Coming out on top, p.1
Coming Out on Top, page 1
COMING OUT ON TOP
NORA PHOENIX
Coming Out on Top by Nora Phoenix. Copyright ©2020 Nora Phoenix (previously published as Snow Way Out)
Cover design: Cate Ashwood
Editing and proofreading: Tanja Ongkiehong
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without the written permission of the copyright holder, except in case of brief quotations and embodied within critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.
This book contains sexually explicit material which is suitable only for mature readers.
www.noraphoenix.com
CONTENTS
Connect with Nora
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Signed Paperbacks and Swag
Books by Nora Phoenix
More About Nora Phoenix
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PROLOGUE
Out of all the people in all the world to be stuck in the snow with, it had to be him. It had to be this mouthwatering, hot as fuck, push-all-his-buttons, check-all- boxes bear of a man. Strike that. Bear of a straight man.
Just his luck.
1
Quentin Frost anxiously awaited the verdict as Jerry, the AAA guy he’d called half an hour earlier, checked out the engine of his ancient Corolla. It had sputtered, then stalled, smoke and the distinct stench of burning oil drifting up from under the hood. He’d quickly parked the car on the shoulder of the quiet country road and had made use of his AAA membership for, like, the tenth time that year. Best. Investment. Ever. Though in hindsight, he should’ve maybe invested in a better car if he was gonna drive cross-country.
It had taken Jerry only twenty minutes to get there, which was awesome because Quentin was freezing his ass off. His thin jacket and jeans were no match for the arctic temperatures, but especially not for the biting wind that had free rein here out in the open.
He’d already planned on investing in some serious cold-weather gear, but maybe he should’ve done that before arriving in the northeast. A not-so-slight miscalculation on his part. He’d never been so motherfucking cold in his life. The kind of wet, icy cold that penetrated your bones, making you feel like you’d never, ever get warm again in your life.
Wait, how long did frostbite take? He looked at his hands, slightly blue-ish by now.
“I’m sorry, son, but that car is beyond saving.”
Quentin refocused on Jerry’s growly voice and let out a long sigh as the guy closed the hood of his car with a loud thunk. Fuck me sideways. He was so screwed right now. Jerry wiped his hands on a black-stained cloth, then adjusted his faded blue Yankees cap. Judging by the many black stains on the front of that cap, this was a habitual gesture for him.
“Now what?” Quentin asked. “I can’t imagine the car can stay here.”
The damn thing had broken down on the side of the road just outside of some tiny village at the foot of the Adirondack mountains. The view was breathtaking, and he’d admired it as much as he could while he drove, but fat little good that did him now.
Jerry shook his head. “Nope, it can’t. I can tow it to a junkyard that will take it.”
“Will they give me anything for it?”
Jerry shrugged. “Mac might. I can call him, if you want.”
Quentin frowned. “Mac?”
“Mac McCain, he’s our local junkyard owner. He’ll take anything, and he usually pays a decent price. Want me to give him a call?”
Quentin nodded as he blew into his hands in a futile attempt to warm them up. What alternative did he have? He’d have to figure out a way to buy himself a new car, though how and with what money, he had no idea. His research grant barely covered his cost of living and did not allow for frivolous spending, as Professor Danson had stipulated. Would a car be considered frivolous? It would be damn hard to get around without one. What a clusterfuck.
“Mac, it’s Jerry. Got a young kid with an oh-one Corolla that’s toast. He wants to get rid of it. You interested?”
Young kid. He probably didn’t mean it as patronizing as it came across, but at twenty-three, Quentin was sick and tired of people calling him a kid. Not that he could blame them. He didn’t look much older than eighteen—if even that. Fuck, with his babyface, they’d probably still card him when he was forty.
Apparently, the guy on the other end was highly economical with words because seconds later, Jerry had affirmed they were on their way. Quentin watched as the man expertly hooked up his car to his tow truck, and within minutes, they were ready to go.
Jerry wiped a few hamburger wrappers off the front seat to make place for Quentin. “Where were you headed?” he asked once they were driving.
“Northern Lake.”
Jerry shot him a curious sideways glance. “What the hell for? There’s nothing there.”
Quentin held his hands in front of the heater to warm up. “That was kind of the point.”
He debated telling Jerry why he was so interested in that tiny town but decided against it. It would probably raise more questions than he was willing to answer. Plus, Northern Lake wasn’t that far from here, so who knew if Jerry had been there, had friends or family there? No, he wasn’t risking it, not until he’d built up a rapport with the locals. Then he could find out more about what had happened to his dad. Hopefully.
When they entered the town limits, Quentin did a double take when he spotted a handcrafted wooden sign with the town’s name. “This place is called Frostville?”
“Yup,” Jerry said. “Frostville, New York. Population of 1800 and change.”
What were the odds? Quentin smiled at the incredible coincidence of him landing in a town with the same name as his last name. Maybe it was destiny? Nah, there was no such thing. Facts, that was what he dealt in. Cold, hard, scientifically proven facts. Or so his professors had kept telling him. Research was all about the facts.
Frostville was a quaint little place with local stores lined up along an old-fashioned Main Street. Quentin counted a few bars and restaurants—one diner proudly claiming to serve the best burgers in the Adirondacks—and a gas station with a convenience store, and that was it. Before he could comment on it, they had left the town behind them.
“Mac’s property is just outside of town,” Jerry said.
“You live here?” Quentin asked.
“Yup. Born and raised. I cover a big area for my job, but I happened to be home when the call came in, since it’s my day off.”
“You were off today? Then why’d you respond?”
“Because my nearest coworker was fifty miles out, and I didn’t want to have him drive this far at the end of his shift. It’s fine. I’ll be home before dinner.”
Quentin let that sink in. He’d never heard of someone voluntarily working on his day off just to prevent inconveniencing a coworker. This was probably part of the small-town dynamic he was eager to study in depth. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, son. We’re here.”
Jerry pulled up at the entrance of a fenced-off property, and almost immediately, a big dog came running out, barking his head off. Quentin barely had time to feel properly intimidated because on the dog’s heels followed his owner. Now, that man was a reason to be intimidated.
Quentin swallowed as he took in the man striding outside. He was a giant, wearing stained jeans, sturdy work boots, and a black jacket. But what really caught Quentin’s attention was the lip and septum piercing, his dark hair, which peeked out from under his black beanie, and a dark beard as menacing as the look in his eyes.
Jerry sighed. “Like his owner, that dog barks more than it actually bites. You’ll be fine.”
Quentin had to take his word for it. Jerry opened the door of the tow truck and slid off the front seat. After a second’s hesitation—he wanted to make sure the dog didn’t attack—Quentin followed his lead.
“Mac,” Jerry said, reaching for his cap ag ain.
The guy merely nodded without even a hint of a smile. He snapped his fingers at his dog, who stopped his—her?—barking immediately.
“This here is young… Sorry, what was your name again, son?” Jerry asked.
Quentin stepped forward and stuck out his hand toward the guy who looked like he could crush his skull with one hand while throwing back a beer with the other. Manners might just prevent that from happening, though he wasn’t putting his money on it. And he was so not giving him his last name. “Hi, I’m Quentin.”
The man’s eyebrows rose, but he took off his right glove and accepted Quentin’s hand with a small nod. His hand was huge, enveloping Quentin’s with a strong grip that almost made him wince. Quentin waited for him to speak but let go when that, apparently, wasn’t on the program.
“Mac here is a man of few words,” Jerry said.
Quentin expected him to slap the guy on the back in a neighborly fashion, but Jerry kept his distance. Interesting. Jerry talked about Mac as if he knew him well, but the physical space between the two men did not suggest a close relationship. Moreover, Jerry’s voice held a hint of hostility, with a solid dose of condescending thrown in. What was that about?
Respect, he would’ve understood, considering the guy’s appearance. Fear, even. This was not a man you wanted to cross. But why that patronizing attitude?
The silence became uncomfortable. Oh, damn, Mac was waiting for Quentin to say something. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, so, Jerry said my car can’t be fixed and that you might be willing to take it. For your junkyard. For a reasonable price,” he quickly added before the man thought he was giving it away for free.
Jerry’s phone rang, and he picked up right away. His face broke open in a big smile. “Already? Yes, honey, I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in twenty.”
He ended the call and sent Quentin an apologetic look. “I gotta go. My daughter is in labor, so I gotta get to the hospital.”
“But…” Quentin sputtered.
Jerry had his car unhooked in no time, Mac watching silently while Quentin cursed the AAA guy in his head. Mac hadn’t named a price—and it would go down considerably now that Jerry was about to dump his car there. It wasn’t like Quentin had anything to bargain with anymore. And how the fuck was he supposed to get back to town without a ride? He’d have to call a cab.
“Mac will sort you out,” were Jerry’s parting words, and then his truck backed out of the short driveway, leaving Quentin and his useless piece of shit car behind.
Quentin suppressed a sigh as he turned around to face Mac, who was studying him with an unreadable expression. “Erm, yeah, my car. How much is it worth?” Quentin asked.
Mac’s jaw tightened, then finally opened his mouth. “T-t-t-two hundred.”
And at once, Quentin understood why the man was taciturn. Damn it, would it be cruel to try and negotiate with someone who had a speech impediment? He considered it. The alternative was treating him differently because of a perceived handicap, and would that be preferable?
“Is that the same price you would have quoted if Jerry hadn’t dumped me and my car on your doorstep? It’s not like I have many options here,” he said, trying to look as stern as he could.
Mac’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Ng-ng-ng-yes,” he said. “N-n-no different. W-would’ve b-b-been the s-s-same price.”
Quentin shrugged. The guy didn’t look like he was fleecing him, so he’d have to trust him, even if he did look like a total badass. “Okay, then.”
“Okay,” Mac said, some tension in his shoulders leaving, Quentin noticed. “I’ll write you a ch-ch-check.”
“Is cash okay? I’m not local and don’t have a bank account here.”
Mac simply nodded and led the way to a small office just past the sturdy fence that gave access to a large terrain filled with cars in all shapes, colors, and states of disrepair. Along the side fence, rusty blue containers stood neatly lined up, a hand-painted metal sign signaling what the presumed contents were: batteries, mufflers, engines, and more.
On the other side of the fence stood a big wooden barn with a similar metal sign that read Shop, and at the end towered a pile of tires, some bigger than Quentin had ever seen in his life. Mac ran quite the operation here, but everything looked neat, even though it was a junkyard.
Quentin followed Mac into the office, which wasn’t the mess he had expected either. The metal desk was almost empty, except for a laptop and two plastic trays labeled In and Out. Mac was an organized and systematic worker, surprisingly. Though maybe that said more about Quentin’s prejudice based on Mac’s appearance than about Mac himself.
Mac took off his gloves and jammed them into the pockets of his jacket, then opened a drawer and pulled out a small cash box. He handwrote Quentin a receipt for the promised two hundred dollars, then wordlessly counted them out on the desk. Quentin folded the money and put it in his wallet. “Could you maybe give me the number of the local cab company?” he asked, taking out his phone. He checked if he had any messages.
“N-n-no c-c-cab here,” Mac said.
“There’s no cab company? Dammit.”
It did make sense in a town this size. How often would people here need a cab? Maybe, what, once a year? That didn’t provide enough customers. And Uber and Lyft weren’t gonna happen either. How the fuck was he getting anywhere now? It wasn’t like he could hike back, what with his two suitcases in the trunk, plus his backpack.
He lifted his eyes to meet Mac’s. The man had a gorgeous pair of brown puppy eyes that lowered his badass level significantly, but how many people managed to get past that intimidating first impression? There was no denying the man was hot as fuck, but Quentin’s gaydar didn’t even pick up the slightest buzz, so the guy had to be straight as a ruler.
“I c-c-can drive you to t-town,” Mac said, the first time he’d initiated a conversation instead of merely responding to a question.
“Would you? I’d really appreciate it,” Quentin said, his insides filling with relief. “Is there, like, a motel or something? The cheapest option will do.”
Mac nodded. “G-g-guesthouse.”
“That’ll do. Thank you, Mac.”
More nodding, then Mac turned around, apparently expecting Quentin to follow him.
“I need to grab my luggage from my car,” Quentin said when they were outside again. “And do I need to file something to deregister my tags?”
Mac pointed at himself. Quentin was starting to discover how much the man communicated nonverbally. “You’ll do it? Thank you.”
Mac hauled his two suitcases out of his car, then gestured to Quentin to check if he’d left anything else in there he needed to take out. Quentin did a quick search, but all he found were his proof of insurance, a ratty pair of sunglasses he always kept in his car, and a pack of gum. He’d already cleaned out his car before he started this crazy adventure, determined to be all adult-like. So far, that was not working out well.
Mac put the suitcases in the back of a massive pickup truck with ease, and Quentin hoisted himself inside, keeping his backpack close to him. It contained his most prized possession, his MacBook, and he was not letting it out of his sight.
They didn’t speak a word during the journey—not that Quentin minded. He was usually more than happy to give his mind a break and let his thoughts wander. And it wasn’t like he lacked things to look at. The gorgeous scenery around him was as pretty as a postcard.
Mac parked in front of a historic-looking building sporting a sign that read Ginny’s Guesthouse. Damn, it did not look cheap at all, and Quentin cringed as he thought of the hit his credit card would take with a night in this place. Hopefully, he’d be able to find a solution tomorrow, though he didn’t have a clue how and what.
