Slow Shift

By Nazarea Andrews

One angry, grieving boy. 
Chase DeWitt is fourteen when his mother dies and he stumbles into the woods beyond his home, angry and heartbroken. He didn't know that it would change the course of his life. 

Two broken, lonely men. 
Tyler Reid is twenty three, grumpy and angry, trying to take care of his injured brother, while rebuilding a life blind hatred destroyed in one night. 
But he understands the boy who stumbles out of the woods and into his life, understands the grief in his eyes and the rage that makes him shake. And there is something in that familiar grief that makes Tyler trust Chase, when trusting humans has only ever lead to disaster.

And a falling down house they make a home. 
As the summer passes and the years turn, as Chase cares for Tyler's brother, as he helps rebuild the house in the woods--as they help each other rebuild a life beyond the little house, Chase realizes two important things: these men matter to him, could be family. 
And they are not nearly as human as they seem. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nazarea Andrews
• Release date: Dec 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386393023

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction including brands or products.

Copyright © 2018 by Nazarea Andrews.

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Beautiful Broken by Nazarea Andrews

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by A&A Literary.

Summary: A grieving young boy and two supernatural men struck by tragedy learn together how to live again..

ISBN 978-0-98947799-1-2

1. Paranormal romance 2. Small town romance. 3. Friends to lovers.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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For information, Nazarea Andrews

[e-mail]

www.nazareaandrews.com

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Edited by Allica Henry

Cover design by Melissa Stevens of The Illustrated Author

Cover art copyright©: Nazarea Andrews

Ebook Formatting by A&A Literary

Chapter 1

He’s thirteen when he finds the house in the woods.

It’s more of a cabin, really, that looks like it hasn’t been touched in decades. Chase pokes at the rotted wood and wanders around it for few minutes, peeking through the dirty window curiously.

It’s small, a tiny bedroom and a main room only slightly larger. There’s even a kitchen that could be cozy if it were clean.

He loves it.

It feels like a secret, something impossible and hidden and just for him, something she would have loved. He curls up against the door, listening to owls hooting and a coyote crying in the distance.

He falls asleep there, and later wakes up damp from dew and stiff from cold, the woods darkening around him. He stretches carefully and pats the wood affectionately before he stumbles away, heading back to the big house that feels too empty and smells of fading perfume and strong whiskey.

~*~

He doesn’t go back for four months. He spends the summer in Washington with his grandmother and a bevy of cousins he doesn’t know, people who don’t know how to talk to a boy so quiet and sad.

He wants to tell them it isn’t catching. Just because his mom died, doesn’t mean theirs will, too, if they talk to him.

It's a lonely place to be, even surrounded by people, and when he’s overwhelmed by the noise and the loneliness, he thinks of it—of the quiet house that needed a little bit of love, a family to fill it up.

He misses his Dad, and Ben, and his mother, so much it aches in his gut.

Missing a house he slept next to for a few hours is a bit of a surprise.

~*~

It’s late September when he picks his way back through the woods and freezes, breath caught in his throat.

There’s a man sitting in front of the house. He's in a wheelchair, with a thick blanket wrapped carefully around his shoulders, his eyes dull and sightless.

Chase stares for a long time, creeping closer when curiosity overwhelms him.

The man never reacts. He’s pale, with what looks like burn scars covering half of his face. His hair is a dirty blonde, and his eyes—Chase shivers and looks away. H, is eyes look dead, a glassy pale green that reflects nothing.

How’d you get here? he murmurs, glancing around.

Get away from him, a sharp voice snaps out of nowhere.

Chase stumbles away with a yelp, landing on his butt and scuttling back awkwardly.

Another man—dark, scruffy, scowling—stalks up and runs a hand over the wheelchair man’s shoulders, glaring at Chase the whole time. What did you do to him?

Nothing, Chase protests hotly. And you shouldn’t just leave him out here alone! It’s dangerous!

He knows the woods are dangerous. There was a body found here a few years ago, and the Reid house burned down just two years ago. His Dad used to tell him to stay out of the woods.

He doesn’t tell him anymore.

The guy is staring at him like he’s a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. Chase squirms.

Why are you out here? he asks abruptly.

Chase shrugs and glances at the house. I like it, he says simply. It’s more complicated than that, but he doesn’t know how to explain it, so he doesn’t try. The man’s eyes narrow and Chase skitters back a few more steps. I’ll go, he says, lingering a moment longer to add, Take care of your friend, ok? He could have gotten hurt.

Not bothering to sort out the strange expression on the man’s face, Chase trots away.

~*~

He hears the sound of hammering before he reaches the house, and if it had been a slightly better day, he might have turned around at the sound of them, might have said nevermind, but his stomach aches and his face is throbbing from where a kid at school hit him, and he’s so angry he almost wants to fight with the dark haired scowly man.

He trudges forward with dogged determination.

The guy in the wheelchair is parked in the shade near a radio and a folding chair, a blanket tossed over his legs to keep him warm in the cool October air. The younger man—and Chase has decided Scowly Grump is younger—is on the roof ripping shingles off, banging around with dogged determination. Chase doesn’t think he’s actually getting much done, but keeps his mouth shut.

Chase watches for a second, and then Scowly Grump flicks a glance at him. You, he says, not surprised.

Me, Chase agrees sourly.

This gonna be a regular thing?

Maybe, Chase snaps.

The guy nods, his scowl deepening. You got a name?

He hesitates before heand then answers, Chase.

That earns him a hum of acknowledgement. I’m Tyler. That’s my brother, Lucas.

And then he goes back to work, seemingly uninterested in Chase at all, certainly not in the bruise blooming on his cheek. After he watches Tyler for a few minutes, Chase drags his bookbag around and starts his homework. He hears Tyler make another hum of approval from the roof.

When he’s finished his homework, he twitches, anxious and restless. He gets up and hesitates for a moment, expecting some dismissal from the roof, but when nothing comes, he grins to himself and sets about gathering the discarded shingles with real intent.

You don’t have to do that, Tyler calls from above him, sounding almost angry.

Chase shrugs and gathers up a few more shingles, tossing them into the back of the pickup with a grunt. Might as well.

Tyler falls quiet and then goes back to work, careful to avoid where Chase is picking up shingles when he tosses them down.

Later, when he climbs down from the roof, Chase collapses near Lucas, panting, and he grins a thank you when Tyler hands him an orange and a bottle of water.

Gonna be dark soon, Tyler says eventually.

Chase gives him sidelong look. That your way of telling me to go home?

Tyler nods and Chase blinks hard. He dusts his hands off and stands up.

Are you coming back tomorrow? Tyler asks. I’m gonna keep working on the roof, then.

Chase blinks at him again, then nods, a tiny pleased smile on his lips.

~*~

When he gets there the next day, there’s a small pair of gloves and a sandwich waiting near Lucas.

Do your homework, Tyler calls from the roof, then you can get started.

Bossy, Chase grumbles, and Tyler pauses, scowling down at him. Chase smirks and opens his backpack.

~*~

Are you gonna fix the whole thing?

They’re almost finished with the roof. It’s been two weeks of working on it. Chase thinks Tyler only gets a few hours a day, most of it when he’s there, to work on the house, and that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

Tyler grunts and Chase sucks on an orange slice speculatively.

Why?

Because if we live here, I want it to be nice for him, Tyler answers.

Chase glances at Lucas. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink or acknowledge them at all. But like he so often feels around the scarred, silent man—Chase thinks he’s listening.

He’s curious—of course he’s curious, he was born curious, something his mother used to laugh about, even when his curiosity led him and Ben head first into trouble—but he hasn’t asked about Lucas yet. He hasn’t pushed to find out what happened, or why they’re out here in the woods.

Tyler seems to relax more and more, the longer he goes without asking.

~*~

You weren’t here yesterday, Tyler says, about a week later. The roof is finally done and the three of them are sitting under Lucas’s tree. Chase is scowling at his homework and Tyler is—

Chase frowns.

The man looks strangely tense, but he hasn’t worked on the house today, just sat close to them, muscles tight and jumping beneath his skin.

My Dad got in an accident at work. I was at the hospital with him.

Tyler’s gaze is sharp and assessing. Is he—

Fine, Chase says shortly. He shoves his papers into his bag with sticky fingers and scrambles to stand up. I’m gonna go.

Chase, Tyler says.

Chase pauses, looking back at Tyler and Lucas, both sitting too still in the fading light.

I’m gonna start gutting the inside tomorrow. It’ll be dirty—bring something to change into.

Chase huffs and shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. Ok, he says softly and calls over his shoulder. Bye, Tyler. Bye, Lucas.

~*~

A week later, an RV appears next to the house and Lucas vanishes from under his tree.

It’s too cold, Tyler says. His fingers were blue when I got back to the hotel.

He sounds truly baffled, in a way that Chase finds amusing. Tyler is older than him, in his twenties if Chase is any judge, but sometimes Tyler’s so confused by simple things like the cold and working in the dark that Chase wonders how he actually functions.

It’s ok, he tells Lucas as they sit in the RV while Tyler goes back to work, I won’t let you freeze, buddy.

Lucas is quiet, just like he always is.

I waited for you to read today’s homework, he continues.

The thing about Lucas is that Chase knows he can’t respond. Tyler told him that Lucas probably doesn’t even hear him, but it feels wrong to sit next to the man for hours and not speak, especially when he’s learning.

Tyler doesn’t talk about his brother much, and never about what led him to the wheelchair and the scars on his face, even when he’s carefully tending the older man, always aware of where he is and what he’s doing. But when Chase sits next to him, he doesn’t feel alone, like he is sitting next to an empty shell.

Lucas feels present, like behind that blank stare and still expression, something is alive and desperate for interaction.

Ok, so we’re on chapter three, he says, opening up Number the Stars.

Chase glances at Lucas once more, then starts reading.

~*~

Don’t your parents worry? Tyler asks.

They’re sitting at the little table in the RV. Lucas’s blank gaze is on the wall while Chase does his math homework. It’s not unusual for Tyler to take a little time to get out of the work and come into the RV, lingering while Chase pulls out his school work.

Dad doesn’t get home until after I do, Chase says, flicking a look at the older man from under his lashes.

Tyler frowns.

Chase huffs. He’s—he’s the chief of police. So he works long hours, you know?

Tyler makes a sharp, wounded noise and Chase scowls harder at his papers. He adjusts them needlessly and waits for Tyler to say something—that he’s sorry, that she was too young, that he reminded them of her, that his mother was a wonderful woman, and he was lucky.

It’s all the useless shit people say when someone dies, all that shit that doesn’t mean anything, that he’s been hearing at school and in the grocery store and everywhere he goes since his mother’s funeral.

He waits for Tyler to kick him out.

Tyler is silent for a long time, and then says, When you finish that, I’m going to be in the kitchen. Bring your gloves, ok?

Chase doesn’t say anything, but Tyler squeezes his neck briefly as he walks out. Something small and scared inside him loosens as he starts his homework.

~*~

He can’t really put his finger on what changes after that day, when Tyler finds out who his father is—but it does. The older man is still gruff, grumpy and sharp some days, teasing and funny on others, and Lucas is still quiet and unseeing in his chair.

But it’s easier. Tyler seems less tense, and he touches Chase now—steers the boy around the house with a hand on his shoulder while they're working, moves him with a hand to the back when Chase spends too long at the sink, pushes him out into the dusk with a friendly hair tousle.

It’s like Tyler is letting himself breathe around him now, and Chase wonders why—what about his mother being dead makes Tyler trust him?

~*~

In mid-November, when the days turn dark and the nights turn long, Tyler starts walking him home, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, shortening his stride for the younger boy. Some days, he takes Chase’ bag wordlessly, and Chase bounces a little bit lighter, talking about school and what they’re going to do tomorrow on the house, and that Lucas ate two whole cups of applesauce today and did Tyler see the new trailer for the Marvel movie, mouth moving a mile a minute as Tyler listens.

Tyler always listens to him, a quiet attentiveness that reminds Chase of Lucas.

Sometimes, he thinks that’s why he likes going to the house in the woods. Everyone else in his life is too busy, too impatient for his constant stream of thoughts—but Tyler isn’t. Tyler listens when he talks about nothing and seems to always hear the tiny bit of something Chase doesn’t mean to sprinkle into the babble.

Lucas listens because he has no choice, but sometimes, when Chase is mumbling about World War II or Aurora, the pretty redhead he’s crushing on—sometimes he feels like Lucas is listening with attentive interest, like if he could respond, he would.

~*~

Tyler doesn’t mention Thanksgiving to him and Chase doesn’t bring it up. He goes by the RV in the morning and is quieter than normal, something he knows Tyler notices.

One of his favorite things about them is that neither push him when he goes quiet, respecting the still raw grief of his mother’s death. He snuggles into a blanket that usually drapes Lucas’s legs and listens to Tyler read The Hobbit, half asleep until Tyler nudges him.

Do you want pancakes? he asks. Chase nods, blinking away sleep and tears that hover too close, and stays there, tucked in the strange feeling of home that they always bring, while Tyler grumbles softly and cooks him pancakes.

When they’re sitting down and Chase has cut Lucas’s into very small bites that he feeds the older man carefully, Tyler says, almost shyly, My dad—he used to make us pancakes, when one of us were sad.

Chase stares at him, stricken, until Tyler nods at his food. Eat before it gets cold.

He does, and for a while, he forgets the empty house that smells stale and cold. Tyler makes him forget until it’s time to go home.

~*~

He was sarcastic, Tyler says slowly. Chase blinks at him and he shrugs. He lived with us after college. He was my best friend, but he was always a sarcastic bastard, always playing some kind of mind game, usually four at the same time. Hhe pauses, smiling fondly. He stirs the chicken and rice he’s making for dinner and shrugs again. I don’t know, he was just Lucas. Usually trouble, but always fun. Moody, sometimes. Mom said he had the ego to rule the world, if only he had the motivation. Tyler’s lips quirk a little and he glances at Chase, listening raptly at the table. He was a lot like you, actually.

Chase grins, hiding it in his homework. He thinks there are worse things than being similar to someone Tyler loves.

~*~

It’s mid-December when Chase arrives, his nose red and his teeth chattering, and Tyler frowns at him as he clangs into the RV—he stopped knocking within a week of it arriving outside the little house—because he’s anxious, shifting on his feet. His bag is missing.

Where’s your homework?

I—um. I don’t have any. He hesitates, and then, in a rush, says, I’m leaving. I won’t be able to come back until after New Years.

Tyler goes very still.

Chase squirms. I know—I know you don’t really care, but I would worry if you vanished. I wanted to tell you.

Chase, Tyler says, in a tone he rarely takes with Chase, a tone that cuts him off cold, stills the words in his mouth.

Chase slumps, miserable.

I’d worry, Tyler says gently. The boy’s head comes up, eyes widening hopefully, and Tyler smirks at him. Now, we’re going to start tearing up the kitchen floor. Can you stay?

Chase grins and nods, reaching for his gloves.

It’s only when he’s tired and after Tyler has fed him soup and hot chocolate before walking him home, that the older man grips him by the shoulder and says, Be safe while you’re gone, ok?

Chase nods and hesitates, there in the tree line. He throws himself into Tyler, snuggling into him in a quick, fierce hug. Tyler huffs softly, squeezing the back of his neck reassuringly, then nudges him away.

Go on, then.

Chase goes.

~*~

When Chase comes back to the house and the RV in January, it takes a week before the quiet, haunted glaze in his eyes fades away and he starts talking to Tyler and Lucas the way he did before.

Tyler doesn’t say anything about it, just drapes an arm around the boy’s shoulders when it’s time to walk him home, and fills up his quiet spaces with talk about tile and what he’s making for dinner.

It isn’t perfect, this quiet thing the three of them do—sometimes Tyler even says, dryly, that it’s unhealthy—but it works.

For them, it works.

Chapter 2

Chase is fourteen and has been going to the little house in the woods several times a week for almost seven months when he sees Tyler at the grocery store.

It’s not the first time he’s seen Tyler around Harrisburg—it’s a small enough place and sometimes he sees the older man’s leather jacket vanishing out of the corner of his eye, especially when he’s out with Ben, but it’s the first time he’s seen Tyler and had to interact. His smile goes wide and happy as he eyes Tyler’s cart with a proprietary air. You need pickles.

I bought pickles last week, Tyler says flatly.

Yeah, well. Chase grabs two jars and drops them into the older man’s cart with a smirk. You need more.

Tyler rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest. He tenses a little, looking past Chase before he glances at the boy and backs up, saying, Be careful going home.

Chase nods, grinning, and spins the cart to find his dad walking down the aisle toward him slowly. Get the pasta? he asks.

John blinks at him. Huh?

Mac ‘n’ cheese, Dad. Did you get the mac ‘n’ cheese?

Yeah, yeah, here.

Great! We need asparagus and apples, Chase says and John trails the boy steering the cart like they’re on a goddamn race course—but he looks back, just once, to see Tyler still staring at the packages of beef, and wonders why the hell he was talking to Chase.

~*~

He was a good parent when Nora was alive. Everyone in town said so, when he took Chase out, when Nora leaned into his side at department functions. But more than that, Chase was always there, grinning and bouncing around him when he got home. Sometimes he’d catch Nora watching them, her eyes soft and fond, and she’d kiss him, tell him that he was a good father.

He didn’t care about the rest of the world’s opinion—Nora thought he was a good parent, and that’s all that mattered. She took the lion's share of the work, sure, because of his long hours, because she was with Chase constantly, because she was patient in a way he didn’t know how to be.

God, he misses her. He misses her sweet smile and the dinner she usually burnt and the way Chase was so loud around her.

He’s quiet now, and John has no idea how to bring him back out, to make him talk. He knows he was a good parent once, but he’s painfully aware that he hasn’t been a good parent since Nora died.

Chase is staring at the tile, something speculative about his curious gaze.

Problem, son? John asks.

Chase shrugs. Did you put in the tile?

No, he says, and then, through a tightness that feels choking, he adds Your mom, she put it in.

Chase’s head comes up, his eyes wide and hopeful. For a moment, it feels like she’s there, a living thing between them conjured by speaking of her, and it hurts, how much he misses her.

He breathes, forces his hands to stay steady, and says, Was thinking about watching a movie tonight. Interested?

Chase nods, eager eyes a tiny bit wary, and for the moment, tile is forgotten.

~*~

The tile comes back up a few days later when he finds scribbles in Chase's notebook, abandoned on the table while Chase makes dinner.

John wonders about it and almost asks if Chase thinks they should renovate—maybe Nora won’t feel like she’s haunting the house if they change things, but then the notes vanish and Chase mentions a field trip his class is going on, so he reaches for a beer and forgets about it.

It lingers though, summoned back when he finds dusty jeans in the laundry and a tab open on his laptop with different tile designs. There’s a pattern here, and he doesn’t know what it means, and that—well, it bothers him.

When Nora was alive, Chase was an open book, without a single secret. Now, though...

Sometimes, when he pulls up and finds Chase smelling like wind and sweat, and his cheeks flushed, when he sees unfamiliar handwriting on his son’s homework, when Chase says something dry and cynical and so much older than his years—

He knows Chase is keeping secrets. He only wishes he knew what they were.

~*~

What’s wrong? Tyler demands, not even looking up as he laces up his boots.

Chase scowls. "It’s polite to say hello, ask about my day before you demand to know what’s wrong. Maybe nothing is wrong."

Tyler straightens and gives Chase an unimpressed eyebrow. Hello, Chase. How was your day? What’s wrong?

Sarcastic bastard. Chase ignores him, snagging a Coke from the fridge and a banana he slices. He alternates between feeding himself and Lucas, eventually muttering, I got detention at school. Dad’s gonna be pissed.

Was it fighting again? Tyler asks. He adds a cup of peaches and a spoon for Chase and waits, radiating impatience.

It’s not the kind of impatience he feels when he’s at the station, with his questions being tolerated but not really acknowledged or answered. This is impatience laced with concern and care, thick with emotions, something Tyler doesn’t deal with well.

Yeah. But it wasn’t my fault, he mutters.

Tyler is quiet for a moment. I got into a lot of fights when I was younger, he says, and Chase blinks at him. Tyler doesn’t talk about his past. Neither does Chase—it’s like an unspoken rule in the RV and cabin, that they don’t discuss what they’re both running from.

This—it feels like an offering, and commiseration, and Chase isn’t sure what to do with it.

"It doesn’t help. I know—it’s easy to be angry, and you should be, because it wasn’t fair. But fighting isn’t going to fix anything and you’ll get hurt."

I know, he says miserably.

But sometimes it feels like if you don’t let it out, if you don’t hit something, you’re going to explode out of your skin.

Chase stares at Tyler and once again wonders what the hell the older men went through. Because—

Exactly.

Tyler steals a slice of banana. I’ll teach you to spar. You can let your aggression out that way.

Chase swallows hard. Why? Why would—

Tyler scowls and stands up. If you don’t want to...

No. I do. I—thank you, Chase blurts out, anxious and grateful.

Tyler studies him for a long moment and then points. Homework first, ok?

Chase nods, and Tyler smiles, small and pleased, before he goes to the house to work.

~*~

He doesn’t mean to snoop.

Ok, no, that’s wrong. He totally means to snoop.

Because Chase is fourteen goddamn years old. Because his clothes are dirty with sawdust and dirt, and sometimes John finds blood on crumpled toilet paper in the wastebasket. Because he’s quiet—so fucking quiet, but sometimes, when Chase thinks he’s alone, he smiles at something on his phone, a small, secret smile.

Because his browser’s search history is a mess of long-term health care and home improvements and self-defense, of all things. There’s only so much John can put down to curiosity and school assignments, to teenage secrets, and Chase—he’s gone past that. So far past it, John has to wonder who his kid even is anymore.

There’s also the fact that sometimes John will see his son walking through Harrisburg with Ben. It doesn’t happen often anymore, and every time it does, it strings unease in his gut, because there’s always that man.

Tyler Reid, twenty-four with a truly fucking tragic past, enough baggage to fill a bus, and always watching Chase, never close enough to draw his attention, but never far enough that he can’t see the boy at all times.

So John does mean it when he follows Chase, when he undoubtedly snoops.

He’s quiet, creeping through the woods behind his son, and that’s a revelation in and of itself, because Chase walks with a grace and purpose that startles him, none of the aimless, clumsy fumbling—the deeper he tramps into the woods, the more it fades.

Chase pauses once, twitching his book bag on his shoulders, and then huffs at something on his phone.

Two hours later, when Chase wanders back home after sitting in an empty clearing and doing his homework after he walked for another two miles without any real destination—John has to wonder what the hell that message on his phone had said.

~*~

He sees Tyler three days later, leaving the coffee shop with a bag of donuts and a book tucked under his arm, his head down to avoid conversation.

Maybe it’s the grey dust on his black boots, maybe it’s the phone call he got from the school—again—or maybe it’s that Chase didn’t even engage to argue with him this morning, even though he’s been quietly angry for days.

John isn’t sure what it is that makes him push Tyler Reid against the coffee shop wall and snap, but there he is, snarling, What the hell do you want with my boy, Reid?

Tyler stares back, impassive, seemingly unbothered by the furious chief of police in his face.

I want him to be ok, Tyler says, I don’t want him to turn out like I did after my parents died.

John flinches back at that and stares at Tyler, who isn’t reacting but John knows he’s furious.

You’re a fucking pervert, John says, disgusted.

"I would never touch Chase," Tyler says, fury leaking into his voice, finally. "But maybe if he had someone who cared at home, Chief, he wouldn’t have wandered into my woods."

That hits hard, and John kind of gapes, breathless and aching from the unexpected verbal blow. Tyler shoves him off and glares at the older