Dusty [Wounded Hearts 4] (Siren Publishing Classic ManLove) by Fel Fern

Author:Fel Fern
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance
Published: 2017-07-21T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

At the sound of a police siren wailing in the distance, Morgan Weiss tugged his hood down his face, silently seething as the cop car passed the street. His nerves were shot, especially after the prison break. His fellow conspirators advised him to go under the radar a little while, but Morgan had unfinished business in Cherry Hill.

He walked past a young happy couple, parents pushing a stroller, and wanted to gag. What the fuck. This town was as sickening as he remembered, like everyone were actors from a movie and they were all the best actors of all time.

Morgan kicked an empty soda can out of the way, satisfied to hear the whine of some stray mutt nearby. After all that he’d done, all he’d given for Trace Michaels, what had he gotten in return?

A prison sentence, even though Trace had been asking for it. The artist all but told Morgan how lonely he was, how sometimes he felt lost in his art. Art was the only goddamn thing going for a skinny piece of shit like Morgan. When Morgan had first seen Trace’s piece “The Fall” at the local art gallery, he’d fallen instantly in love.

Sad to say, finding out who the artist behind the work had been was a disappointment. Still, he’d wanted to know what it was like, getting under Trace’s skin, to know the genius underneath. All he’d discovered was a pathetic, miserable, insecure man. Still, he could forgive Trace for being so damn boring on the outside. He’d been elated when Trace and him had started going out.

Morgan had been a model boyfriend. He’d been supportive, possessive, and when he asked for one little fuck? Trace reacted like he was some goddamn villain. Sure, he had some police records and accusations for little things like molestation, assault, and attempted rape charges, but he’d managed to shut that poor asshole up before he could squeak.

He clenched his fists. Thanks to Trace Michaels, his life was ruined. The press had a field day when he was arrested. They didn’t know he was doing guys like Trace a favor. If Trace wasn’t famous, no one would have given Trace a second look.

Morgan found himself walking to Trace’s neighborhood. Fuck the restraining order. Morgan had bent the law so many times, it wouldn’t matter. Besides, he wasn’t stupid enough to get caught again. He glanced at the watch he’d snatched from some brawling twelve-year-old kid in the park. Seven in the morning. Soon enough, Trace would be heading out to his studio.

This was his best opportunity to drop by and tell Trace he was around town, because that old woman who owned the bakery below Trace’s studio creeped him out. There were rumors she wasn’t human but some kind of witch. Morgan wasn’t superstitious, but that old bitch’s stupid cat nearly scratched off his face once.

“Come out, Trace Michaels. We should finish what we started,” he whispered.

He found a spot behind a tree near the building opposite

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