How to Howl at the Moon (13 page)

Lily huffed.

“I never had a dog before but… yeah. Chance is brilliant. Maybe I need a break from people right now.” His chest grew hot and tight, and he fell silent, sipping his coffee.

You’re a fucking loser, and you’ll always be a fucking loser.

Maybe he needed a break from people for a long time, actually.

Lily patted his hand. “Nonsense. What you need is a nice girl. One with two legs.”

Tim snorted at the odd remark and hesitated. But he wasn’t going to be afraid, not about this. And Lily had already dragged everything else out of him. If she decided she didn’t want to tell her friends about his produce stand, so be it.

“I’m gay,” he said firmly. “So no, no girls, two-legged or otherwise.”

Lily tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully but didn’t seem particularly offended. All she said was, “Well.”

They drank the rest of their coffee in silence.

Seeds of Despair

ROMAN DIDN’T like the looks of that black truck. He’d seen it twice before on his patrols. The first time he’d seen it cruising through town with its tinted windows in the back and its shiny, low-riding chassis barely inches off the road. Through the front windows, he could see two men—driver and passenger, both dark-haired and swarthy, both wearing sunglasses.

He hadn’t thought too much of it the first time he’d seen them. The second time they’d driven past him, slow, while he was patrolling the hilly northern neighborhood along Broad Eagle Drive. He’d looked at the driver as the truck passed, but the driver and passenger did not look back.

Humans look back when someone stares at them. Unless they are very deliberately trying not to.

Now the truck was parked at the turn-out at the top of Broad Eagle Drive. There was a viewpoint overlooking the downtown part of Mad Creek. One of the men was leaning against the hood of the truck watching the road. The other was standing at edge of the overlook. That man was trying to look casual, arms crossed, but Roman could see there was something he was holding in his right hand, half-hidden by his body.

It was a pair of black binoculars.

Roman rolled into the pull-out and turned off his truck. He waited a moment before getting out. He had a wave of insecurity. He wished Sergeant James Patson were there. James would know what to do. Roman had always relied upon his judgment. But James wasn’t there, and
Roman had a town to protect. He’d been asked to help by Sheriff Beaufort, and he wanted to help, more than anything.

He checked that his firearm was safely snapped into its holster at his back, put on his jacket, and stepped out of his car.

“Nice day.” The man who was leaning against the truck spoke casually as Roman approached. He had a faint Hispanic accent.

It was true enough, but then
it was April,
and the days were warming up even if nights were still a little cold. It was almost always nice.

Roman stopped a few feet from the stranger. The hair on the back of his neck bristled and he wanted, badly, to bark and bare his teeth. There was something about these strangers he didn’t like, something threatening. He swallowed the urge.

“Where are you from?”

“L
.
A. We’re on vacation, eh, Bro?” The man at the truck looked at the other man, who grunted in confirmation. Roman couldn’t see their eyes behind their sunglasses. He wasn’t sure if they were lying. Sometimes he could hear it in the change of a human’s heartbeat or smell it in a fresh wave of sweat, but only if the person cared that they were lying.

“Where are you staying?” Roman asked, his voice rough.

The man leaning against the car exchanged a look with his friend. “Man, chill. We’re not doin’ nothin’ wrong. Just enjoyin’ the view.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“And you’re not even a cop.”

It felt like a slap in the face.
You have no authority
. But Roman
was
on the sheriff’s department’s payroll, even if only briefly. “Just making conversation.”

The two men said nothing.

Again, Roman felt a surge of self-doubt. If he and James were facing this situation, Roman would be pulling at the leash and making it clear to the men that they weren’t welcome, while James would be holding him back. James would play it tough but cool, letting the threat of
Roman stand without forcing the issue. But now Roman had to be himself
and
James. He had to hold himself back and obey the law. It left him on uncertain ground.

“Have a nice stay,” Roman said at last. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
I’ll be watching you.

He got back into his car and turned it around, headed slowly back down the hill.

He would put it in his report. Sheriff Beaufort would tell him what they should do.

*                          *                         *

Lance had stopped even trying to fight his dog. Chance wanted to be with Tim
—wanted it full-on with all his dog’s instinctual joy, focus, and anxious sense of duty. So. Lance let him.

He told himself all of this was short-lived anyway, so he might as well let his dog enjoy it while he could. Nothing like this would ever happen again. And it was interesting to learn more about his dog nature, like how open its heart was, and how much pleasure it got in loving and being loved without any sexual component to it, any awkwardness, or any need to do or say the right thing. His dog was so much better at that than Lance was.

Once this was over, he had to make more of an effort to get out, be with others, maybe find someone he could at least date. Maybe he could even be friends with Tim. His dog was inspiring him.

Every night for a week, Chance slept on the floor of Tim’s living room after spending the evening hanging out. Every morning before Tim awoke, he shifted back into Lance, checked the greenhouse to see if the trays had sprouted yet—no, they hadn’t—shifted back and ran home to get ready for work.

Honestly. He was beginning to think Tim didn’t know what the fuck he was doing with those plants.

“I don’t know what’s up with my seedlings,” Tim muttered as he stood at the counter making chicken roll-ups for supper. “They should have been up days ago. I mean, one or two bad seeds, yeah, but
all
of them? I thought maybe it’s been too cold in the greenhouse at night, even though the temperature gauge says it’s not. I bought a space heater today and got it up and
running. Made some nice compost tea. I don’t know what else to do. This has never happened to me before.”

Tim talked to Chance all the time, about everything. That night he was really upset. Lance could hear it in the abrasive edge to his voice, feel it in Tim’s dull, angry heartbeat, and see it in the ugly tension near his mouth. He wished he could reassure Tim. On the other hand, it was a relief not to be able to talk, because as sure as the sun rose, Lance Beaufort would fuck it up.

He waited until Tim put his dog bowl with two chicken roll-ups on the floor and then licked Tim’s hand. Tim took the hint and put his own plate on the table, then squatted down and hugged Chance tight.

“You’re just trying to butter me up so I forget there’re a dozen cans of dog food I bought in the cupboard that you refuse to eat. Princess Picky Pot.”

Chance huffed. He put one paw on Tim’s knee, the closest he could get to returning the hug.

“Well, enjoy the food while it lasts, bud, because if I can’t even grow
vegetables
anymore, I’m hosed.” He sighed. “We’ll both be dumpster-diving this fall.”

Chance’s ears perked up at the word ‘vegetables’. Tim got up and slumped into his chair, still depressed. He poked at his food.

There was no reason for Tim to lie to Chance. Then again, that didn’t mean he was
only
growing vegetables. Still, Lance was becoming more and more certain this entire exercise had been for naught. He felt stupid. But there were a whole lot of undefined emotions underneath that, a myriad of doggie and human emotions that fit under the general umbrella of ‘worry’ and ‘longing’.

Tim’s phone buzzed. The few times that had happened, Chance had seen Tim look at the display and refuse the call. But tonight, he was so out of it he answered the phone without thinking.

“Hello?” Tim tensed up immediately. “What do you want, Marshall?” Tim got up and restlessly began to pace. “Who told you where I am?”

Lance whined. Anger and fear and hurt wafted off Tim in waves.

“That’s none of your business! Well, go ahead and call the police. I didn’t take any of your—
my
—damn seeds. I quit, remember! You don’t own me anymore!”

Tim hung up the phone and nearly threw it across the room before he seemed to remember he didn’t want to break it. Instead, he held down the power switch until it went to sleep, then he tossed it on the kitchen table.

“I hate that guy!” Tim shouted at Chance. Then he deflated and went back to
his chair. He sat there
poking at his roll-ups.

Lance wanted to ask,
Who’s Marshall
? He wanted to ask,
You said he knows where you live. Are you in danger?
He wanted to say,
You’re in trouble. Why? How can I help?
But Chance was only a dog, not a friend or a partner, so he couldn’t say anything.

For the first time, Lance wished he was in Tim’s life as himself. But Lance Beaufort hadn’t earned that right and, honestly, didn’t deserve it.

Lance did his best to cheer Tim up that night. Tim went out to the dark greenhouse to check the seed trays again after supper and Chance padded along. Tim poked at the soil a little, his face unhappy, but nothing had sprouted.

They watched a romantic comedy on TV. Tim, still unusually quiet, lay down on the sofa and patted the space next to him. Chance lay down beside Tim, and Tim covered them both with the comforter.

Chance was turned away from Tim, but he felt the shudders in his human’s body. Tim was crying.

No.
Enough was enough!

Chance jumped off the couch and barked sharply until Tim sat up. “What is it?”

Chance ran around back and forth across the room, his tongue lolling.

“I know, I’m terrible company tonight,” Tim sighed.

Chance barked and spun around chasing his tail until Tim laughed.

“Geez, you’re a goof. Okay, okay! What do you want to do?”

Chance ran to the door and barked eagerly, wagging his tail.
Come on, Tim. Liven up.

“Moonlight walk?”

Chance barked.

Tim huffed as if he
was
too tired to move. But Chance didn’t let up until Tim went to the coatrack and put on his beat-up Converse tennies and coat.

“Maybe I do need the fresh air. Race you?”

They walked for an hour, Chance running ahead and back and nudging gently into Tim’s side so as not to trip him. Tim ghosted a hand over Chance’s head when he was close and managed to keep up with the playful pace. By the time they got back, Tim was in a much better mood. That night, before he went to bed, Tim put Chance’s comforter on the living room floor and then sat down cross-legged on it himself. Chance lay down, and Tim stroked his ears for a while.

“Thank you for being here with me. I love you, Chance. If I didn’t have you….” His voice wobbled, and he didn’t finish the sentence.

Shit.

A few minutes later, Tim kissed Lance on the head and went to bed.

Lance couldn’t sleep.
I love you, Chance.
God. But then, he’d already felt that, hadn’t he? The strength of Tim’s love was like a blanket of light—pure and good and basic. It called to Lance’s dog in a way that, not only was hard to resist,
it
felt
wrong
to resist
it
. And even though Lance rationally told himself that Tim only loved a dog, not him, not
really
, it still felt like a precious gift. How was Tim going to feel when Chance vanished? He would be without any support at all.