Love is Always Write Anthology Bonus Volume

possessed that ability, but it just wasn't who he was or who he wanted to be. He'd grown up watching adults file his existence away as ‘someone else's problem.’ He knew he wasn't a saint and certainly didn't have the makings of one, but he wanted to be able to go through his days believing that he was at least a generally good person.
    Daren rolled around so his splinted arm lay across Sebastian's stomach. "Do you believe in fate?"
    "No."
    "Neither do I, but that night I walked past a dozen bars and gas stations looking for somewhere safe to make a phone call. I was panicking, and I saw this bar, and there wasn't a sign that said payphone or anything like that. I just thought,‘this one.’"
    "Maybe not the best choice."
    Daren pushed himself up so his face was only inches from Sebastian's. "My cousin's thugs would have gotten to me where ever I went. They were just trailing me, waiting to catch me alone. Tell me that if they had caught up with me in any place, other than The Blue Dragon, I would have survived."
    "I'm sure you would have," Sebastian replied, doing his best to sound convincing even as he pictured Daren tossed behind a dumpster in some back alley, or in the men's room of the Hog's Dick biker bar just a few blocks past the Blue Dragon.
    Daren shook his head and cuddled up against Sebastian's side. The position could not have been entirely comfortable for him, but his main goal seemed to be to make as much physical contact with Sebastian's body as possible. Sebastian couldn't pretend not to enjoy it, a bit. "Thank you," Daren whispered against his chest.
    "Go to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
    ****

CHAPTER 8
    Sebastian watched the men in fine suits and women in high heels and business skirts stream in and out of the glass skyscraper. He resisted the urge to smooth down his tie. That was a nervous habit, and Sebastian needed to look as cool as possible. He needed to look like he belonged and like he knew exactly what he was doing, even if his hands were sweating and his feet were still getting used to the new shoes.
    He'd given Daren a lighthearted peck on the cheek as he left that morning, announcing that he wanted pot roast for dinner but that he might have a couple of drinks with the guys after work. Daren had laughed, which was an improvement over the ball of panicked nerves that Sebastian had woken up next to.
    He'd driven into the city, parked his car in a public garage, and then taken himself and the briefcase a few blocks away to the front of a skyscraper that was filled with traders, finance companies, and law offices. At exactly 11:30 a.m., a pre-arranged chauffeured car would pick him up. It was 11:29.
    A large black luxury sedan with tinted windows pulled up. An older gentleman in a grey suit wearing a chauffeur's cap got out and opened the back door. "Mr. Smith?"
    Sebastian gave a small nod. "Yes, thank you." He handed the chauffeur a scrap of paper with an address. "That will be our first stop." He followed the scrap of paper with $400 in cash.
    "Yes sir." The chauffeur gave a polite little nod, and Sebastian slid in smoothly. Apparently there was an art to getting in and out of a chauffeured car and looking like you belonged. Daren had made him practice using a dining chair a dozen times. It went along with lectures on how exactly to speak to 'help', and how to sit and stand with good posture without looking totally military. Daren even spent a half hour working over his handshake. It was like suddenly being thrust into a finishing school. But as soon as the car door closed, Sebastian's pulse rate went from a little fast to absolutely racing. He could hear it pounding in his ears, nearly drowning out the sound of the traffic. Now it was truly on.
    He fished the first letter he needed from inside his jacket. Daren had spent hours carefully crafting each letter, showing off exquisite penmanship. After every couple of sentences, he'd iced down his hand so it wouldn't shake with pain or lock up on him. Once each letter was signed and dated, and the ink was dry, he'd slipped the letter, written on painfully expensive stationary, into a neatly labeled, also amazingly-expensive envelope.
    The car pulled to a stop. The driver got out, circled around, and opened Sebastian's door. Sebastian stepped out, trying to calm himself. He glanced up and down the street trying to commit any stopped car or pedestrian to memory.
    Calm. Down. Sebastian told himself firmly.
    He took a deep