Good Bones (13 page)

He banged his fist against the door three more times and then, for good measure, kicked the door twice. “Fuck off!” yelled someone inside. There was another cry as well, muffled as if the person were gagged somehow. That one sounded like Chris.

With adrenaline pumping through his veins and his pulse thudding in his ears, Dylan kicked with all his might, just next to the doorknob. Luckily, this was not a steel door like the one in his old pantry. The wood splintered and buckled. He kicked one more time, and that was enough to pop the latch right out of the frame. As the door swung open, he charged inside.

Chris was down on his knees, facing the big man. At the crash of the door, he turned his head, and Dylan saw that his right eye was swelling closed and a trickle of blood dripped down his chin. The huge guy had been holding him in place and, rapidly, his enormous hand clamped tight over Chris’s mouth. The jittery guy had been facing the other two but swung around to look at Dylan. He had a pocket knife in his hand, blade extended.

“Let him go!” Dylan shouted.

But the big guy didn’t release his grip, and the smaller man only gave a thin-lipped smile. “You want a turn with Chrissy too, sweetheart? His mouth is real nice. Or maybe you wanna help your girlfriend out and take his place?”

Dylan watched as the rivulet of blood trickled lower, onto Chris’s chest. The eye that wasn’t swollen shut was wide with fear. Dylan should have been afraid too, but instead, red rage engulfed him. “Get your fucking hands off him!”

The big guy snorted and twisted Chris’s head back toward his groin, while the other man took a step closer to Dylan. The point of the knife was roughly even with Dylan’s stomach.

For a bright hot moment, Dylan knew what their flesh would taste like in his mouth. He longed for the delicious feel of skin and muscle tearing and the satisfaction of gnashing at tendon and bone. He growled, low and deep, and he bared his teeth. “Go. Away.”

He had no idea what the men in the bathroom saw when they looked at him. But the close guy went very pale, dropped the knife, and darted past Dylan and into the hall. The big guy let go of Chris and seemed to hesitate for a second, so Dylan growled again, louder this time. “Please don’t!” the man yelped, and Dylan’s nose was filled with the harsh scent of urine as the guy pissed himself.

Chris scrambled to his feet. His gaze stayed firmly on Dylan’s face.

But Dylan just stood there, his fingers curved into the semblance of claws and his entire body quivering with need. He wanted hot blood spurting down his throat, and he wanted to bury his face in warm entrails.

“Dyl?” Chris said, very quietly.

That broke the spell. Dylan stepped aside, and the big man lumbered past him. He was in such a hurry that he bashed into the door frame and bounced off like a big rubber ball. But Dylan paid no attention. He walked the few feet to Chris and started to reach toward the injured eye but stopped himself. Instead he let his hands settle on Chris’s shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Chris licked the trickle of blood from his lips. “You were gonna kill those guys.” His voice was soft and flat.

“They were hurting you,” was all Dylan could say in response.

Chris opened his mouth as if to say something and then shut it. He shook his head. “Let’s… let’s get the hell out of here.”

That was an excellent plan, Dylan thought. He followed Chris past the ruined door and down the hallway, away from the tavern’s main room. At the end of the corridor, they went through a grimy door marked with an exit sign and found themselves behind the tavern, in a weedy area littered with broken bottles and other debris. Chris stopped and looked around as if he were considering his options.

“We need to call the cops,” Dylan said.

“Don’t bother. Those assholes are long gone, and what’s the point? Ain’t like the deputies are gonna care anyway.”

“They hurt you!”

Chris wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m fine.” Then he looked back at Dylan. There was something wary in his gaze, as if he were debating whether to run.

“You knew those guys,” Dylan said.

Chris shrugged and turned away. “Long time ago. Wouldn’t’ve come if I knew they’d be here.” He took a few steps into the darkness, his feet crunching softly on the gravel. And then he turned again. “What the hell was that back there, Dylan? You were scary as hell.”

“I….” Dylan swallowed thickly. “I didn’t want them to hurt you, okay?”

“But you almost… Christ, Dylan. I thought you were just this quiet kinda guy, really hot but sorta… meek. You ain’t that guy, are you?”

“I used to be.”

Chris cocked his head to the side and advanced to within a few inches of Dylan. “You could’ve killed those guys. I saw it in your eyes.” He huffed out a small laugh. “So did they. Is that why you moved out here, Dylan? Did you… hurt someone?”

“No!” Dylan replied. But he remembered the thick smell of blood and the screams of mortal terror, and he knew his answer wasn’t quite the truth. “Almost.”

“And you scared yourself, didn’t you? So you moved away from people ’cause you figured that’d be safer.”

Dylan nodded dumbly. He was wondering how he’d get home after Chris abandoned him in this parking lot. There weren’t any taxis for sixty miles. He could probably call Rick, but that would end in long, uncomfortable explanations. Hell, he might as well start walking now.

He turned and took a step or so toward the road, but Chris caught his sleeve. “You stood up for me when those fuckers….” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I guess you’re disgusted with me now.”

That wasn’t at all the response Dylan had expected, and he blinked in surprise. “No! Jesus, no, Chris.”

Chris’s shoulders slumped a little in relief. “You can’t get away from your past, man. You know? You think it’s been long enough or far enough… but it ain’t. Never is.” And then his lip curled in that half smile, charming even when the lip was puffy and split. “So you’re some kinda homicidal maniac, and I used to be a bigger whore than my mom. Guess those are a couple secrets we both wish had stayed buried.”

“I’m sorry.”

Chris moved closer until their chests were almost touching. He reached up and grabbed a handful of Dylan’s hair. “I ain’t never had nobody rescue me before,” he said.

“I’ve never rescued anyone before.”

Dylan expected Chris to kiss him then, and in fact, Chris did bring his face forward until their lips were nearly touching. But then he abruptly moved away again. He grabbed the elbow of Dylan’s jacket and tugged. “Come with me.”

Privately, Dylan was thinking they’d already had enough adventure for the evening. He was ready to head back home. Maybe Chris would invite him over to watch some TV for a while. Maybe he could persuade Chris to let him put some ice on that eye. But when Chris led him away from the parking lot and toward a dilapidated old storage shed, Dylan didn’t resist.

It was dark and silent behind the shed. Dylan’s night vision had improved after he was bitten, but even still, he could only make out Chris’s outline, punctuated by the slight glint of his teeth and uninjured eye. Dylan didn’t know what the other man could want back here, but then Chris pushed him back against the shed’s corrugated metal side, and Dylan understood. Still, he was taken aback when Chris gave a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, dropped to his knees, and started fumbling with Dylan’s belt.

Dylan batted Chris’s hands away. “Hey. You don’t have to.”

Chris stood and punched the wall beside him. The resulting boom startled Dylan, but he didn’t move. “You think that’s what this is?” Chris snarled. “Think I’m payin’ you off for savin’ my ass?” He was standing close enough for Dylan to feel his breath, and for a moment Dylan thought Chris might hit him next.

But Chris didn’t swing again. He simply stood there, breathing hard, until Dylan gently wrapped Chris’s fist in his palms and lowered his arm. “You’re going to hurt your hand too.”

Chris slumped against him, so that for a few seconds Dylan bore all his weight. It was kind of nice, although Dylan didn’t quite dare to wrap his arms around that solid body. “You were fuckin’ hot,” Chris whispered. “Staring those fuckwads down like a real badass. Like goddamn Clint Eastwood or somethin’.”

Dylan snickered. “Clint Eastwood?”

“What? You’re more of a John Wayne kinda guy?”

Dylan was formulating an answer, but he never got a chance to say it because Chris was suddenly back on his knees again, and Dylan’s fly was undone. Dylan gasped at the rare sensation of cool air on his dick, but before he could pull away, his cock was slipping neatly between Chris’s enflamed lips, and cold was replaced by moist heat.

“Chris!” Dylan choked out. He wasn’t sure what he meant by it, but Chris took it as encouragement, sucking gently and fondling Dylan’s balls with his rough fingertips.

Dylan had never been a big fan of public sex, and the last time he’d had sex outdoors was on a two-night camping trip with Ery Phillips during his junior year in college. It had rained the entire time, and neither of them could get the campfire lit. Plus, somehow it seemed that their parts didn’t quite fit together, and the fucking had been mediocre at best.

There was nothing mediocre about the blow job Dylan was getting from Chris.

Dylan put his hands on Chris’s shoulders, partly for balance and partly to ground himself a little, because Chris was pressing his tongue against his frenulum, and Dylan’s brain felt like it might float up into the clouds. Then Chris withdrew just a bit and scraped the edges of his teeth against Dylan’s glans. Not enough to hurt, but plenty to cause pleasurable bolts of fire to run up Dylan’s spine.

“Jesus, Chris. That’s… Jesus!” He lost the ability to form words. His knees threatened to give, and his head bashed noisily against the wall, but when Chris opened his throat and swallowed him down, Dylan could only moan.

Above the soft sounds Chris was making, Dylan’s sensitive hearing could make out faint noises from the tavern—voices and music—and in the other direction, insects chirping and small creatures scuttling through leaves. Somewhere very far away an owl was calling.

He wanted to warn Chris, he really did. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, right? But if he said something then that incredible feeling around his dick might stop, and Dylan didn’t want that. Besides, he didn’t seem to be able to make his mouth work properly. He clutched Chris’s heavy shirt in his fist and fought to keep from bucking forward. Chris bobbed his head and stroked behind Dylan’s balls, and that was it. When Dylan climaxed, he smacked his head into the wall again, this time hard enough that he literally saw stars.

Chris stood up and kissed him again. Dylan moaned as he tasted himself on Chris’s tongue. But apparently tucking himself back in and buttoning up was his own problem, because Chris turned and walked toward the parking lot. With a shake to clear his head, Dylan hurried to catch up.

Chapter 11

T
HE
next two weeks zoomed by. The cabinets would be ready soon, so during the day Dylan and Chris painted and tiled. Even though Chris continued to cook for him, Dylan was looking forward to having a working kitchen of his own. Sometimes they’d screw after dinner, perched on Chris’s ugly couch or sprawled on his bed. But then Dylan would slog back to his own place and slave away on the Beaverton project.

Chris had been right: the farmer started work very early.

The hippie clients were getting an oversized Craftsman bungalow, Dylan decided. Cedar siding that would weather beautifully, a wide front porch that could house a crowd of futon-cushioned lounge furniture, and a huge master bath with skylights and a whirlpool tub. Also two guest bedrooms, a great room with dog-friendly hardwood floors, and a dog door in one wall of the kitchen. Nice, comfortable, and classic. Like Birkenstock sandals, he thought.

The morning before Dylan was supposed to meet with the clients, he greeted Chris with a wide grin. “How about something different today?”

Chris gave him a skeptical look. “Whaddaya have in mind?”

“Car shopping. Well, truck.”

This time, Chris’s expression was inscrutable, but Dylan thought surprise flickered across those blue eyes. “Okay,” Chris said.

Truck shopping ended up taking all day. First they drove to St. Helens to take a look at a Toyota, but Chris said the payload was too small for Dylan’s needs, and it wouldn’t be able to tow a big enough trailer. Then they crossed the river and checked out a Dodge Ram. Dylan didn’t say so, but he thought the truck was really pretty, with shining red paint and gleaming chrome. But when they took it for a drive Chris said it wasn’t driving straight. “Could be bad alignment, but I’m bettin’ on a bent frame,” he said. “This baby was in a wreck.”

A little discouraged, Dylan took them through downtown Portland, stopping for lunch at the sandwich place where he and Matty had gone.

Chris was trying to say something with his mouth chock full of smoked turkey, avocado, and bacon. He chewed a few more times and swallowed. “Man, this is good! Only time I get bread like this is when I make it myself.”

“You make bread?”