The Chartreuse Door Read online

  The Chartreuse Door

  By Lisa Gray

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 Lisa Gray

  ISBN 9781634865968

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  The Chartreuse Door

  By Lisa Gray

  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 1

  Keir Moreau lurched awake as a familiar childhood panic lanced through him. Attack? Of course not. The noise was probably just thunder—it had been a stormy spring so far. With shaking hands, he fumbled to put on his thick glasses, already knowing he was safe in his bedroom, at home, alone. His subconscious just had to catch up. Whatever that crashing din had been, it was nothing to worry about.

  He glanced at the clock. Well, maybe the idiot disturbing everybody at six a.m. on a Sunday morning might want to worry. Mrs. Prendergast, the all-powerful ruler of the Huntington Hill Condominium Association—Elegance and Diversity are our Watchwords—was sure to flay the poor bastard alive.

  Stretching his bony shoulders until they cracked, he groaned and headed for the bathroom. By the time he came out, the noise had receded to occasional bumps, bangs, and bellows, so he detoured to the kitchen before investigating. A few minutes later, holding his favorite indulgence of a slab of toast smeared with greedy gobs of strawberry jam, he raised the blind and peeked out the living room window.

  A moving van was parked right across the street. It was staffed by a crew of four stooges—deliciously built stooges, he had to admit—falling all over themselves. No wonder there was so much commotion.

  So Riley Quinn, the new resident Mrs. Prendergast had warned him about, was moving in. Until last week, Keir hadn’t even known the condo facing his was on the market. Nothing as tacky as For Sale signs was allowed in Huntington Hill. Instead, Mrs. P. and the board sought out just the right people to entice into joining the community.

  He frowned, remembering the day she’d bustled in and announced, “You’ll be getting a new neighbor soon. I’m sure the two of you will get along famously.” Averting her gaze, she’d added, “Although I must admit, I found him a bit brusque myself.”

  Keir had wanted to ask what she meant by that, but the proud woman shrugged off her moment of doubt and sailed on. “As our newest board member, you’ve been chosen to welcome him and help him fit in with our family of residents.”

  He was pretty sure he’d been chosen because, according to gossip, the new resident was gay. And single. Like Keir. Mrs. P. had a thing for symmetry: the condo association boasted artfully balanced numbers of African Americans, Asians, Latinos, and now a matched pair of gay men.

  In lieu of a badge of authority, Mrs. P. had handed him a tasteful gray and burgundy leather packet. On the plus side, it contained a cheery letter of welcome and a handful of brochures for local shops and restaurants, all within easy walking distance. On the minus side was the draconian list of rules for life in Huntington Hill. It would be Keir’s task to explain to the new guy just what he was up against.

  Wondering what had happened to that packet, he glanced at the stacks of student papers heaped on the dining room table. The edge of the welcome folder peeked from the bottom of the biggest pile. His shoulders drooped at the reminder he’d be spending most of the day reading student journals and grading dreadful compositions.

  Maybe she’d done him a favor. The welcome wagon assignment would make a fine diversion. He could bring a home-cooked meal for the new guy to ease the sting of the condo association regulations. And just maybe Riley Quinn would turn out to be a friend, someone who would relieve Keir’s solitary social existence.

  A lifetime of habit had Keir raising a hand to rub the dark purple birthmark that wound its way down one side of his face. No matter how old he got, seeing strangers’ open-mouthed stares still left him cringing like some shy kid.

  On the weekends, Keir didn’t bother with the make-up he used for his teaching job at the ultra-conservative Winchell Academy for Young Men. In truth, hiding it probably wasn’t necessary at all. At least he hoped the school administration wouldn’t object to the vivid port-wine-stain birthmark. It was just that he’d hidden it for the job interview, and now he felt he had to keep it up.

  But today was not a school day. Today he’d leave the mark visible when he went to welcome Riley Quinn. If nothing else, it would save awkward explanations later. Besides, if the guy was repulsed by it, better to know up front.

  Returning his attention to the activity across the street, he realized the show was just about over and the workers were packing to go. That hadn’t taken very long—not for a whole household of items. The oldest worker, the one who looked like he was Larry, Curly, and Moe’s supervisor, carried just a clipboard in his hand as he disappeared one last time through the propped-open front door.

  Licking the juicy overflow of jam from the toast, Keir watched the door, hoping for a glimpse of the new owner. A few minutes later, the supervisor walked out of the condo and climbed into the van. In a moment, the engine rumbled to life, the moving van pulled out, and Keir got his wish.

  A man came out of the condo but paused in the shadow of the porch roof. All Keir could tell so far was his new neighbor was a large man who almost filled the doorway. After a few moments, the new owner eased his way down the steps and advanced onto the front walk. He paused, his face turned toward the soft morning light.

  Keir’s eyes widened, trying to see every inch of the magnificent display.

  A god.

  A glowing, sun-kissed, sandy-haired Greek god in the flesh, deserving of the awe of lesser beings like Keir.

  The man, leaning his head back to welcome the kiss of warm spring sunshine, closed his eyes—no doubt they’d be blue—and took a long, slow, deep breath of air.

  Mouth sagging open, Keir watched the man’s magnificent chest expand to gorgeous proportions and felt his own lungs fill in response. Desire shimmered through him as his pulse rose. How had he gotten this lucky? A tailor-made excuse to go meet the most breathtaking man he’d ever seen? But could someone as dull and ill-favored as he dare to welcome a god? He quivered at the possibilities as his thoughts scattered, chasing what to wear, what to bring, what to say.

  The slo
w plop of strawberry jam oozing between his bare toes to soak into the carpet hardly registered at all.

  Chapter 2

  Riley Quinn frowned at the collection of boxes stacked in his new living room, waiting to be emptied. Shit. Compared to what normal people owned, it was a light load. But for him, they were dead weights around his neck, choking him. When had he accumulated so much crap? Not in the deserts of Afghanistan. Nor in the mountains of Nepal or during the uprising in Uganda. His whole life used to fit into a backpack. And most of that space had been taken up by his camera gear.

  Disgusted at how ordinary he’d become, he couldn’t stop himself from heaving a solid kick at the biggest of the boxes. Cringing as scorching pain shot up his right leg, he clutched his throbbing knee and cursed himself for being so damned stupid. If he wasn’t careful, he’d undo whatever small improvement the latest surgery had made. Then he’d be shunted back to the hospital, suffering every day under the hands of that unrelenting perky physical therapist. That would finally drive him over the edge.

  He leaned over, tore off the tape, and opened the flaps to see what was so heavy the box hadn’t budged an inch.

  Framed photos.

  Six months of portraits of bland, pretty boy clones. Six months of babying his leg and accomplishing nothing except to immortalize idiots whose biggest fear in life was a pimple. God save him from tiny minds with no clue the world needed more than sultry side glances and gleaming white teeth.

  He glared into the overstuffed box. Why in the world had Lucy bothered framing these? And in heavy glass and metal, no less. If she’d gone cheap, his leg wouldn’t hurt so much, and he wouldn’t be standing here wondering where to put this collection of crap, and he wouldn’t be—

  He broke off the thought and smacked himself on the forehead. Was he really that pathetic? And whiny? He considered kicking the box again as punishment for trying to pass off his bad temper on his eighty-year-old former teacher and current self-appointed cheerleader and boss. Of course, Lucy had gone all out in her crusade to help him embrace this new life. The woman was determined to see him adjust, and she never did anything half-assed.

  Resigned to dealing with the clutter, he grabbed the box and hoisted it, taking a moment to center himself and find balance on his bad leg. Peering around the bulky box, he headed for the staircase. This load of garbage could go in the second bedroom. The window in there was small, so with some minor remodeling and good blackout curtains, the room would make a fine combination darkroom and studio. Digital was way easier, but he’d been bought up with old-school photography and was toying with the idea of developing his own film.

  The box shifted in his arms, threatening to upend them both, and he huffed in momentary fright. He’d better stop daydreaming and get his ass up the damned stairs. He should have bought a ranch-style condo, but his battered ego had reared its head and insisted, at age thirty-two, he wasn’t an old cripple who couldn’t deal with a few stairs.

  Halfway up the staircase, he reached the landing and congratulated himself. Not bad for a gimp. Feeling cocky, he grinned as he pivoted and took a step, intending to tackle the remaining stairs.

  The next moment, the box of photos went flying out of his hands as he tumbled back down, crying out in alarm. The picture frames shattered around him, shooting glass shrapnel through the air. Coming to rest at the base of the staircase, he panted, floating on the shock, scared to even speculate on just how much damage he’d done to his leg. Or his head, which ached like a son of a bitch and seemed to be resting on—what the hell? He slowly eased his head to one side and saw he was splayed out on top of a hand truck. The moving company had left a fucking hand truck on his landing? Unbelievable!

  He did a quick inventory of his limbs. All seemed to be working. That was damned lucky, despite the roaring tide of pain rushing over him. He managed to fish the pill bottle out of his pocket, pop the top, and roll two—no, three tablets—into his palm. Choking them down, his suddenly dry throat reminded him just how thirsty he was now there was no access to water.

  He lay still for the next twenty minutes or so, waiting for the pills to kick in. Dust motes dancing in the sunlight from the open door were his sole entertainment. God, he hated the drugs. They always knocked him on his ass. But right then he needed that velvety cloud of relief to envelop him. Little by little, his heart rate slowed, his tense muscles loosened, and the edge of the pain softened. He reached behind his head to check for blood. The reawakened nerves had him hissing when he touched the lump on his skull. But at least there was no blood on his hand.

  So, now for the big test. He held his breath and boosted his bad leg into the air. Swallowing a scream, he lay still and waited for the agony to fade. Lesson learned: no quick movements. But getting off the hand truck strip-mining his lower back was top priority.

  As slow as he could, he wiggled his way off the thing and sat up. His head stayed on, although it was touch and go for a moment as he waited for his eyes to focus. Now, where had he left the damned cane? He didn’t dare put weight on the leg unsupported just yet. Glancing around, he saw it in the corner where he’d tossed it, certain he wouldn’t need it. Arrogant asshole that he was.

  Taking care to flick the worst of the broken glass out of his path, he inched his butt over to retrieve the cane, then retraced the same path back to the stairs. With exaggerated care, he used the cane to ease himself onto the second step, then rested again, breathing deep and long, ignoring the tears stinging his eyes.

  Fucking incompetent idiots! Months of hard-fought physical therapy wiped out with one careless oversight. Ignoring the shaking of his hand, he pulled out his phone and dialed the moving van company.

  After a few rings, a bored-sounding female voice answered. “JC’s Classic Moves. Tiffany speaking.”

  “This is Riley Quinn. I want to speak with the owner. Now.”

  “Jake’s not in the office. And trust me, dude, you don’t want to tangle with him today.”

  “Trust me, I do. Tell Jake he needs to come to my home now with the company insurance contact information and a claim form. And then he can apologize for leaving a hand truck hiding in the shadows on the landing of my stairs. I damn near killed myself on it.”

  “Oh, that could be a problem.”

  Riley bit his tongue to suppress the snarky question, you think? At least the woman was showing a hint of decency.

  But just to prove him wrong, Tiffany finished her thought with, “If you broke the hand truck, you’re gonna have to pay for it. Jake gets real bent out of shape about people tryin’ to rip him off.”

  Feeling the heat of anger creeping up his neck, he forced his voice to be calm. Arguing with idiots was a waste of time. “Look, Tiffany, I tripped over the hand truck and fell down my stairs because your employees were negligent. I want the owner to get his ass over here now with the insurance paperwork. Then he can get his damned hand truck out of my house.”

  “Well, okay, hon, I’ll tell him. But I gotta warn you, he’s in a wicked mean mood.” She hung up.

  No goodbye.

  No apology.

  No expression of concern for Riley’s injuries.

  He scowled at the silent phone, plotting what mayhem he could inflict on JC’s Classic Moves if they had the nerve to bill him for the hand truck that almost killed him. Mean? Jake didn’t know what “mean” was. And if this incident meant another round of physical therapy, Jake would be the one paying the perky therapist. Every damned penny.

  Glancing at the open front door every minute or so, he fervently wished the bastard would get there quick, while Riley was still powered by his outrage—and still upright. Those pain pills had kicked in big-time, and everything was getting more than a little wavy around the edges.

  Trying to focus, he squinted hard at the photos scattered on the floor. Vapid young men with cookie-cutter looks, each one believing himself a unique star in the making. Riley snorted. He’d seen unique, and it wasn’t any of these self-absorbed twits. Uni
que was a face with real life written on it, vibrant with depth and courage. All over the globe, he’d seen faces like that. And what always showed, underneath the skin color or the bone structure or the eye shape, was the light of character. That’s what he wanted to photograph. That’s what those awards he’d won were for, not the newest fashion plate.

  God, he missed doing work that mattered.

  He leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes, not even trying to fight the bitter helplessness sinking over him. He’d just let himself drift until Mean Jake rolled in. Then he’d heave himself to his feet and vent his frustrations by tearing a strip off the man. Maybe afterward, he’d feel good enough to drag himself up the stairs to soak his aching leg in the tub before he couldn’t walk at all.

  Chapter 3

  Keir tightened his grip on the welcome packet and the cooler containing his homemade tandoori chicken dinner. Arranging a smile on his face to mask his nervousness, he climbed the three steps to the new guy’s condo. The front door was still propped wide open, so he cautiously stuck his head in and peeked around. The floor plan looked like a mirror image of his own condo, including the long shadowy hallway leading to the stairs to the second floor.

  A quick glance into the living room to his left showed little furniture. And what there was—an over-sized recliner chair, a couple end tables, and a bookcase—were not the high-priced designer stuff favored by everyone else in Huntington Hill Condos. Well, everyone except Keir. He was just the unexceptional son of famous parents who’d gifted him with the condo and an odd mix of French, Vietnamese, and Chinese DNA.

  Keir had always been content to be quietly ignored while his sought-after ambassador father and prize-winning writer mother had been fawned over and welcomed everywhere, especially in Huntington Hill.

  Even if Riley Quinn wasn’t wealthy, there must be something extraordinary about him to satisfy Mrs. Prendergast’s appetite for “special people” joining her beloved community.