Prickly Business (7 page)

C
URLED
UP
in the tightest ball possible, Avery waited for the first strike to come. Any second he expected to be forced onto his back by Josiah and his goons, to have his vulnerable underbelly exposed to sharp claws and biting teeth. There were muffled growls; then a voice spoke, words Avery couldn’t understand as he huddled into himself. Fear and fury made such a potent combination, he couldn’t hear much beyond his own jackhammer heartbeat.

When he perceived a wolf coming nearer, he flinched and hissed fiercely—for all the good it would do. Unexpected warmth wrapped around him, bringing with it a scent that finally pierced through his haze of panic.
Safe
, his mind insisted.
Safe. Home. Mate.

Mate.

Avery’s trembling eased. A feeling of peace overcame him. Although he wasn’t sure how it was possible, he knew it somehow came from Dylan and whatever bond linked them. His heartbeat slowed, and he basked in the sensation for what must’ve been minutes. Then, in tiny increments, he unfurled from his defensive position.

Sensing no threat, he lifted his snout to test the air. A large wolf lay curled around him, his body shielding Avery from the presence of others.

Dylan.

Even never having seen his wolf, Avery would recognize his smell anywhere. It was muskier in this form, a blend of wild animal and earth, but familiar all the same.

Avery tipped his head back. At night, in shifted form, his vision was monochromatic. He could tell only that Dylan’s coloring was light with darker markings on his face and around his ears. As a hedgehog, Avery’s eyesight was terrible, but when he changed during the day he could still distinguish certain colors—mainly shades of yellow and blue. Right then, he saw Dylan as silvery-gray. It fit him somehow. He was a beautiful wolf.

As Avery stared, Dylan dipped his head and scented him. Whining softly, he nudged Avery. They were nose to nose, in what had to be one of the oddest experiences of Avery’s life. He’d never been so close to a wolf, shifter or otherwise. Facing one while not balled up in his protective position should have been terrifying. Not that his spines would put off a truly determined predator, especially not a shifter, but for ordinary dogs and foxes, they were usually a sufficient deterrent. There was easier, less prickly prey out there.

Dylan nudged him again, then licked him with a long wet tongue. Avery sneezed in response, which amused Dylan, if his wolfie grin was any indication. Normally Avery would’ve bristled at the idea of being laughed at; right then, he couldn’t feel anything but relief.

With another nudge to Avery’s side, Dylan stood. Avery took that for encouragement and began to shift. He blinked blearily once he was human again, vertigo making the woods spin and weave around him. The size differential between his two forms always took some getting used to. As a hedgehog, the world seemed vast, the noises louder, the smells more intense. Danger lurked in new places. Animals that would typically be no threat to Avery became fearsome hunters. But the disorientation went both ways. Even returned to his human shape, Avery automatically hunched forward, curling into himself when Dylan emitted a sharp growl.

He looked askance at Dylan, wary, too raw to snap as he might have any other time, but the wolf’s focus was on something over Avery’s shoulder.

Dylan’s companions stirred, their footsteps moving away as they fell back into the trees. Avery didn’t look to see if he recognized them. He knew the guys in Dylan’s circle of friends, at least by name. He could guess who would be there.

Within moments they were alone. Dylan shifted then, and when he turned his attention to Avery afterward, Avery became aware of his nakedness in a way he hadn’t been in years. Most shifters didn’t think twice about being nude in front of others, himself included. They were partly animals—nudity was as natural to them as breathing—and it was considered rude to ogle.

Dylan’s stare was assessing, not desirous. It still made Avery shiver. He’d often thought about being naked with Dylan. How could he help it? And in spite of the situation, his cock began to fill at the idea of finally being bared to his mate.

The flare of Dylan’s nostrils, and his sudden deep breath told Avery his reaction hadn’t gone unnoticed. As he watched, Dylan’s uncut cock thickened. Avery thought Dylan would reach for him then. He waited, hushed, craving the feel of the work-roughened hands he would’ve once sneered at. Craving it so much it was a physical ache, as if he were suffering from touch deprivation.

Dylan leaned closer, and Avery tensed in anticipation. Then Dylan shook himself and stood from his crouch.

“Get dressed. I’ll take you home.”

Avery nodded, ignoring the flash of disappointment in his gut. “Thank you,” he murmured as he pulled up his briefs and jeans, “for helping me. I would’ve never expected it.” He looked over at Dylan, who’d already donned his own jeans, regrettably hiding that fine cock and his well-muscled legs. “How did you know?”

Dylan yanked on a T-shirt that appeared nearly torn in two, ripped open from the collar down to his navel. He seemed oblivious as he bent down for his boots. “I heard some of Josiah’s friends talking at Wolfhound. They told me where you were.”

Avery flushed. How many people had known what Josiah and the others would be doing to him tonight? What would’ve happened if Dylan hadn’t come to his rescue, despite their tumultuous history? He might be dead, or at least seriously wounded. Some injuries weren’t recoverable from, not even for a shifter. He could easily be killed, murdered for something as ridiculous as betting on races, and all because of his own arrogance and his certainty he had exclusive inside information. The thought humbled and shamed him. Worse, he knew this was only a temporary reprieve. Maybe Dylan wouldn’t be around to save him the next time. He might still lose his life over a stupid decision.

“Ready?” Dylan asked, pulling Avery from his thoughts.

Avery shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his shirt. “Yeah.”

Dylan led him through the woods to a motorcycle. He withdrew a helmet and a jacket from one of the saddlebags and handed them to Avery. “I’m sure this’ll be big on you, but it’ll be cold once we get going. The helmet isn’t optional. State law.”

He said the last like he expected Avery to argue, but helmet hair wasn’t even a blip on the radar of Avery’s concerns at that moment. He wanted to go home, snuggle up in his blankets, and pretend this day never happened. At least until tomorrow morning, when he had to come up with a solution to get himself out of this situation with his spines intact.

Once their helmets were in place and he had slipped on the leather jacket that smelled like Dylan, Avery waited to mount the bike behind him.

“I live in the Pearl District,” he told Dylan as he settled in place. “My building is over on—”

“I know where it is.”

That surprised Avery into silence. Dylan kicked on the engine and guided the motorcycle out of the parking area, and talking became pointless anyway. Avery pulled down the shield on his helmet and attempted to hang on while holding himself away from Dylan. He knew to lean into the turns, but it soon became apparent that by trying to keep distance between them, he was making things a hell of a lot more awkward. Finally Dylan reached back with one hand and pulled Avery’s right arm around his waist. Avery took the hint and wrapped his other arm around Dylan as well.

Compared to the cold wind, Dylan’s body was furnace hot. His scent was strong, saturated into the leather of the jacket. Avery inhaled deeply and gave in to the temptation to lean into his heat, tightening his arms around Dylan’s waist. Dylan tensed briefly. Then he relaxed, the tension slowly leaching away until it felt as if Avery would melt right into him.

By the time they reached his building, it was a struggle to let go. If things were different, Avery wouldn’t have to. Dylan would come up to his loft, fuck him, hold him, and Avery wouldn’t have to worry about Josiah and his cronies somehow showing up at his door in the middle of the night. He could sleep in peace. But Avery didn’t have the right to ask that, and he knew if he hadn’t been so shaken by what had happened, he might not be feeling this depth of yearning to have Dylan with him anyway. He wouldn’t long for Dylan’s protection, wouldn’t feel the need to beg for his touch. Even vulnerable and scared, a part of him resented those desires. Dylan didn’t want him. Avery didn’t want Dylan. Or so he continued to tell himself.

Dylan cut the engine, and Avery got off the motorcycle. Dylan pushed up the shield on his helmet as Avery removed his borrowed one. He extended it to Dylan, who took it wordlessly.

“Thanks again,” Avery said. “For… everything.”

Dylan stared at him for a long moment. “We need to talk. Come by my shop in the morning. Green’s Customs on Powell near 71st. I’ll help you get Josiah and the others off your back.”

“I….” Avery blinked in shock. “You would do that?”

Dylan nodded. “Go on up. I’ll wait here until you get inside.”

Stunned, Avery turned and started toward his building. He’d made it into the foyer when he realized he still wore Dylan’s jacket. He spun around, intending to go back, but the engine of Dylan’s motorcycle revved before he could move. Through the glass door, Avery watched as Dylan pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the street.

He went upstairs when the sound of the engine had faded, and though he’d deny it until the end of time if anyone ever asked, he took Dylan’s jacket to bed with him. Avery was certain it was the only reason he managed to get any sleep at all.

N
ORMALLY
WHEN
his head hit the pillow, Dylan was out. Chalk that up to another thing disrupted by having Avery in his life. He’d left Avery at his condo over an hour ago, and Dylan’s mind still wouldn’t shut down.

Was Avery safe? Did he know to call Dylan if things went south again? Did he even have Dylan’s number? For the briefest of seconds, Dylan entertained thoughts of going back. Of knocking on Avery’s door, pushing him up against a wall, and—

No
.

Goddamn Avery for doing this to him. Dylan was not one of those wolves who longed for a mate. Then Avery Babineaux had walked into his life, and for the first time—in a flash of insanity—Dylan had entertained what it would be like to have a mate, going to bed with the same man every night and waking up to him every morning. Then Avery had opened his mouth and confirmed everything Dylan had known. Having a mate wasn’t worth the heartache.

But tonight, at the park, the way Avery had looked at Dylan like he was the only man on Earth Avery needed and would ever need—it made Dylan think maybe…. No. Hoping for something he couldn’t have was useless.

With a sigh, Dylan rolled to his side and punched the pillow beneath him. He couldn’t get the almost kiss out of his mind. Talk about mixed signals. Hormones was all it was. That and the fact it had been far too long since Dylan had gotten laid. But seeing Avery, all that creamy skin on display and most of all the openness and trust reflected back at him from those helpless eyes…. Dylan’s cock thickened at the memory.
Christ.

Groaning, Dylan threw off the sheets and rolled onto his back again. Even with his eyes closed, he could see Avery, as if he were sitting in front of him. A hard tangle of want pulsed through his cock.

Dylan slid his hand from where it rested on his chest. He could bring himself off from memories of Avery’s big eyes staring up at him, visions of Avery on his knees, his full lips stretched around Dylan’s cock. His breathing stuttered, and he wanted to give in to the fantasy. He needed it, but what would be left when it was over? Where would it get him?

The cold gnarled truth was, no matter what Dylan had done for him, Avery still didn’t want him and Avery would remember so in the morning. He was better off not thinking about his mate now. Whatever Avery was involved in, whatever he had gotten himself hooked into with Victor, Dylan didn’t want Avery hurt. But he couldn’t do this—dream about him, wonder, hope. Not with Avery.

When he had fixed things for Avery, Dylan would walk away, let things go back to the way they’d always been for them. He had to. For his own sanity.

Balls throbbing and chest aching, Dylan tossed his arm over his eyes. It was going to be a long night—
longer
night—with no end in sight.

T
HE
SCENT
of oil and metal soothed Dylan’s nerves as he lifted the garage door of Green’s Customs the next morning. After tossing and turning most of the night, he’d finally come to the conclusion that a few hours’ sleep was all he was meant to have. Thoughts of his upcoming talk with Avery had tortured him the remainder of the night. Blinded by the glowing overhead fluorescent lights, he stepped into the large workroom. The atmosphere that greeted him was brighter than most shops he’d been in—the metal walls painted a pale blue-gray, the floors tiled in black and white, while high ceilings made for a large, airy workspace. Dylan had designed it that way. It was his place to breathe.

After he deposited the paper cup on his lift—nonfat salted caramel mocha, a guilty pleasure, though if anyone asked, he’d deny it—he bent over the engine of the ’46 Harley Davidson Flathead he’d started restoring last month. This job wasn’t for a customer. It was purely for his own selfish desire. Dylan’s pride and joy. He didn’t need another bike—he had three—but he’d been obsessed with the Flathead since he was a kid, and when he’d located this one in northwest Washington, he’d jumped on the deal. Even though the heap had been overpriced. It was a mess right now, corrosion and rust doing most of the damage, not to mention scavengers, but what Dylan had in mind for the machine would be glorious.

Giving barely a second’s thought to the invoices on his desk and the e-mails certain to be awaiting his reply, Dylan crouched into position in front of the heap. Fuck it. His focus for much else was shot anyway. As each of his crew staggered in, Dylan nodded or grunted a greeting, unsurprised when no one commented on his choice of duties for the day.