Good Bones (4 page)

There was a short, slightly awkward silence as the man and Dylan sized each other up. The man was no doubt taking in Dylan’s soul patch and Art Not War T-shirt, while Dylan stared at the way the guy’s John Deere tee stretched in interesting ways. The man’s smile morphed into an amused smirk, and he stuck out a grease-stained hand. “Chris Nock.”

“Dylan Warner,” he replied, trying for as firm a handshake as possible.

“Bob or Thomas? I bet your parents are old-school hippies.”

Dylan was a little surprised that Nock had heard of the poet. “My parents are dead.”

The arrogant smile faded a little and Nock shrugged. “Sorry, dude. Mine too.”

Dylan didn’t think they were going to bond much over that, but in any case Steve chose that moment to position himself between them as if he were guarding Dylan. “Mr. Warner’s considering purchasing this property,” he said, sounding so prissy even Dylan rolled his eyes. “But he has some concerns over the proximity of your… place.”

Nock’s eyes stayed on Dylan. “You some kind of hipster hermit or something?”

“Something like that,” Dylan replied.

“No problem. I’ll stay out of your hair. I’ll probably even keep my clothes on when I’m outside.”

Dylan nodded slightly, hoping the guy didn’t notice his flushed face.

Nock seemed to be waiting for another response, but when Dylan remained silent, the man shrugged again. “Well, good luck with it, man. It’d be nice to have someone living in the old heap, even if he’d rather play Peeping Tom than have a neighborly chat.” He gave Dylan one more half smile, still ignoring Steve completely, then turned and walked back to his house.

“He doesn’t seem too bad,” Steve said when Nock was out of earshot. “Kind of rustic, maybe, but what do you expect out here?”

Dylan chewed on his lip for a while, looking at the vacant house. He could picture himself on the porch on a summer day. He’d have a bottle of beer near at hand, droplets condensing on the glass and rolling down, the Dandy Warhols or maybe even Pink Martini playing softly on his iPod, a set of brilliant architectural plans on his laptop. And he’d know that, even if he was due to change that night, he didn’t have to worry about hurrying to his self-made prison. When the sun set he could simply shed his clothes and his human form and finally give in to the urges that had been gnawing at him for so long.

The Realtor must have been pretty practiced at his art, because he knew enough to keep his mouth shut while Dylan daydreamed. When Dylan finally opened the car door and folded into the passenger seat, Steve climbed behind the wheel. “So?” Steve asked.

“You think they’ll go for three eighty-five?”

Chapter 3

“S
O
YOU
’
RE
really serious about this thing,” Matty said, stealing a french fry off Dylan’s plate.

“I better be. We close next week, and I’ve already got a buyer lined up for my place in town.”

She sat back in her seat with a frown. “I don’t get it. I thought we made good roomies.”

“I liked sharing an office with you, Matt. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Oh God. That’s exactly what my last three boyfriends said when they dumped me. Is it in the Y-Chromosome User’s Manual or something?”

He grinned. “On page five. But, you know, don’t tell anyone I told you.”

She rolled her eyes, and then they were both distracted as a hunk in an expensive suit brushed past their table. The guy turned and eyed Dylan briefly before moving on to the restaurant’s exit, and Matty huffed melodramatically. “Jeez, Dylan. They practically throw themselves at your feet.”

He pushed down his sudden longing and, focusing, took a bite of his cheesesteak sandwich.

“So come on,” she said. “Why the change of scenery? I never really pictured you as the back-to-nature type.” Dylan had to muffle a snort with another mouthful of food and hoped she’d drop the subject, but she speared a cherry tomato and then pointed her fork at him. “Spill.”

“I just… I need something different. Some
where
different.” Which wasn’t a lie, and if she assumed he needed peace and quiet to court his muse or to get his head on straight, well, that wasn’t his fault. “It’s not like I’m going to Mars or anything—I’ll still be in the office once a week.”

“Won’t be the same. They’re probably gonna make me share with Brian now.”

Dylan smiled cruelly. “Then I hope you’re ready to cultivate an avid interest in the Trailblazers.”

She made a momentary sour face but then pointed her fork again, this time at a pair of forty-something men a few tables over. “And how are you gonna meet anyone if you’re spending all your time in Podunk? They don’t have gay bars in the wilderness.”

“First off, meeting someone isn’t my first priority. Second, get with the times—they’ve been allowing queers in Podunk since 1994. As long as we don’t scare the livestock. And third, those two gentlemen are straight.”

“So you have perfectly honed gaydar.”

“I do.” He’d always had a pretty good idea of which men were into men, even though until a couple of years ago very few of them had been into him. Not until he met Andy. But that wasn’t a line of thought he wanted to pursue just then, so he finished off his sandwich and snagged the last fry before Matty could get it.

“You know,” Matty said, smiling slyly, “Steve thinks you’re pretty cute.”

“Are we back in junior high now?”

She kicked at his shin. “He does.”

“He’s a nice guy. But he’s not really my type, and anyway, I’m not in the market. So please don’t encourage him. Really, Matty. Life’s not all about people lined up in happy little pairs like… like Noah’s ark. I’m good, okay?”

“Fine. Just don’t be a stranger.”

He grinned at her. “No stranger than usual.”

D
YLAN
’
S
furniture was more suited for an upscale contemporary home than a farmhouse, and it would only get in the way while he was renovating the new place, so he sold most of it on craigslist. He did keep a few things, though, like his bed and dresser and the budget drafting table he’d had since college. All it took was a single early-morning trip in a small rented U-Haul to schlep his stuff. Rick came along and helped him move in.

“I’m getting
old
,” Rick said with a groan and a stretch after they’d set the mattress in place.

Dylan kicked a cardboard box full of clothing into the corner. “Well, I appreciate the help, old man.”

Together they walked back through the house into the kitchen, where rooster wallpaper presided over cracked Formica and worn green vinyl flooring. “I’m gonna start in here,” Dylan announced. “Gut it, knock down the wall, start from scratch. I’m thinking hickory cabinets, granite counters, a nice big island in the middle.”

“Are you gonna turn all Martha Stewart on us, Dyldo?”

“Nah. Still going to eat a lot of frozen pizza. But I’ll look stylish while I do.”

Rick looked up at the stained ceiling, then over at a pile of mouse droppings where the refrigerator used to be. “It’s not a solo job. You know guys willing to come all the way out here?”

Dylan had thought about that quite a bit, and it sort of worried him, but he didn’t want to admit that. “I talked to a couple of contractors, but I’d rather do it myself. Those guys drag everything out, and they always go way over the estimates.”

“Just don’t expect me to be swinging hammers for you, kid. I’ve been working a lot of overtime lately, and Kay’s still got my dick on call. Too bad the two of you can’t synchronize your cycles or something.”

Dylan flipped him the bird and Rick smirked, but then his face grew serious. “Have you rigged up any… containment yet?”

“Not yet. I have a few days to go, and it won’t take long. Anyway, I think things are pretty safe out here.”

“Okay. But the guy next door?”

“Haven’t seen him. He probably spends his nights inside watching NASCAR.”

They laughed, and Rick hugged Dylan. That would once have been overwhelming, because Rick was a big guy and Dylan used to be pretty scrawny. But he had put on a lot of mass since he was bitten. He didn’t look like one of those overbuilt guys who spent their lives in the gym—he didn’t even have the kind of impressive build that Chris Nock sported—but he was strong. One guy said he was built like a pro swimmer, and maybe it was just a creative pick-up line, but maybe not. In any case, when it came to competitive fraternal hugging, he could now give better than he got, and it was Rick who was left slightly breathless and rubbing his biceps.

On the return trip, Dylan took Rick home, and Kay greeted Dylan with a potted orchid and a batch of cupcakes. “Housewarming gifts!” she said and kissed his cheek. He ended up staying for lunch, then turned in the rental truck and bought a dorm-sized fridge at Costco to tide him over until the kitchen reno was complete. It was drizzling by the time he reached Scappoose, and he stopped at Fred Meyer for basic groceries, emergency candles, and a few other supplies.

By the time he finally parked in front of his new house, the mist had intensified to a shower. He ran his groceries inside, lugged in and set up the fridge, and put the cold stuff away. He was exhausted, sore, and a little overwhelmed by the size of the project that lay ahead of him, but he also felt more at peace than he had in ages.

He ended up eating three of Kay’s cupcakes for dinner. They were good. As miserable as the whole werewolf situation was, at least he now had a metabolism to be envied. He decided to wash the sweets down with a beer, so he snagged a bottle from the fridge and spent a good fifteen minutes swearing steadily as he tried to find his bottle opener. When he finally tracked the damn thing down—tucked into his one and only oven mitt—he popped the top and wandered out onto the porch to drink and watch the rain.

When a figure came slogging through the puddles in his direction, Dylan felt an odd combination of hesitation and excitement. “Hey,” Chris Nock said as he climbed the front stairs, a can of Budweiser in each hand. “I brought you a brew, but looks like you have your own.” His T-shirt—a plain white one this time—was plastered to his body and nearly transparent, highlighting his broad chest and a pair of distractingly erect nipples. His hair was dripping onto his face.

“I was just finishing this one.” Dylan set the empty bottle near the door—he had no intention to copy his neighbor’s outdoor decorating scheme—and took the offered can. “Thanks.”

“So it’s okay if I actually show my face for a few minutes, huh? Long enough to play Welcome Wagon. I’m wearin’ pants.” He had this sarcastic little curve to his mouth that Dylan wanted to punch. Or perhaps kiss.

“I wasn’t trying to be rude last time. I’m sorry.”

“I get it. You like your privacy.”

Dylan nodded and sipped at the Bud. He had to turn his head away when Chris tucked damp hair behind one ear. “Yeah,” Dylan said. “It’s pretty much why I moved out here.”

“You mean you’re not plannin’ to run an organic winery or something? Grow heirloom tomatoes and quinoa? Grind your own wheat for bread?”

“I’m an architect.” Dylan wasn’t sure why he’d shared that information. It wasn’t really any of this guy’s business.

Chris chuckled. “Don’t got a whole lotta those in the neighborhood.”

They stood side by side for several minutes, staring out into the darkness. Chris wasn’t quite close enough to touch, but Dylan could still feel him there, his proximity making the hairs on Dylan’s arms stand up as if he were in an electric field. Dylan could smell him as well—beer and motor oil and cigarettes and a surprising floral scent that was probably shampoo or laundry detergent. The combination smelled rather nice.

Dylan’s neglected cock twitched and considered coming to life.

“Fuck,” Dylan mumbled.

“What? Tired of my company already?” Chris’s smile hadn’t faded.

“No. Sorry. It’s been a long day, and I was thinking about how much I have to do before the place is really livable.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of a dump, ain’t it?”

Dylan scowled at him, but Chris didn’t seem to mean much with his snarky comments. He didn’t seem to easily take offense either. He just kept on grinning and leaned his elbows on the railing. That particular position pushed his ass out in a way that was even more distracting than a wet T-shirt, and Dylan was thankful that the light was too dim for his flush or his half-hard dick to be noticeable.

“You got anyone yet to help you out?” Chris asked.

For a very brief moment Dylan thought Chris was talking about sex. Fortunately, his frontal lobe kicked in before his libido took over, and he realized the discussion was still centered on home improvement. He cleared his throat. “Not yet. I’m sure I can find someone.”

“I used to work in construction, and my rates are reasonable. I won’t even charge you for my commute time.”

The offer took Dylan by surprise, and he had to process it for a minute. “But… won’t you be busy… plowing?”

Chris stood straight and turned to look at him. Christ, that half smile was infuriating! “I didn’t know you were interested in plowing,” he said.