubted he would ever get to sleep. He"d tried everything—a soak in his big tub, watching TV, a cold shower, masturbation, another cold shower.

Hell, he"d even choked down some warm milk before determining it was disgusting and that a double shot of Kahlua made it much more palatable and likely to succeed.

But here he was, wide awake.

Climbing out of bed, he pulled on shorts, socks and sneakers, determined to go for a run. He had to do something to force his body and mind to stop and maybe making it go extra fast for a while would help. He was just grabbing a t-shirt from his dresser when Farley"s head came up, ears pricked. When his dog leapt from the bed and scrambled down the stairs, Patrick was right behind him. He heard the key in the lock as soon as he hit the foyer.

Glancing at the mantle clock in the living room, a chill rolled down his back. It was almost midnight. Only two people had keys to his house—Destiny and Brandon. This was either a wildly unexpected booty call or something was very wrong.

He yanked the front door open so swiftly, Destiny nearly fell into the house, her key clattering to the floor. Tear tracks stained her face. Grabbing her arms, he caught her mid-stumble.

“What is it? What"s wrong?”

“Jesus H. Christ, Patrick, you scared the shit out of me!” He held onto his patience, barely, and told himself he shouldn"t try to shake it out of her. “What"s wrong, Des?”

His heart stuttered when she burst into tears and buried her face against his chest.

“Oh, Patrick. They called me. He made them call me because he knew you"d go ballistic and he wanted to make sure I