Bonus Goodies
Resilience
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Prologue
Todd
Ican’t begin to count the number of times I thought I was going to die.
Probably every time my hell-and-brimstone-preaching daddy grabbed a belt, or a cane, or a switch. There were those two times with the crop, and another with the electrical cord. Those are just the times I remember. Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t blocked out even worse episodes of abuse.
But I survived the abuse, no thanks to most of the people in Shasta.
As an adult, I know now that just about everyone has to have been aware of what was happening to me when I was a kid. As a member of law enforcement, a certified, bona fide deputy, I know they knew. They had to.
Forgiving the people of Shasta for turning a blind eye to the abuse I suffered is something I’m still working on.
The only people who really tried to help me were Mr. and Mrs. Staley, my best friend’s grandparents.
It didn’t go especially well, but it helps knowing there are people in the world who don’t think I deserved to be treated the way I was.
When they died, I cried like a baby. Gabe, their grandson and my closest friend, was devastated too.
Somehow, after they died, I developed more of a backbone.
My father and mother have already condemned me to Hell for being friends with Gabe since he’s one of those demon-possessed homosexuals. Well, I’ve got news for them.
So am I.
I’m just too scared to do anything about it.
Too scared to talk about it.
Too scared to let anybody know.
Because if my parents ever find out? All those times I thought I was going to die won’t be anything compared to what’ll happen then.
I’ve heard the way they talk. I’ve listened to their rants. I’ve taken beatings simply for being friends with Gabe, even after turning eighteen. It’s hard to break out of the cycle of abuse. Harder than most people understand.
Maybe I still haven’t managed it completely.
Just this morning my father slapped me hard enough to leave my head throbbing, and all I did was lower my gaze and walk away.
At least I’ve made him stop hitting me otherwise.
At least I’ve moved out.
Those are accomplishments.
Maybe not impressive ones, but they’re mine.
My confidence is practically non-existent and I’ve got enough issues to keep a therapist employed for decades, but I have to believe things can get better. Maybe one day I’ll leave Shasta. Maybe one day I’ll get far enough away from my parents that I can finally figure out who I really am.
That thought is almost as frightening as staying.
Because despite the badge on my chest, despite the uniform and the cruiser and everything people assume about me, I know the truth.
I’m a coward.
If I wasn’t, I’d be out like Gabe.
If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t let anyone put their hands on me.
“Get off your lazy ass and go see what you can find out about the new vet that’s moving into the Duggart place.”
Sheriff Kaufman’s voice jerks me out of my thoughts. I blink and look up from the papers spread across my desk. How long have I been staring at them?
Long enough for Kaufman to catch me doing it.
Sheriff Kaufman is only mildly better to me than my parents are.
“New vet?” I ask, and if I stutter a little, well, that’s hardly surprising.
Kaufman scares the hell out of me. The man operates on an entirely different level of cruelty than my father ever manages.
At least my parents don’t get their rocks off beating and shooting stray dogs.
Kaufman does. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a sociopath with a badge, and that’s a combination that ought to terrify everyone, not just me.
Kaufman snorts and kicks the leg of my desk hard enough to make it rattle.
“Yeah. Now get your lazy ass up and go check him out. I think he looks too pretty not to be one of those fags. We already got that Staley freak around here, at least until I can run his fruity ass out of Shasta. Don’t need no more of ‘em.”
I bite my tongue. Hard.
Pointing out that Gabe doesn’t actually live in Shasta would only draw more attention to him, and the last thing I want is Kaufman taking an even greater interest in my best friend than he already does. I push away from my desk and grab my hat and jacket. The less I say, the better.
Sooner or later Kaufman is going to figure out what Gabe and I have been doing.
He’s going to realize why so many of the strays he targets keep disappearing before he can get to them. He’s going to realize I’m helping.
The thought knots my stomach.
The first time I witnessed Kaufman beating a stray dog to death, I spend the rest of the day sick.
I can still remember it.
I heard a dog yelp behind Old Man Harrity’s barn and went looking to see what was wrong. Instead of finding an injured animal, I found Kaufman standing there with a baseball bat in his hands, laughing as he swung again and again. The dog didn’t even have enough strength left to cry out by the end.
When Kaufman noticed me, he casually rested one hand on the butt of his gun.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to. His message was clear enough.
I spent weeks hearing those sounds every time I closed my eyes.
Eventually I told Gabe. Of course, he was furious. Absolutely furious. He had wanted to confront Kaufman, to expose him.
But I’ve lived in fear of men like Kaufman my entire life. I know exactly how that story ends.
So instead, we came up with another plan.
We save the dogs.
Every stray we can find, every abandoned animal, every call that comes through dispatch before Kaufman hears about it, we try to get there first. Gabe takes them in, finds homes for them, hides them if he has to.
It’s probably the closest thing I’ve ever done to taking a stand.
I can’t save myself. I can’t stop Kaufman. I can’t stop my parents. But I can save a dog.
Sometimes that’s enough to keep me going. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes Kaufman gets there first.
Those are the days that haunt me.
The last time it happens, I threw up for two straight hours afterward.
A hand lands heavily on my shoulder making me freeze. Kaufman squeezes hard enough to hurt.
“You tell me if he’s a faggot,” he says, “or one of those assholes who’s gonna start bitching about our stray policy. I’ll handle him from there.”
His fingers dig deeper.
“A few tickets. A little roughing up. Bet he’d be cryin’ for his mommy inside a week.”
He slaps my arm hard enough to leave a bruise, but I force myself not to react. Not until I’m outside. The second the station door closes behind me, I let out a long breath and shake my head.
Sometimes I think people get the whole Heaven and Hell thing backward. If Hell exists, maybe it’s not somewhere underground. Maybe it’s here.
Maybe it’s a little town called Shasta where good people keep their heads down, bad people wear badges, and everybody pretends not to see what’s happening around them.
That thought should probably bother me more than it does.
Instead, I climb into my cruiser and start the engine.
Right now I’ve got more important things to worry about. Like warning the new veterinarian that the local sheriff is an asshole.
The thought makes me smile for the first time all day.
It’s a tiny smile.
But it still counts.
Of course, if the vet turns out to be a complete douchebag, that might put a serious dent in my developing philosophy.
I don’t worry much about being sacrilegious anymore. My father spent years telling me God knows what’s in a man’s heart. If that’s true, then I’m probably screwed anyway. Because what’s in my heart would send my parents into hysterics.
But if my father is wrong—if God isn’t the hateful, vindictive creature he believes Him to be—then maybe I’ll be okay after all.
My parents, on the other hand? They’re in for some very hot weather.
I roll my eyes at myself.
I spend way too much time thinking about stuff like this, but considering the way religion and guilt and fear have been hammered into me since I was old enough to understand words, I reckon it’s understandable.
It’s not like I have a whole crowd of friends to distract me from my own brain, either.
Other than Gabe, I don’t really have anyone.
As strange as it probably sounds considering my job, I’m so shy it physically hurts sometimes.
Talking to people can feel like trying to walk barefoot over broken glass.
And even if I wanted to make friends, who exactly am I supposed to trust in Shasta?
Nobody.
Nobody except Gabe.
“I really need to get out of here,” I mutter.
The words have barely left my mouth when I round the corner onto Main and Brentwood and nearly put my cruiser into a parked truck.
I slam on the brakes. The tires screech against the pavement and my heart jumps straight into my throat.
A man who’s bent over digging through the back of an SUV straightens and turns toward me.
And in that exact second, the moment my eyes lock onto a pair of dark chocolate-brown ones, I know I’m going to die.
Not literally.
Probably.
But every instinct inside me starts screaming anyway.
My father is going to kill me.
Because something happens inside me when I look at this man. Something I’ve spent my entire life trying to suffocate. Trying to deny. Trying to hide so deeply that maybe one day even I could pretend it wasn’t there.
My father always said Gabe is going to turn me gay. The irony is that Gabe never turned me into anything. I’ve known what I am for as long as I can remember. Long before Gabe ever arrived in town. Long before I understood what the feelings even meant.
But my father would never believe that.
And right now, staring at a complete stranger across Main Street, I suddenly become terrified that every secret I’ve ever buried is about to be exposed for the entire world to see.
It’s ridiculous.
Paranoid.
Completely irrational.
But fear doesn’t have to be rational to be powerful.
Then the dark-haired stranger smiles.
The world tilts.
Actually tilts.
For a second I think I might pass out right there behind the steering wheel.