Good Bones (8 page)

Chapter 7

W
HEN
Dylan woke nude on his bed, there were grass stains and dirt on the duvet and grayish hairs clinging to his pillow. He had no idea how to enforce a no-animals-on-the-bed rule when he was both master and… pet. Or something.

But aside from the housekeeping issue, he felt better than he had in a very long time. That terrible yearning he usually felt the morning after a change was gone—the wolf had run and fed and was content to rest for a month. His memories of the previous night were jumbled, perhaps because wolf thoughts didn’t set well in a human-shaped brain, but he knew he’d felt good and that the only casualty had been Thumper.

He also remembered nosing around next door, and his feelings about that were a little more unsettled. What had he been looking for? God, what if Chris had come outside, maybe to take a leak off his porch again, as he had every right to do. But he hadn’t, and hopefully wouldn’t that one night a month when the moon was full.

Dylan stood and stretched hugely. He was filthy and covered in countless fine scratches, especially over his belly where the fur had been a little thinner and the brambles caught him. He padded into the bathroom. While he waited for the water to heat and the tub to fill, he used the toilet, then brushed his teeth—ugh, fur in his molars—and looked down at his dick, which felt as languid as the rest of him.

His tub was huge, and the water felt wonderful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an honest-to-god bath. He wondered if purchasing scented salts would be too gay even for him. His mind meandered lazily to the house he was designing for the firm and to his intentions for his own kitchen. Of course that reminded him of Chris. He was sorry they wouldn’t be working together today, although he didn’t know quite what to expect the next time they faced each other. Had Chris been teasing him with that kiss? It sure as hell had felt authentic. Dylan had never known his gaydar to be so off, but then he’d never met someone like Chris before.

Since his turning a couple of years before, things had been difficult. First, it had taken Dylan several months to accept that he was now a werewolf. Yeah, he’d known that Bad Things Happened. If the fairly unpleasant process of coming out to his family hadn’t taught him that, the sudden and premature deaths of his parents would have certainly driven the point home. Part of accepting what he had become had involved acknowledging the fact that he would never be able to have a serious love relationship. Which was ironic, considering that before the bite nobody had paid him much attention, and after the bite men seemed to find him irresistible. But even if he could ensure that his partner would be safe with him, how would he break the news of what he was? And what kind of crazy person wanted a werewolf as a boyfriend?

So Dylan had taken the safe route since the bite, ignoring his libido until he couldn’t stand it any longer and then giving in to quick backroom fucks with men he’d never see again, men whose names he never bothered to learn. He was almost resigned to it, although nowhere close to happy about it.

But, Chris.

Well, even if he was serious about that kiss, he probably wasn’t ready to pick out a wedding cake. Maybe he wanted a fuck buddy. Maybe Dylan would have to settle for that.

His happy mood fully soured, Dylan drained the water from the tub and went to get dressed.

H
E
SPENT
most of the day scraping dried glue from the kitchen floor. It was arduous, frustrating work, and it made his back and knees and hands hurt. The little wounds scattered across his skin caught on his clothing as he moved. The reek of the ancient glue irritated his sensitive nose. He was tired and lonely and cranky and didn’t even have anyone to whine to.

“Fuck this,” he said somewhere around midday. He tossed the paint scraper aside with a clatter.

He stood and peered out the kitchen windows into the rain, then walked into the living room and stared across the road at the empty fields belonging to Chris. He supposed that by late summer they would be covered in golden blankets of grain. Now they were just drab and bleak.

He wanted a latte and Tillamook cheeseburger from Burgerville, and he wanted to hang out at Powell’s bookstore, maybe catch a movie at the Baghdad.

He wanted to get laid.

During the afternoon, Dylan worked on the almost-completed house plans. He had a meeting at the office on Thursday morning. His boss and the clients would be there, and he hoped everyone would be happy. He’d probably go out to lunch with Matty afterward, maybe see if Rick and Kay were free for dinner. Maybe he’d go to Lowe’s and pick out some kitchen flooring. He smiled—maybe he’d even go shopping for a truck.

“
Y
OU
got a lot done yesterday. Could’ve called me over to help.”

Dylan told himself he shouldn’t feel repentant about choosing to work by himself for a few hours. “I was going to do some other things but kind of got sucked in.”

Chris grinned at him, which made Dylan blush. He was beginning to suspect his neighbor possessed a twelve-year-old’s sense of humor. He cleared his throat. “So I was thinking we’d finish up the floor today and then tackle the wallpaper.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Dylan had had enough of the awkward silences between them. He set up his laptop in a corner and accessed iTunes. Some heated negotiations followed—Chris had a fondness for ’80s southern rock that Dylan didn’t share—but they eventually reached a compromise that involved alternating Molly Hatchet with the White Stripes. Chris sang along out of tune, which Dylan found oddly endearing. Neither of them mentioned their kiss, and Chris was so nonchalant that Dylan began to wonder if he’d imagined that moment—maybe lust and the full moon had addled his head a little.

When their stomachs started grumbling, Dylan realized he had nothing to eat except bread and a couple of apples. Between the tiny fridge and the lack of a local grocery store, keeping the larder stocked was a pain.

“Come on next door,” Chris said. “I’ll make us somethin’.”

Dylan hesitated a moment. But he really was hungry, not to mention curious about the inside of Chris’s house, so he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

They took a shortcut through the poplars. Dylan flushed again when they climbed onto the same porch where he’d lifted his leg the night before, but Chris didn’t seem to notice. They entered the little house through the back door.

The living room was tiny and crowded with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. It was neater than Dylan had expected. Apparently his neighbor confined his beer can structures to the outdoors. There was a huge plasma TV, but there was also a bookshelf stuffed with well-read paperbacks: spy novels and mysteries mostly, but also quite a few by authors like Jack London, Kurt Vonnegut, Mark Twain, and William Faulkner. Chris caught him staring at the books and grinned. “Bet you thought I was illiterate too.”

Dylan couldn’t help but smile back. “Maybe more of a comic book type.”

“
Watchmen
,” Chris said, pointing. “And
Sandman
.”

Dylan trailed behind Chris into a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been changed in decades. Between the table and chairs, the fridge, and an old-fashioned rolltop desk, there was barely room to move. But it was clean and smelled of paprika and bay leaves.

“Have a seat,” Chris said, gesturing in the general direction of the chairs. “I know you ain’t a vegetarian, but you’re not gonna insist on organic, free-range, fair trade slow food, are you?”

“Meat. I could really go for some meat.”

Chris laughed. He yanked things out of cupboards and the fridge, banged a few pans, and within a short time handed over a plate heaped with food.

“Pasta?” Dylan asked.

“Noodles. Noodles and sausage and… and eat up while it’s hot.”

Dylan scooped a forkful into his mouth. “Oh my God.” It wasn’t just that he was hungry—this stuff was really, really good.

Chris looked pleased and sat down to eat some as well. “I been cookin’ for myself since I was a little kid. I’m good at it.”

“Your mom wasn’t much of a chef?”

“My mom wasn’t around all that much. Booze, drugs, men. I learned to look after myself.” Chris’s voice was very matter-of-fact, and he was looking down at his plate. Then he got up abruptly and went to the fridge, finding a pair of Budweisers. He tossed one to Dylan, who caught it neatly and popped it open. Chris sat back down.

“That’s why you spent time here with your grandfather?”

“Yeah. Sometimes she’d dump me off. Child Protective Services brought me twice. I hitched a few times. Gramps didn’t really know what to do with me, but at least he didn’t—” He stopped, made a sour face, and ate some more noodles.

“That’s when you saw the old man in my house.”

Chris seemed relieved at the change of topic. He leaned back a little in his seat and took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. Gramps’s brother.”

“What was with the staring through the window? That’s kind of creepy.”

“Your fairy real estate agent didn’t tell you the whole story?”

“No.”

“Uncle Frank went off to Korea, and while he was there Gramps knocked up Frank’s girlfriend. By the time he got back they were married. I guess Frank couldn’t forgive him for that. They never spoke to each other again, but they still lived next to each other.” He gave a proud smile. “We’re kinda known for being stubborn, us Nocks.”

“Congratulations.”

Chris gave a courtly, seated sort of bow, then stood and refilled Dylan’s plate. Dylan dug right in.

“I don’t know what was goin’ through the old man’s head when he was spyin’ like that. Maybe he just wanted to get a glimpse of Marylee—that was Gram—but he kept on looking even after she was dead. I was four. Maybe he was just glad to see Gramps as miserable as he was. You know, first Marylee buried, then his asshole son takes off, and his daughter-in-law’s a druggie and a whore.” He shrugged. “And Gramps gets stuck with me. He wasn’t a happy man.”

Dylan imagined a young version of Chris, left with a bitter old man in a shitty little house in the middle of nowhere. “Sorry,” he said.

Chris’s eyes flashed angrily. “Wasn’t looking for sympathy, dude.”

There was a pretty awkward silence after that. Dylan polished off his second plate of food, and Chris finished his first. Chris seemed to have gotten over his momentary irritation because he laughed and pointed at Dylan’s dish. “You want thirds?”

“Um… no. Thanks. I’m good.”

“You can really put it away. What kind of workout do you do? Running?”

Dylan paused but then shook his head. “No, I don’t really… I just have a good metabolism, I guess.”

“Huh.” Chris put their dishes in the sink and leaned back against the counter, sipping his beer. He set down the empty can and chewed on his lip thoughtfully. That was the first sign of real uncertainty Dylan had seen in the cocky man, and for some reason it made his heart twinge a little. Then Chris must have reached a decision because he nodded and smiled. “You’re gonna have dinner here from now on, dude. ’Til your kitchen’s done.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Guy who eats like you shouldn’t be tryin’ to survive on cornflakes or whatever the hell you been eatin’, and cookin’ for two ain’t no more work than for one.”

Dylan hesitated and thought he saw a flash of pain in those fierce blue eyes. “Okay. I’ll split your grocery costs,” said Dylan.

“Done,” Chris said with a wide grin.

“How do you have time for all this? The cooking, the—” Dylan waved his hands vaguely in the direction of his house. “—the construction, the mechanic stuff. Don’t you have a regular job?”

“Sometimes.” He rummaged in a cupboard for a moment, emerging with a pack of Marlboros and a blue plastic lighter. Dylan watched in fascination as he patted the bottom of the red and white box, pried the top open, pulled out a cigarette, and placed it between his full lips. His thumb flicked a flame into life, and he took a long drag, then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “I don’t owe nothin’ on the house or the land, and I get cash off the guy who rents the fields. When I start runnin’ low, I find somethin’ for a while. Like workin’ for the sucker who bought the dump next door.” He grinned and tapped his ashes into the sink.

“But what if you couldn’t find a job?”

Chris shrugged. “Always have.”

“But what if you got hurt or something? Do you have insurance? And how about retirement?” Just the idea of being without a financial safety net made Dylan feel mildly panicked, despite the good benefits through his job and the bulk of his parents’ life insurance payout tucked away in Treasury bills and long-term CDs.

But Chris looked amused. “I ain’t gonna worry ’bout none of that shit unless it happens.”

“But you have to—”

“Dude. Chill. I just deal with things when they come.” He looked so relaxed with his cigarette and his too-long bangs and the strap of his overalls falling off one broad shoulder.

Dylan gave an embarrassed little smile and stood, rubbing his stomach. “Maybe we should get back to work.”