This Christmas, he’s hiding more than his identity…
Fresh from a life tangled with the Greek mob in LA, Adam Sgouros is starting over in witness protection—but he feels unmoored in his new small-town existence. When a sudden need to dispose of a body without drawing attention arises (Not his fault! He can explain!), Adam realizes his first Christmas in the sleepy, wintery little town of Silver Shoals is shaping up to be anything but merry.
Elijah Jensen has always been an optimist, but this year, even he’s struggling to keep his head above water. A head-cold from hell and a boat that’s falling apart at the seams seem determined to sink his holiday spirit, and all he wants is to get through the season without any more complications. Complications like a musclebound ex-gangster hijacking his boat (Accidentally! He can explain!)—and taking him along for the ride.
Stranded on the water by a snowstorm, this unlikely pair must navigate through a holiday filled with danger, unexpected warmth, and enough secrets to sink them both. Can Adam's tough exterior thaw under the force of Eli's unyielding optimism, or will the storm—and Adam’s past—prove too much to weather?
Set course for a low heat, grumpy/sunshine, forced proximity MM novella with a comedic noir twist. Featuring a relationship between a cisgender male and transgender male main character, Deck the Hulls promises a small-town holiday romance full of festive mayhem, surprising sparks, and a love that just might break through even the iciest of hearts.
Brief mentions of unsupportive family and past relationships, references to addiction and enabling, light gore.
—EXCERPT—
I.
Back when they were both still working for Adara Giannopoulos, Adam Sgouros once asked Grigorios Mundakos where he thought the best place was to dump a body. He was never friendly, exactly, with the top hitman of the LA drug queenpin, but they were civil enough for the man to answer the occasional question. At the time, Adam had been reading some half-baked thriller where a corpse ended up in the La Brea Tar Pits, a choice that struck him as absurd. He couldn’t get over the public nature of it—the tourists, the security cameras. The whole thing felt like bad plotting, like the author hadn’t been trying very hard.
Mundakos’ answer, on the other hand, was unsettlingly authentic. “The ocean,” he said, fleshy tongue flicking around his teeth like he was flossing with his thoughts. “You gotta weigh it down, though. A 45-gallon drum with cement’s ideal, but a sturdy bag with some rocks will do in a pinch. It’s most of the reason I own a boat.” He had paused thoughtfully. “Fishing has grown on me, though.”
Adam’s eyes wander to the diner window, to the steel-gray Atlantic outside. The harbor is quiet today, the marina mostly deserted, boats either stored away for the winter or moored to the dock beneath tarps. One lonely vessel bobs defiantly on the ocean, lights on, a rainbow flag snapping in the wind like a middle finger to the coming storm. He watches as the unforgiving ocean waves crash relentlessly against its hull.
If Mundakos found him here, well, he’d have his perfect spot to sink Adam without a trace.
“What’s on your mind?” U.S. Marshal Gillian Reynolds, his WITSEC handler, asks with her signature blunt style of concern that always makes Adam squirm. These check-ins aren’t just about ensuring he’s keeping his nose clean and being a productive member of society; they also want to make sure he hasn’t wandered off the deep end. The shrinks say he’s ‘emotionally volatile,’ and he knows if he said half of what he was thinking, they’d haul him back to the proverbial couch faster than he could say ‘antisocial tendencies.’
Amidst the clatter of plates, the rattle of coffee cups, and the shouts of “order up,” Adam seizes the opportunity for a deflection. “Just wondering if Santa will have any trouble finding my new chimney.”
Reynolds carves into her egg-white omelet with surgical precision, her brow furrowing just a touch. “As I tell the kids, Santa has special dispensation from WITSEC. So he can find you, just as long as nobody else does this time,” she shoots back, a reminder of his less-than-stellar record in witness protection. She’s got him there. He hasn’t exactly been the poster child for low-profile living.
Of course, it wasn’t his fault they stashed him in the same Idaho backwater as some washed-up enforcer from the Iwamoto crime family. A week in, and they’d both reached for the last gallon of milk at the only supermarket in town. The guy was jumpy and assumed anyone he recognized had to be here to kill him. One thing led to another, which, naturally, led to a fistfight in the frozen foods section, and the next day their faces were splashed all over the local paper. Adam finished the fight, but he hadn’t even started it.
Adam picks at his eggs. He asked for them over-easy, but they’ve arrived sunny-side up, the uncooked whites jiggling on top like a repulsive gob of snot. Pushing them to the edge of his plate, he feels a surge of resentment rise against the whole town. “Don’t worry, nobody knows this podunk place exists,” he mutters bitterly.
Undeterred by Adam’s cynicism, Reynolds launches into her well-rehearsed sales pitch. “You know, Silver Shoals may seem like a sleepy little town, but it’s got a lot to offer.” Her voice carries a note of restlessness, like she’s already checked out, counting down the hours until she can leave this dreary corner of New England for sunnier Californian shores. He envies her—the ability to come and go. Adam, on the other hand, is trapped in Massachusetts in the dead of winter with no escape in sight.
“The ocean’s right at your doorstep,” she continues, “perfect for fishing or just a walk along the shore...”
Adam tunes her out. His mind drifts back to Los Angeles, the city where his life felt like it had real color, not this wash of muted grays he’s wading through now. The picture Reyolds is painting is more like a postcard from a place he never wanted to visit in the first place.
Reynolds finishes her spiel with a fake smile. “It’s a great place for a fresh start,” she says, with a cheerfulness so forced it almost cracks under its own weight.
Adam grunts. “That’s what you said about the last place.”
Her lips tighten into a thin line. “And it was, until you broke someone’s jaw. I’m running out of excuses with my superiors. If you don’t find a way to make this work, we’re going to have to consider ending your involvement in the program.”
He chews on a piece of toast, chases it with coffee, and swallows the panic clawing at his throat. “That’s a very diplomatic way to say you’re gonna feed me to the wolves.”
He hadn’t been aiming for sainthood when he flipped on Adara. Her rage after her husband’s death—on his watch, no less—was more terrifying than the idea of prison. When the walls closed in, he cut a deal: testify, get immunity, get new papers. The point was to stay alive. Nobody bothered to mention how stifling he could expect “alive” to be from now on. It was, of course, still better than the alternative.
Reynolds meets his gaze, her expression cool but pointed. “We cannot and will not guarantee your safety if you don’t start playing by the rules, Alex.”
She emphasizes his new name—Alex, short for Alexander Simmons, as generic as a plastic spoon. He twists the ring on his thumb, an anchor to the person he used to be before he had to trade his whole identity for this anxiety-ridden tedium. His eyes drift to the checkered tablecloth, and he stares at it until he’s sure he isn’t about to tear up.
Reynolds must catch the shift, because her voice softens. “Just try and make it work,” she urges, her tone almost pleading. “I haven’t lost anyone yet, and I’m not about to start with you.”
Adam meets her gaze, forcing a polite smile. “Sure, don’t worry about me. I’m settling in great already.” The lie hangs between them, limp and obvious.
She digs out an envelope from her coat pocket and slides it across the table. His fingers shake as he tears it open. Inside is a Christmas card, decorated with the ugliest, be-earmuffed birds he has ever laid eyes on and filled to the edges with his mother’s familiar slanted handwriting. The wave of homesickness nearly knocks him flat.
He pictures her in the kitchen of their family home, hands on her hips, curly hair piled up in a messy knot, prepping the holiday feast. He’d give anything to be there, to drown in the noise and chaos of his huge Greek family.
He reads her words over and over, trying to burn them into his bones.
You’re in my heart every day, Adam, no matter how far away you are. Wishing you peace and brighter days ahead.
Love always, Mom
He wants to keep the card, to cling to it like a lifeline, but Reynolds will take it back, as she always does, to be shredded or burned or God knows what. She seems sorry, genuinely, when she slips it from his grasp, but rules are rules.
She pays the bill for the meal, a small gesture of kindness that surprises Adam. It’s very decent, considering that he’s caused her nothing but headaches. As she stands to leave, she pauses, her hand briefly resting on his shoulder. “Stick it out, Alex,” she says. “Give Silver Shoals a chance. You might surprise yourself.”
Adam watches her go, staring at the door long after she’s gone. He holds his coffee cup; the heat of it radiates against his hand but doesn’t touch the cold inside him. Outside, the ocean batters a piece of driftwood against the pier, relentless, as if trying to hammer it into the concrete. Adam imagines his body out there instead, sinking into the icy, dark depths. Reynolds and his mother may be rooting for him, but that might be the sum total. He knows deep down that he’ll never find peace, not here, not anywhere.