No Filter (No Shame Series Book 1)
Table of Contents
Publisher's Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Meet Nora Phoenix
Acknowledgments
Coming Soon
Excerpt from No Limits
No Filter
No Shame Series Book 1
Nora Phoenix
No Filter (No Shame Series Book 1) by Nora Phoenix
Copyright ©2017 Nora Phoenix
Cover design: Sloan Johnson (Sloan J Designs)
Proofreading: Courtney Bassett
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without the written permission of the copyright holder, except in case of brief quotations and embodied within critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.
This book contains sexually explicit material which is suitable only for mature readers.
www.noraphoenix.com
Contents
Publisher's Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Meet Nora Phoenix
Acknowledgments
Coming Soon
Excerpt from No Limits
Publisher's Note
This novel depicts mature situations and themes that are not suitable for underage readers. Reader discretion is advised. Please note there’s a trigger warning for mentions of sexual abuse.
1
Indy Baldwin was dying for a frappe, but he was shit out of luck. The sign stated the machine was broken. He’d have to settle for ice cream, then. He debated in front of the freezer section for all of two seconds before deciding on a half pint of Rocky Road. It cost more than he could afford to spend, but fuck it, he craved a pick-me-up. An egg sandwich alone wasn’t going to satisfy him.
Besides, the ice cream here was wicked good and, as far as Indy was concerned, the whole point of shopping at Stewart’s, the New York chain of convenience stores. People said the coffee here wasn’t too shabby either, but Indy wouldn’t know since he hated the stuff. You could smell it walking in, on account of the pots that were always brewing. Handwritten, colorful signs advertised pumpkin spice coffee, even though fall was still three weeks away.
He picked out a few groceries, stacked them on his left arm. His broken right arm still hurt too damn much to carry any weight, even in the cast. He performed a perfunctory check on his appearance, as had become his habit when he’d started dressing as a woman. No one had ever seen through his disguise, and he wanted to keep it that way.
Indy trudged to the back of the store to grab some healthy snack bars. It was impossible to cook when he lived in his car, and these snuck some fiber and protein into his meager diet. He’d lost too much weight as it was lately. Another reason to indulge in a little ice cream.
The egg sandwich balanced precariously on top of the single serve yogurt, so Indy kept an eye on it to make sure it didn’t fall off. Where’s a shopping basket when you need one? Or a fucking carriage, for that matter? A cart, he corrected himself. They call it a cart in these parts. Another sign he was wicked tired—he fell back on the dialect he was trying so hard to get rid of.
He should have shopped at a supermarket. Or Target. It would have been cheaper and more anonymous. But after his 5k run, his body had ached and he’d felt weak and dizzy from hunger. Changing in his car into his female disguise—he couldn’t run dressed as a girl, since workout clothes revealed too much—had cost more time than he’d planned. He needed a quick bite before parking his car for the night. Two days prior, he’d discovered the perfect spot: a parking lot near a nature preserve. Quiet, little chance of people seeing him, yet relatively safe.
A lean guy—the only other customer in the store—towered over the snacks section, studying the various offerings. Damn, he was tall—at least six foot two, Indy estimated. A dark blue cap the same color as his T-shirt hid most of his face, and his hands were stuffed in the pockets of a pair of tight dungies—jeans. Use the right word, moron. Stop with the fucking Boston slang already. His jeans outlined his long, toned legs and one hell of a perfect ass. Too bad he was clearly not a member of the snap-decisions club Indy belonged to. Why did he have to be in the exact spot that Indy needed to be? After a few seconds, Indy decided he’d been patient enough.
“Excuse me,” he started, pitching his voice a tad higher. Hours of practicing ensured he had his female voice down pat.
The guy jumped as if Indy had shocked him with a Taser and backed up immediately, hands flying out of his pockets in front of his face. Wow, talk about a fight or flight response. I must’ve completely surprised him.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Indy drawled, laying the accent on thick. He’d left Atlanta the day after he’d broken his arm, but the Southern charm and accompanying drawl suited his purposes for now. “Bless your heart, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to grab a few bars, if that’s okay?”
Wide-open blue eyes stared at him from under a Patriots cap that matched the tight-fitting shirt he was sporting. At least he supports the right team, Indy thought wryly.
For a few seconds, neither of them moved, and then the guy lowered his hands in clenched fists and stepped aside. If Patriot Guy wasn’t so obviously scared out of his mind, he’d be damn cute. Well, even spooked he was a looker, the butterflies-inducing result of angel mixed with a hint of bad boy. Bright blue eyes in a chiseled, smooth face, dark eyebrows, sharp nose, and luscious lips, framed by damn sexy stubble.
“Thank you, honey,” Indy said, raising an eyebrow when the guy didn’t react. Okay, then. Either this guy is a total weirdo, or he doesn’t like people. Or both. Either way, not my fucking problem. He had a bigger issue, which was how to pick up the snack bars with his right arm in a cast.
He should’ve been more careful during that last jiujitsu training. Cockiness, that’s what had happened. Reckless overconfidence. He’d been so excited to get some training hours in, he’d refused to tap out his opponent in time. The snap of his bone breaking had sent a gasp through his partner and the professor. Stupid, plain fucking stupid. Anyways, only two more weeks till the cast would come off.
After fumbling to get the three bars he wanted—Patriot Guy still staring at him like a damn statue—Indy gave up that approach. He put his groceries on the floor, took the bars he wanted, and stuffed them so they were clearly visible in the front pocket of his girly, tan capris. He let the ends stick out so nobody would think he was trying to steal them. Getting arrested for shoplif
ting was about the worst thing that could happen to him. He needed to stay as far away from the boys in blue as possible, which was why he forced himself to stick to all speed limits as well, and used his fucking blinkers like a grandma. Getting pulled over—or even seen—by a cop could very well get him killed, so he wasn’t taking any chances.
Loading his groceries on his left arm again, he turned toward Patriot guy to thank him. Southern girls were polite like that, after all, and he had an image to uphold.
His gaze was aimed at the floor now, fists clenched and body tense as a runner ready to start a race. What’s the deal with this guy? Seriously.
In the background, the doorbell jingled. Right, your exit cue. Bye, bye, weird guy.
“Gimme the fucking cash!” a young male voice yelled.
Fucking hell.
A quick look over his shoulder to the front of the store revealed a scene that made Indy’s stomach churn. The cashier stood frozen to the spot, his eyes wide in terror under his uniform visor, as he faced a guy dressed completely in black with a ski mask over his face. The robber wielded a Magnum .45 in his shaky right hand.
Indy lowered himself to the floor in an instant, letting the groceries slide out of his grasp. What a fucking mess. That kid behind the register had better cooperate. Ralph, his name is Ralph—Indy had spotted his name tag out of habit when he walked in. All he had to do was hand over the cash in the register, and nobody would get hurt. Hopefully.
Patriot Guy. Indy had forgotten about him. He turned his head. The guy was still standing there, nailed to the floor. What the hell is he doing? Why isn’t he on the floor? Doesn’t this chowdahead have a survival instinct?
“Get the fuck down,” Indy whispered urgently.
“Gimme the fucking money!” the robber shouted again.
In the background, a commercial for Stewart’s ice cream was playing. “Kids in sports uniforms get an ice cream cone for only fifty cents!” Fuck, no. The only thing missing from this nightmare scenario was a couple of kids walking in.
“I’m trying!” Panic reigned in the cashier’s voice.
“I can’t be here.” Patriot Guy’s voice came out a hoarse whisper. “I can’t do this.”
He was deadly pale, body trembling, wide-open eyes darting back and forth. Little pearls of sweat glistened on his forehead. He forced breath puffs out of his clenched jaw.
What. The. Fucking. Hell.
“Get down, you fuckwad!” Indy whispered again. “You’re gonna get shot!”
The guy didn’t seem to hear Indy and took another step, whimpering like a puppy being kicked. He moved like a robot, completely rigid, as if he was sleepwalking and not really present. Another step and the robber would spot this idiot, might feel threatened and shoot him. Fuck, Indy couldn’t let him do this.
Indy jumped up and clamped the guy’s arm tightly. A shooting pain tore through his broken right arm and hand, but he ignored it as he hooked his own leg behind weird guy’s right leg and let himself fall backward on the floor. The move was deeply ingrained, practiced thousands of time in jiujitsu, but this time he couldn’t do a break fall—a maneuver aptly named because you broke your fall by slapping your underarms and hands on the floor. He had to hold on to the guy, and he couldn’t slap the floor with that useless broken arm.
Fuck, this is gonna hurt.
Indy moved with the falling motion as much as he could, but his head smashed into the floor, then snapped back again as weird guy’s weight slammed into him.
Holy shitting fuckity fuck!
Pain exploded through Indy’s body, but he managed to hang on to the guy and brace his fall. Indy’s arms pinned the much taller man against his body. He pressed his head tightly against his own neck and for good measure, he then hooked both his legs around him. He had no idea why this fuckwad wanted to walk into a shooter’s path, but he damn well wasn’t going to let him.
Indy was on his back on the cold, dirty linoleum floor; a hard, male body pressed against his. His muscles stiffened as his heart went into overdrive. A wave of nausea barreled through him, making him swallow furiously. His skin broke out in a fine sweat, and he jerked in a raspy breath. He hadn’t been this close to a man since…
Fuck, no. Don’t go there.
Focus. You have to fucking focus.
Now was not the time to panic. He had far more pressing problems to worry about. Damn, that fall hurt. His head throbbed like a motherfucker, and little specks danced in his vision. Indy blinked a few times, the colorful spots persisting.
“No, no, no, no…” Patriot Guy groaned, unsuccessfully pushing against Indy’s arms. His cap must have come off as they fell, and he thrashed his head around in a futile attempt to break free. Indy moved his left arm slightly, increasing the pressure on his head to keep it down. Despite outmatching Indy in height and weight, the guy stood no chance against Indy’s experience.
Indy’s body shook with the effort. He was too close. Any second now Patriot Guy would realize he was being held down by a man, not a woman, and then what? Indy’s disguise would be blown to hell, and he’d be in hip-deep shit.
What the hell is wrong with this guy? Why won’t he stop fighting? He was in full panic mode, way worse than Indy’s state of mind, but why?
Indy’s eyes fell on a bulleted silver chain around the man’s neck. He made the connection instantly.
Dog tags.
Veteran.
PTSD.
This guy is experiencing one hell of a panic reaction triggered by the robbery. Well, shit.
What could he do to help him snap out of it?
“You’re okay,” he whispered.
He’d seen this on Grey’s Anatomy, when Owen had flashbacks. How did they bring him back? Senses, he had to engage the guy’s senses to make him aware of where he was. Grounding, they’d called it. That all sounded nice in theory, but how comforting was the reality of being in a store that was getting robbed? Shit, it had to be better than whatever this guy was remembering, right?
“My name is Indy, and I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He put as much warmth in his soft voice as he could manage under the circumstances. Fuck, his system was still on full alert with a body tightly pressed against him. Nobody had even touched him in a year and a half, and now this.
It’s too much. He’s too close.
Focus, dammit.
“As long as we stay on the floor and he gets his money, we’ll be fine. You’re okay, honey. I’ve got you.”
The man kept struggling in blind panic. Fuck, it sucked to hold him against his will, but what else could Indy do? It beat the hell out of him getting killed.
He needed more senses. Smell was a powerful one. What could he make him smell? He’d taken a shower after his run—he’d snuck into a YMCA—with this floral-scented body wash, and he still smelled pretty rosy. Maybe that would work?
“Smell my hair. Do you smell the lavender in my shampoo?”
Indy lifted his head up and turned his curls close to the guy’s nose. He’d grown his hair to shoulder length since deciding to disguise himself as a girl, and it was longer than it had ever been.
“Maybe you can even smell my shower gel and body lotion. It’s Dove. I don’t know if it’s true what they say that it contains real cream, but whatever. It smells great, and it makes my skin wicked soft.”
Indy was babbling, his accent slipping and his voice getting too low, but he was trying, for fuck’s sake.
Still nothing. Auditory, smell. What else? Visual.
It was risky, because anyone looking too closely could see past the makeup and women’s clothes and recognize the man underneath. What other option did he have?
“Lift your head and look at me. Look at me.”
When the guy didn’t respond, Indy let go of him with one hand, tightening his injured arm around the man in a secure grip, which fired another blaze of pain through his body. He cupped the man’s sweaty, pale cheek and raised his head slightly. The unfocused, pan
icked gaze in his eyes told Indy he wasn’t able to see anything right now.
Shit.
What could he do to bring him back? Taste and touch, those were the only two left. But they were on the floor of a store during a fucking robbery, what the hell could he make the man touch and taste?
You.
Without thinking too much about it—because thinking would make what he was about to do fucking impossible—Indy loosened his grip and dragged the guy a bit higher, to bring his head to the same level as his own. He was still unyielding in Indy’s arms.
Indy hooked his legs around the man’s thighs again and yanked his head down, crashing their mouths together.
Oh, God.
Shit, did he even know how to do this anymore? He hadn’t kissed anyone in…two years.
Technically, two years, three months, and fifteen days.
Not that I’m counting.
Not that those kisses were ever any good, or worth remembering in the first place.
Not that Duncan wanted much kissing anyways.
Too romantic. Too time-consuming. Duncan’s main objective had been to get off and who needed kissing for that? Mouths were good to stick your cock in—or so Duncan had stated repeatedly.
Fucking stop it! Focus on the present.
Patriot Guy wasn’t kissing him back. No wonder, Indy was assaulting his mouth with the finesse of a ten-ton steamroller.
Indy softened his lips and explored the guy’s mouth, coaxing him to open up and respond. Come on, kiss me back, he silently willed him. When the guy remained frozen, Indy’s tongue peeped out to lick the plump, soft lips. Oh, fuck, they tasted sweet and salty at the same time. His stubble sanded Indy’s own clean-shaven chin, sending delicious tremors through Indy’s body.
-->