Good Bones (6 page)

A hint of a smile played at the corner of Chris’s mouth. “Can I still think you’re an asshole for other reasons?”

“If I deserve it, you go right ahead.”

Chris nodded slightly. He pulled the pack of Marlboros from his back pocket and seemed on the verge of shaking one out before he caught himself and put it away again. He shifted from one foot to the other. “I ain’t sure this arrangement’s gonna work out, dude.”

Dylan felt an unreasonable sense of loss. “I said I was sorry,” he said quietly.

“I know. Ain’t all your fault.” Chris gave him a long and appraising look. “I need to… think about this for a while. Figure some shit out.” He barked out a laugh. “Maybe my people skills kinda suck too.”

He strode across the room and opened the back door. But he paused in the doorway, one boot hanging in the air over the back step, and he turned to look back at Dylan. “See ya round the neighborhood, dude.”

Dylan gave him a lame little wave. The door closed with a sound of finality, and the house seemed very quiet and achingly empty.

Chapter 5

I
T
WASN
’
T
really a dream so much as a replayed memory, but it often came to him during sleep, right before the moon was full. It came to him tonight as he tossed and turned in his familiar bed in a still-unfamiliar room, his body sore from a day spent demolishing the old kitchen.

As always, it took place at Bleachers—a suburban sports bar that had seamlessly morphed into a meeting place for men, mostly in their thirties and forties, middle managers at Nike or workers at Tektronix or Intel. They wore Dockers and polo shirts and would have looked perfectly in place at a backyard barbecue. Nowadays the TVs flickered with images from MSNBC instead of ESPN, and the patrons would occasionally pair up and head back to the restroom together or leave the bar at the same time, but mostly the men sat and drank their Widmers and chatted quietly.

Dylan was a little younger than the average Bleachers customer, but he still went there every other Saturday or so. Ery Phillips—Dylan’s friend from his Portland State days—used to call Bleachers
Geeks R Us
, usually right before he tried to drag Dylan to another downtown club with disco balls and naked boys on stages. Not that Dylan had anything against naked boys. It was just that, usually, well, he didn’t have anything against naked boys. Ery’s clubs were always full of guys who were cuter and better built and better dancers than Dylan.

The Bleachers guys were in his league, he figured. They didn’t care that he bought his clothes at Urban Outfitters and would rather listen to Nirvana than Lady Gaga, that he was skinny and awkward and didn’t own a single bottle of hair product aside from his shampoo.

Every once in a while Dylan would go with Matty and sometimes a couple of other people to Doug Fir, and the music there was usually pretty good. But Bleachers was where he went by himself, and, like him, it was boring but comfortable.

And then one Saturday night Andy came swaggering in—Dylan didn’t know the guy’s name yet, of course. Every head in the bar swiveled to follow the young god in the black leather jacket as he strode across the room. And no one was more surprised than Dylan when the new guy sat gracefully in the chair across from his.

“Hi. I’m Andy.” The handsome man settled his big hands on the table.

Dylan tried to tear his eyes away from Andy’s square jaw and deep brown eyes, from his flawlessly tanned skin, sensuous lips, and perfectly defined thick eyebrows. “Dylan,” he replied, already kicking himself for sounding like an idiot.

But Andy leaned back in his chair and gifted Dylan with a slow smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Dylan,” he said, and when he flashed his very white teeth, Dylan felt a thrill course down his spine straight to his balls.

They exchanged a few words as Dylan finished his beer and Andy drank one himself, but Dylan could never remember afterward what they’d talked about. It didn’t much matter anyway—Dylan was already giddy with lust, high on the knowledge that this stunning creature had chosen him. He stuttered a few sentences and tried desperately to look cool, but all the time he was marveling silently at Andy’s incredible animal magnetism.

Hah.

Every eye in Bleachers was on them as Andy and Dylan left the bar and walked out into the clear August night, where the moon was waxing and a red and cream Indian was parked next to Dylan’s suddenly pathetic Prius. Dylan wasn’t the least surprised when Andy straddled the bike and revved the engine to life. “I’ll follow you home,” Andy had shouted over the roar.

D
YLAN
woke up in the farmhouse bedroom, sweaty and sore and hard as a rock. He jerked off quickly, fisting his cock furiously, hard enough to hurt, trying very hard not to think about Andy or anything related to him. What he ended up picturing instead was a twisted half smile, long hair hanging over blue eyes, a throaty sort of drawl, the scents of tobacco and cheap beer. He came with a strangled shout and then lay panting on his rumpled sheets. He wished he could simply stop his brain for a while, like shutting down a computer.

But Dylan’s head was not a computer, and it wouldn’t shut up. Eventually he stood and peered out his uncurtained windows. The sky was just lightening. He shambled off to his bathroom.

Over the past two days he had begun to wish he’d started with the master bath instead of the kitchen. Yes, he had a working toilet and sink and tub, but he didn’t have a shower, which meant this morning he washed his hair under the tap and used a wet towel to wipe his body down. The hot water took a million years to make its way from the basement to the second floor, the mirror was cracked, and the entire room smelled slightly mildewed. Even though Dylan didn’t have many toiletries, there was hardly room to store the few items he needed in the bathroom. His razor, deodorant, brush, and other bits were in a tangled, precarious pile on the single tiny shelf. Okay, for sure the bathroom was next. Including a rainforest showerhead.

Once he was dressed, Dylan made his way down the hallway, resisting the impulse to enter the yellow room and look out the window through the poplars. Downstairs, he began to brew some coffee. His kitchen might currently be rubble, but he needed his caffeine. He sniffed appreciatively as the wonderful smell began to fill the room. Coffee had always been one of his favorite scents, and his wolf’s ramped-up olfactory abilities captured interesting nuances in the aroma.

With the first cup thrumming in his veins, Dylan began to haul debris out the back door and onto the soggy flat area that passed for a backyard. He would eventually have to rent a Dumpster, but that could wait. He was grunting and puffing, dragging the remains of an old cabinet down the three back steps, when he sensed someone watching him. He looked up with a smile—he’d been hoping against hope that Chris would turn up again—but his eyes widened when he saw who was coming around the house.

“Andy.”

Andy stopped a few feet away. He was wearing his old leather jacket and a pair of tight black jeans, and his brown curls were plastered to his head from the helmet and the damp. “Looks like you got yourself a project.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Andy shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s been a while. And there’s a full moon tonight.”

Dylan’s arms were at his sides, his hands tightened into fists. “I told you I didn’t want to see you again.”

“No, you said not to come to your house again. And I didn’t, right?” A bright flash of teeth. “You never said not to come here.”

“Get out.”

Andy raised his eyebrows and strode past Dylan, looking down the path that led to the pond. “Pretty sweet setup you got here. Lots of space to run.” He took a few steps down the path and turned to look back toward the house. “And a big old house. Still telling yourself you’re civilized, Dyl?”

Dylan considered going back inside and locking the door, but he wasn’t at all sure that Andy wouldn’t just skulk around the place and wait for him to come out again. Or maybe he’d just bust his way in. Dylan hated the way desire still coiled in his belly at the sight of his old lover, the way a part of him wanted to rip off Andy’s tight clothes and rut against him in the rain. And he hated the way Andy smirked triumphantly, as if he knew exactly what Dylan wanted.

Andy’s long legs quickly closed the space between them. “C’mon,” he purred. He nodded his head toward the house. “Let’s go inside. You can give me the tour. And then we can fuck. Just like old times.”

Dylan’s cock rapidly became so hard that the pressure in his jeans was uncomfortable. It was as if Andy’s gravelly voice was a bell and Dylan was one of Pavlov’s dogs, and wasn’t that a fucking joke. “No,” he said, but it lacked conviction.

“Yes,” Andy said, leaning in close, his breath in Dylan’s ear. He reached between them and pressed his palm against Dylan’s groin, making him groan despite himself. “See? Definitely yes,” Andy rasped. His hand still kneading gently, he dragged his tongue slowly beneath Dylan’s jaw line.

Dylan shuddered. God, it had been so long. He remembered the heat of tanned skin atop him, the amazing ways that Andy could bend and move, the easy strength that kept Andy balanced over him on one arm while his free hand gripped Dylan’s hair and his hips dove and twisted. His wolf remembered the feel of running alongside him with the wind in their faces carrying a thousand intoxicating scents, foremost among them the sweet smell of their prey’s fear, and his muscles had bunched and—

“Fuck you!” Dylan shoved hard at Andy’s chest, and the bigger man went stumbling backward. His feet slipped on the wet grass and tangled in some of the kitchen debris, and he fell back, hitting his head against a broken cabinet with a solid
thunk
.

As Andy scrambled awkwardly to his feet, Dylan bent and picked up a length of two-by-four. He didn’t hold it threateningly, but his grip was hard, and his meaning was clear.

“You got a problem here?”

Dylan’s head snapped to the side, and Andy almost lost his footing again as he spun in surprise. Chris was standing a few feet away, wearing honest-to-god overalls with his tool belt low on his hips like a gunslinger. He had a wide stance and a confident gaze, and it occurred to Dylan that this was a guy who’d probably been in a few fights. Unlike Dylan, whose last scrap was a playground brawl in third grade that ended with scraped knees and a trip to the principal’s office.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Dylan took a deep breath. “Hi, Chris. Andy’s just leaving.”

Chris nodded pleasantly enough, and Andy responded with a low growl, but then his shoulders slumped. He might just as well have rolled over and bared his belly, Dylan thought.

“Dylan, I didn’t come here to fight,” Andy began. “I don’t know who this guy is—”

“Chris Nock. Neighborhood watch,” Chris said with a grin.

“—but we need to talk.”

Dylan shook his head. “No, we really don’t. I’m done with you.”

Andy actually winced, and Dylan almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Blood was running down Andy’s neck and pooling around his collar. His clothes were smeared with mud. “Dylan,” he began.

“Just go home, Andy. Go home, and don’t come back. Ever.”

For long, tense seconds Dylan wasn’t sure how Andy would react. But finally his former lover hung his head and walked back around the side of the house, giving Chris a very wide berth and a hard glare. Dylan and Chris just stood there until they heard a motorcycle gun to life and speed away. Then they looked at one another. Dylan braced himself for harsh words, but all Chris said was, “Need some help in the kitchen today?”

They didn’t get to work right away. First Dylan found a couple of towels so they could dry off, and watching Chris move the fabric over his body was pretty damn distracting. Evidently the little melodrama in the backyard hadn’t cooled his libido much. There was more coffee—Chris liked his with milk, which Dylan didn’t have, so he shrugged and took it black—and some discussion about the day’s plans, and finally Chris helped demolish the rest of the wall and dump the pieces outside. They didn’t discuss the morning’s altercation or their disagreements from two days earlier, but Chris had a relaxed demeanor and a ready smile, and Dylan had the strange idea that his neighbor had reached some sort of decision.

By lunchtime they were both covered liberally in plaster dust, and they’d exchanged only a few dozen words. “Want a sandwich?” Dylan asked.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Dylan washed his hands in the half bath, and then they both moved into the office-to-be for easy access to the little fridge. Chris watched silently while Dylan slapped aioli on stone-ground bread, added a pile of sliced prosciutto, and topped it off with Havarti. He handed one of the sandwiches to Chris. He noticed that, while Chris had scrubbed his hands pretty well, grease stains remained in the creases, and his fingernails were black.

“Getting your new cabinets and flooring and shit delivered’s gonna be a bitch,” Chris said with his mouth full. “Nobody likes to deliver out here, and they don’t like taking their trucks down our road.”