Good Bones (7 page)

That thought had already occurred to Dylan. “Yeah. I guess I’m gonna have to rent a truck or something.”

“Don’t think you can cram a kitchen in your little toy car?”

“I can hardly cram myself in there. I think I need to buy a pickup.”

Chris nodded. “Yep. Get an F-250, not one of them sissy trucks.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Sissy trucks?”

“Yep. Shiny things for weekend warriors to drive to REI. What you need is somethin’ that can take a real load and haul a heavy trailer. And get one used, ’cause you’re gonna end up with scratches and dents on it anyway.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Anytime. I won’t even charge you for it.” Chris swallowed the last of his sandwich and chased it with a slug of cold coffee. “But for bigger stuff, I got a flatbed we could use. It’s not runnin’, but I could get ’er goin’ if you want.”

“So you’re a mechanic too?”

Chris gave his half smile. “I’m a man of many talents, dude.”

Dylan decided he’d only imagined a flash of heat in Chris’s eyes. Sunset was drawing closer, and all of Dylan’s senses were beginning to go into overdrive, making him restless and slightly dizzy. And horny. Oh God, he was horny.

Without saying more, Dylan returned to the kitchen. With the wall to the dining room gone and all the cheap cabinetry taken away, the room was looking better than ever. But there was still plenty of work to be done before he could begin reassembly. The green vinyl floor needed to be pulled up, as did the brownish shag carpeting in the former dining room. Then they’d tackle that rooster wallpaper.
One thing at a time
, he reminded himself. At least with Chris’s help the work was going a lot faster than he’d anticipated.

It didn’t take them long to rip up the carpet, revealing scratched oak flooring beneath. “You gonna refinish this?” Chris asked.

“No, not in here. I want the whole room consistent. Usually I like bamboo or cork, but not for a house this old. I was thinking either maple or salvaged oak, but now I’m leaning to tile.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I need to make up my mind pretty soon.”

“Anything’s gonna be an improvement, dude.”

They moved to the kitchen area and started to peel up the vinyl, a much harder job than the carpet. Somebody had used some really good glue when they installed the ugly stuff. As Dylan sweated and winced at his raw fingertips, Chris was right beside him, sometimes humming tunelessly under his breath. Dylan had to be careful not to look at him too often or too long, because the sight of Chris down on his knees, hair hanging in his eyes, ass covered in worn denim and waggling temptingly, was almost more than Dylan could bear.

“Who was that guy?”

Chris had been silent for so long that Dylan startled a little at the question, and then it took him some time to formulate an answer. “An old mistake.”

“You move out here to get away from him?”

Dylan snorted softly. “If so, I wasn’t very successful, was I? Nah, he’s not the reason I’m here. At least, not directly.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Chris was looking at him curiously, but Dylan was in no mood to elaborate so he changed the subject. “So, you grew up here?”

Chris paused a long time before answering. “I stayed here pretty often, with my gramps.” There was something odd about his tone, as if the topic were uncomfortable. And then he yanked, pulling free a big section of flooring with a rip and a grunt. “Since we’re sharing, what happened to your parents?”

“Car wreck. Big rig rolled over on the Terwilliger Curves and flattened their car. Dad was DOA, and Mom died a few days later.” He’d recited this little tale dozens of times, but the pain still felt new and raw. Sometimes, though, he was almost glad the accident had happened. At least they’d been spared the heartache of their younger son getting himself turned into a goddamn werewolf.

“How old were you?” Chris asked.

“Eighteen. Freshman in college, so it wasn’t like I got shipped off to an orphanage or anything.”

“It’s still a bitch.”

“Yeah.” Dylan dared another peek at Chris, who wasn’t looking at him. “You?”

“Mom died when I was fifteen. Cancer.”

“And your dad?”

“For all I know the bastard’s still kickin’. Haven’t heard from him since I was five or six.”

“Oh.” Dylan wasn’t sure which was worse—a deadbeat father or one who was just plain dead. Either one sucked.

They labored for another hour after that without speaking more than a few necessary words. Dylan didn’t often get to do physical work, and he rarely had a partner, so he was slightly startled to realize how much he was enjoying himself. Taking an armful of flooring out to the backyard, he was dismayed to see how late it had become. He trotted back inside, trying not to seem too panicked.

“Hey, I think I’m ready to call it a day,” he announced.

Chris twisted around to look at him. “You sure? Another forty, fifty minutes and we’ll be done.”

“No, I gotta… I’ve got stuff to do. We’ll finish it off day after tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow I’m busy.” Well, more like recovering, but Dylan wasn’t going to tell him that.

“You’re the boss,” Chris said with a shrug. He stood and stretched and twisted his back a little. Then he picked up his tool belt—removed because it was in the way when they were down on the floor—and buckled it around his hips. Dylan hovered near the back door. He felt like an asshole, just kicking the guy out like that, but he didn’t have time for social niceties.

Chris sauntered by, and Dylan thought he was just going to leave without another word, but then Chris stopped and backtracked a few steps. “You don’t have a TV,” he said.

“Um… no.” Dylan actually owned a television, but it was tucked in a box, and he hadn’t bothered to unpack it yet. He didn’t watch it that often.

“I do. Satellite.”

Dylan stood there awkwardly, not sure how to respond. Chris rolled his eyes. “Do you want to come over tonight and watch it with me? After you finish your stuff. I got beer.”

“I’m… uh… I can’t. But thanks.”

Was that really disappointment he saw flash across Chris’s face? If so, it was gone very quickly. “Whatever, dude.” Chris took a step toward the door.

“Wait.”

Chris stopped and cocked his head a little. “Yeah?”

“Look, I probably should have….” Dylan paused and huffed impatiently at himself. “You do realize that I’m gay, right?”

The other man’s mouth curled in amusement, and he crossed his arms on his chest. “Yeah, I kinda guessed that. Even before this morning’s lovers’ tiff.”

“He’s not my— It doesn’t bug you?”

“Yeah, Backwoods Chris should be gatherin’ his redneck buddies so they can kick yer faggot ass, huh? Or at least runnin’ screamin’ back to his shack before he catches your queer cooties.”

Put like that it did sound pretty stupid, and Dylan was ashamed to have misjudged the man. “I didn’t mean—”

But he was cut off abruptly as Chris moved forward, pressing his chest against Dylan’s, forcing Dylan back until he was pinned against the peeling wallpaper. And before Dylan could gather his wits enough to push back, Chris was grabbing Dylan’s hair in both fists, pulling his head down a little, and capturing his lips in a kiss forceful enough to hurt.

But it only hurt for a moment, a nice counterpart to the sweet twinge of tugging at his scalp. And then Chris’s lips were soft and warm, his tongue was agile as it danced with Dylan’s, and he tasted of rich, bitter coffee.

Dylan’s dick had been restless all day, but now it surged to attention. Dylan found himself grinding his hips against Chris’s, where a heavy thickness met his own.

When Chris pulled away, the smirk was back on his face, and Dylan was slightly breathless. “It don’t bug me,” Chris said.

Dylan gaped stupidly.

Like a cowboy who’d just captured the cattle rustlers, rescued the stagecoach, and foiled the bank robbery, Chris swaggered to the door.

“Chris!”

What Dylan wanted to say was
Stay
.
Stay here, in my home
. Or at least
Stay inside your own house tonight
. But he couldn’t say either of those things, and Chris was waiting, eyebrows raised.

“See you on Wednesday,” Dylan said.

That curl of the lips was already so familiar. “G’night, Dylan.”

Chapter 6

U
SUALLY
, fifteen minutes before the sun set on the night of the full moon, Dylan would be an anxious, pacing wreck. He would be locked in his safe room—his clothing already removed and carefully folded, waiting for him in his tidy bedroom—and he would be torn between the fear of escaping and the terrible urge to unlock the door.

Tonight he was naked and pacing, but that was where the similarity ended. Tonight he had the day’s confusing events running through his brain in a muddled sort of way: the unexpected arrival of Andy and the altercation that had followed, the heady intimacy he’d felt working beside Chris, the kiss that had hit him more powerfully than a closed-fisted punch. And tonight the door was open—all the doors were open—so he could look outside and see the mist making the air thick, softening the line between day and night.

For the first time in over two years, and for only the second time since he’d been bitten, the wolf was going to run free.

It began with a maddening itch that made his skin twitch, that he knew he’d never be able to scratch. He shrugged his shoulders and tossed his head like a horse being pestered by flies. Then the ache began deep in his bones, first a dull thud in rhythm with his heartbeat and then a twisting, searing agony that made him grind his teeth to muffle his cries. But his teeth hurt too, and his entire jaw, and at the same time as his cock grew hard with excitement he fell to the floor and quivered there. His vision was hazy, reds and greens washing away and blues and yellows becoming paler. He heard sounds that had been hidden to him before—the squeak of rodents somewhere in the walls—and as the sentient portion of his brain dimmed, he made a note that he’d need to buy traps.

It was always the smells that hit him like a bomb blast. When he thought about this later, it always reminded him of that moment when Dorothy lands in Oz, and her bland, sepia-toned world suddenly bursts into lush Technicolor. But maybe a Dorothy analogy was a little too clichéd for a gay man, and in any case, it didn’t matter at the moment, when his entire sensory orientation had shifted wildly, along with the shape of his body.

More pain, so hot and sharp that he couldn’t take it, he couldn’t… but he did. One last shudder and an agile leap to his paws. The door was open, and the velvety darkness was calling to him.

Dylan ran.

Terrain that was steep and a little difficult on two feet was easy on four, and thick fur made an effective barrier against blackberry thorns. So many intriguing smells. And he wanted. He wanted, but he no longer had the words to shape his desire. He ran without planning or thought, just the joy of smooth muscles rhythmically stretching and flexing.

Down at the pond, small things splashed and slithered. Water was good—it would be cool on his warm, panting tongue, full of slippery life that would slide pleasingly down his gullet. But not yet. Now he squeezed through the underbrush and around the pond, then climbed the thick woods on the other side. He hadn’t been this way before; there were no paths for human feet.

He bounded through the forest, leaping over fallen logs, stopping now and then to snuffle at the base of a tree or beneath some ferns. Twice he paused long enough to sit on his haunches and howl his freedom. A coyote answered back once, far away and defiantly fearful. Dylan ignored it.

But he didn’t ignore the scent he caught—fast and warm and scared—and he put his nose to the ground and ran until he saw the rabbit. It was cowering under a sapling. Very still but not invisible. Dylan jumped.

Hot blood in his mouth, muscles and tendons and bones giving under his jaws. Wonderful.

Dylan had eaten a pound of raw hamburger before he changed, and although the cold meat alone hadn’t been enough to satisfy his hunger, now his belly was full. He licked the blood from his muzzle and then spent several hours simply exploring, getting a feel for his new territory. Sometimes he lifted a leg and pissed on a tree.
Mine. I was here.

He was a little footsore but happy when he returned to his pond. He took a long drink of the cold, green-tasting water. Then he padded quickly around the perimeter of his yard, pausing every several feet to mark his territory. He was going to go inside where it was warm and dry. But instead he darted through the poplar trees. He glanced with slight interest at the little house, at the collection of cars and trucks that huddled behind the house and smelled of old metal, at the splintery porch and piles of empty bottles and cans. The lights were on inside, and he could make out voices, then tinny laughter, followed by bright, bouncy music.

Dylan pissed on the corners of the porch and then, for good measure, around the edges of the weedy yard.

The back door to his own house was still open. When he got into the kitchen he shook droplets of condensation off his fur. In the hallway he found a bit of ham that he or Chris had dropped at lunchtime, and he snatched it up. He clambered up the stairs—not liking the way his nails slid on the slippery wood—and into his bedroom. He hopped onto his neatly made bed, turned around a few times, and, dimly thankful that for some reason the change back to human was considerably less traumatic than the change to wolf, collapsed into a deep and contented sleep.