One Night in a Storm: Savage Kinksters, #1

One Night

In a Storm

Shay Savage

Copyright © 2019 Shay Savage

All Rights Reserved

Editing: Chayasara

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without the express permission of the author, Shay Savage —except in the case of brief excerpts or quotations embodied in review or critical writings.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by Jada D'Lee Designs

Table of Contents

Chapter 1—Cree

Chapter 2—Kas

Chapter 3—Cree

Chapter 4—Kas

Chapter 5—Cree

Chapter 6—Kas

Chapter 7—Cree

Chapter 8—Kas

Chapter 9—Cree

Chapter 10—Kas

Chapter 11—Cree

Epilogue—Casey

Author’s Note

More Books by Shay Savage

About the Author

Chapter 1—Cree

DO NOT GO OUT IN THIS, Cree!  Quinn rushes up the porch steps and shakes his umbrella, flinging massive amounts of droplets of rain all over the porch.

All around us, rainwater cascades off the roof in sheets, reminding me of the time my uncle took me camping, and we found a waterfall with a small cave behind it.

I won’t drown.  I lean against the rental house just beside the door and light a cigarette.  Ivan is picking me up.

You guys bar hopping again?  In this weather?

Nah.  I take a drag on the cigarette.  Ivan and I rarely go bar hopping, but drinking is easier to explain to your average college undergrad than our actual nocturnal activities.  I’ve got a paper to finish.

No fun, man.

The rain pours down harder, and the sound echoes around the porch like a herd of elephants having an orgy right above my head.  Quinn looks up, and I wonder if the same mental imagery is filling his head or if I’m the only deviant this evening.

Though he’s pretty straight-edge, Quinn is the best roommate I’ve had in my three-and-a-half years of college.  We keep similar schedules and have about the same ratio of party to study time even though he doesn’t actually drink.  He does like dancing at clubs and makes the perfect designated driver.  He pays rent on time and keeps up with the other household bills, unlike other roommates I’ve encountered.  The main issue I have with him is the dishes.

No matter what, he just won’t put them to soak.  He’ll bring them into the kitchen, place them in the sink, but won’t spend the extra three seconds turning on the water to rinse them off.  By the time I start to load the dishwasher, the plates are covered in dried-up spaghetti sauce, and the cups are filled with blackberry seeds left over from his smoothies.

The last time we got into it, he said he’d just start loading the dishwasher himself.  The next time I went to unload it, all the dishes were still dirty and had to be soaked and washed again.  At that point, I gave up.

My roommate shakes his umbrella again before shoving it into the taller of two flowerpots near the door, neither of which have ever held any flowers.  He looks back at me and narrows his eyes.

I thought you quit.  He nods and points.

I did, I reply, looking down at the cigarette between my fingers.  Then midterms happened.

I hear ya. Quinn glances out at the pouring rain once more before heading inside.

Two bright lights surrounded by glowing halos shine through the rain.  I quickly ditch the end of the cigarette into the smaller flowerpot, pull up my hood, and grab my backpack.  I race down the short sidewalk and reach the bright yellow Jeep just as it pulls up to the curb.

I pull on the door handle, which is locked, and I glare through the window until I hear a click.  Yanking the door open, I grab the handle at the top of the door, haul myself into the lifted Jeep, and throw myself into the passenger seat.  I slam the door shut before the rain floods the floor.

Sorry about the lock, bro.

No worries.  I reach over and bump my fist against that of the tall, muscular guy in the driver’s seat.

I met Ivan at a freshman mixer about a week after I started college, and we’ve been mismatched buddies ever since.  He’s a chemistry major, and I’m studying psychology.  He lives in a condo on the edge of campus, drives a really nice, new Jeep, and I huddle in reduced rent housing for underprivileged upperclassmen and occasionally drag out a busted-up bicycle for transportation.  Ivan has about six inches on me, and my biceps are about the same size as his forearms.  With his brawn and speed, he scored an all-expense paid trip to an undergraduate degree on a hockey scholarship while I was barely scraping by on a meager merit scholarship and a lot of student loans.  His family is loaded to boot, so he didn’t even need the money from the school whereas I came from nothing and would likely be paying my debt after retirement.

Oh, well.  Life isn’t fair.

We definitely don’t seem like we would run in the same circles, but shortly after that freshman mixer, we met in another environment and discovered we shared a very similar...hobby.  After that, we started hanging out more and more.  We met Mason, Casey, and Rocco, and the five of us have been fairly inseparable ever since.

Thanks for driving me.  I yank my hood back and wipe water from my face.

You’d drown if you tried to walk across campus in all this.  Ivan looks over his shoulder before pulling back onto the road.

At least it isn’t more snow.

If it were snow, we’d be buried and everything would be closed, Ivan says.  You wouldn’t be going anywhere.

True.

With the melt from last week’s snow, there are flood warnings all over the place.  Ivan pats the dashboard with his palm.  Glad I got this baby to keep us up high!

I thought the contents of the baggie in the glove compartment is what kept you high.

Ha!  Not while I’m driving.  That shit’s for later.

Ivan downshifts, hits a speedbump, and we both jostle around in our seats.  Rain continues to pour down, and the wipers don’t make a lot of difference.

How can you even see?  I tilt my head from one side to the other as if changing the angle is going to make any difference.

Who says I can?  Ivan laughs loudly.  Don’t be a pussy, Cree.  It’s just rain.

For the third day straight, I mutter as I stare at the window.  I can’t stare out of it; the rain is too heavy.

Ivan cranks up the radio and headbangs to the song as he whips around corners.

I heard they might cancel classes tomorrow, Ivan yells over the music.

‘Might cancel’ isn’t good enough, I reply loudly.

I thought you were in with the TA.  Ivan makes a left onto the hilly, winding road that leads to the West Campus.  As we head down a hill, the Jeep hits a large puddle, and the tires spew water up over the passenger side window.  Damn!  That was a good one!

"I know the TA, I tell him.  That doesn’t mean he’s going to give me a break or anything.  I have a low B in Klosterman’s class, and I have to bring my grade up before finals.  I can’t afford another C, or I’ll lose my scholarship."

Should have gone with sports, bro.

Ivan makes another sharp turn and then comes to an abrupt stop.  I grab my backpack from the floor and sigh as I look out at the pouring rain and the sixty-foot walk between the car and the overhang near the door of the library.

Ivan reaches over and turns down the radio.

You sure you want to do this? he asks.  You know I’m working at Gym tonight.  I won’t be able to pick you up later.

Gym.  Not the Gym, just Gym.  It’s the nickname given to the venue where we practice that certain hobby, and I can hardly think of what he’ll be doing there as work.

You could blow off the school shit and join me.  Ivan raises an eyebrow.

I know, I say, but if I don’t finish this paper tonight, I’m fucked, and not in the good way.

Are you going to make the party tomorrow?

I plan on it, yeah.  Rocco wanted some time with me.

How’s he doing? Ivan asks.  I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks.

Well, he’s making it to class at least.  I think that’s about all he can manage right now.  The doc at the health clinic is adjusting his meds.

I guess it’s good he reached out to you.  You help him a lot, you know.

I know, I say with a sigh, but it’s all temporary.  I wish I could do more for him.

That dude’s childhood is as fucked up as it gets.  You can’t fix that.

The problem with his specific PTSD is that he’s got no support system at all.  Veterans can talk to each other—there are specific help groups—but Rocco’s got no one.  He still needs to move forward though.  He just has to figure out how to do it without peers.

There have to be more people like him.

Yeah, but not many.  Most of them never leave, and those that do aren’t exactly seeking each other out.

True.  You going to do some research on him tonight?

Not for this paper, but I do plan on using him as my thesis case study next year.  That’s assuming I get into the graduate program and if he agrees to let me use him.

Good luck with that.

Thanks.  I pull my hood up and reach for the door handle.

Why can’t you do your research online like everyone else in the twenty-first century? Ivan asks.

The one and only research book I need is here, and they won’t let you check it out.  Not available online at all.

Well, have fun!

With one last, deep breath, I tighten my grip on my backpack and open the car door.  Rain immediately begins to pour on my head as I jump out, half drenching me before I can manage to slam the door and run for the library entrance.

Ivan honks twice as he rumbles away, leaving me wet and chilled in front of the Fisher Memorial Library, or as it is more commonly known, the Backup.

The Backup sits at the bottom of a steep hill next to a small pond.  The building itself is constructed of grey stone and served as a chapel over a hundred years ago.  Now it’s a small research library at the far edge of campus and houses all the dusty leather books from a time when the chapel still held wedding ceremonies.

I grip the metal handle of the large glass door—the only part of the century-old construction that’s changed—and take a step inside, shaking water droplets from my hair.  A plaque next to the door greets visitors with a history lesson of Penelope Fisher and her various contributions to the college.  I step through the archway and into the main room.

It’s clear the area used to be a place of worship, even if the rows of pews have been replaced with rows of bookshelves.  Arched, stained glass windows still line the walls, and the chandeliers high above still look like they used to hold candles instead of bright, LED lights.  In the back of the former chapel is a high choir loft.

Inside is dry if not overly warm and blessedly devoid of students.  The worst thing about a college library is the sheer number of people in it and the surprising lack of librarians in dark pantsuits with long, sharp index fingers held up to their lips, insisting you remaining perfectly quiet.  The noise is unbearable, even in the designated study areas.  At the Backup, I can actually get some work done.

There is one librarian on duty at the front desk, and she gives me a pleasant smile as she looks at my drenched self and asks how the weather is.  I shake like a dog, tossing droplets of rain into the air, and she laughs.

I’m going to be closing early tonight, the librarian says.  With only two of you here and the weather the way it is, it just makes sense.  Make sure you have what you need before seven o’clock.

Will do.

I head straight for the psychology reference section and find myself an ancient-looking manuscript filled with case studies on the effects of brain damage on personality, going all the way back to Phineas Gage.  It’s actually pretty interesting reading, and I get lost in the words.  Before I know it, the librarian is calling out for everyone to pack up and get going.

Shit, I mutter as I flip back and forth between pages.

I hadn’t been watching the time, and I haven’t taken all the notes I need.  I wonder how long I can huddle here until she comes and throws me out.

Paula, do you mind if I just stay a few extra minutes?  A woman’s voice calls out from between the bookshelves.  I can lock up for you.  No trouble at all.

I’m not sure.  The librarian glances over at me.

I could use a few minutes myself, I tell her.  Almost done.

I’m not sure, Paula says again as she purses her lips.  You aren’t actually working today, Kas.

I’ve got my keys, the woman between the shelves says.

I do really need to go.  Paula looks over at me once more.  I guess it will be all right.  Don’t stay long though.  The weather really does look bad.

I give her a thumbs-up and go back to the last dozen pages I need to read.  I finish the chapter and jot down a few more notes before shoving everything into my backpack.  Hopefully it will