Free Too Hot to Hold by Stephanie Tyler

been this close to the blood ties that he would’ve done anything as a kid to cut.
    He was supposed to be a part of them, should feel something, any kind of connection, kinship.
    But there was nothing, the same disconnect from childhood. He knew it didn’t matter, that he was better off.
    The front page of the paper Nick had torn away and held on to tightly throughout the graveside ceremony was now crumpled in his fist, the page with the headline that read Cutter Winfield—a Special Forces Soldier. Hidden by the US Military?
    Nick wasn’t prone to panic; early life experiences coupled with his training taught him that knee-jerk reactions did no good. The report claimed to have a legitimate source, but Nick knew that his family would rather die than admit him into it.
    None of these so-called reports ever panned out. It helped that Nick had been reclusive, that he looked like his mother’s side of the family and not like a Winfield. He’d never been tagged by anyone in that regard, although he was stopped frequently to ask if he was some kind of movie star or model.
    The advent of video enhancement made things slightly more interesting for him. He’d been helped only because the picture the press claimed was him was really one of his nurse’s sons. If the Winfields knew the difference, they weren’t saying. But if that was all about to change, he needed to play defense harder and faster.
    He turned from the scene at the cemetery and started to walk away, his head pounding. And when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket, he knew exactly who it was. He’d ignored his dad’s numerous phone calls, sent them all to voice mail and responded with a brief I’m fine text message. But Dad wouldn’t be deterred for much longer.
    He flipped open his ringing cell and Dad was speaking before Nick got the Hello out.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Walking.”
    “That smart mouth never got you into anything good.”
    Nick shook his head, the mood dissipated momentarily and he wondered why this man could call him out every single time with a minimal amount of chafing on Nick’s part. Only Dad and a handful of superiors. “I went to the funeral.”
    There was silence on the other end, and then, “I’m coming home.”
    “You don’t have to do that.”
    “You’re alone. Your brothers aren’t there.”
    How Dad always knew that was beyond him, because yes, Nick was alone. Really alone. And it was the first time that had happened since he’d been eight years old and Jake had barged into the special education classroom where they’d stuck Nick.
    Jake had stared at Nick’s face and then at his throat where the trach was still in place. “That must feel weird.”
    I’m used to it , Nick had signed, because at the time, his teachers, his family, everyone thought that he didn’t know how to speak, that he actually couldn’t speak. But he could, because he’d practiced in private every single chance he got, covering the trach and hearing the comfort of his own rough voice, biding his time until the plastic tube came out for good.
    “I have no idea what the fuck you’re telling me,” Jake had responded, in that demanding, blunt and somehow charming way he’d had even way back when. “Teach me.”
    And so, after school, behind the auditorium where the teachers would come out during their breaks to smoke, Nick taught Jake the sign language he’d learned. Jake, of course, insisted they modify it so no one could understand what the hell the two of them were talking about.
    When Nick spoke his first words, he waited for Jake’s reaction.
    “I always knew you could speak,” Jake told him.
    Just like Nick had always known his past would come back to haunt him.
    “This will go away.” Dad’s voice was calm and quiet. “Now that Deidre’s buried, the press will find something else to focus on besides looking for Cutter.”
    “I hope that happens fast.”
    “I’m sorry about Deidre.”
    Nick opened his mouth to say that