Prickly Business

by Piper Vaughn

  Dylan took it but tossed it aside without a glance. He settled his hands on either side of Avery’s thighs. “What’s wrong, then? You look—” He broke off and rubbed a hand over his short hair. For a second, his eyes dropped from Avery’s. “You look sad.” He gritted out that last part like he resented Avery for it… or maybe as if he resented whatever reaction he was having in response.

  Even as betrayed and miserable as he felt at his parents’ abandonment, Avery’s body heated at Dylan’s proximity. Dylan’s tank top put the bold, dark lines of his tattoos on full display. They extended from his shoulders, onto his pecs, and down past his elbows on both sides, swirling patterns Avery couldn’t decipher. He wondered briefly if they meant anything.

  Before Avery could speak, Dylan continued, “I don’t know what you were thinking tangling with Josiah and the others. They’re not the type of wolves you want to have as enemies. What did you do to Josiah, anyway?”

  Avery bristled at his tone. “I didn’t do anything to Josiah. It’s Victor who—”

  “Victor?” Dylan stood and glared down at Avery from his full height. “It was Victor who sent them after you? Why?”

  “I owe him money,” Avery mumbled. “Fifteen thousand. For the races.”

  By the way Dylan cursed, Avery could tell he knew exactly which races Avery referred to. “Do you have a death wish, kid? Victor is not someone to fuck with. How could you be so stupid?”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Avery snapped, his anger building. “I’m not stupid. I’m not a kid either. I had a good tip, okay? Or at least I thought it was good. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “I’m sorry.” Dylan ran his hand over his head again and paced to his desk and back. “It’s just…. Fuck, Avery. You could’ve been killed if I wasn’t there last night. Do you understand that?”

  Avery deflated, his anger abandoning him as abruptly as it had flared up. What right did he have to get mad when he was here to beg for help with his proverbial tail tucked between his legs? “Yeah.”

  Sighing, Dylan grabbed the desk chair, spun it so the back faced Avery, and straddled the seat. “Tell me what happened at the races.”

  After a brief hesitation, Avery did. He dropped his gaze to his hands, which were fisted in his lap, and choked out the whole, pathetic story: how he’d placed a bet on the underdog wolf based on a tip from a friend; how he’d felt when that wolf lost, leaving him fifteen grand in the hole; how he’d managed to gather seven thousand of what he owed by selling off some of his possessions.

  When he was finished, Dylan looked at the clock above his desk. “Come on. We have plenty of time before the bank closes.”

  Avery gaped at him. “Huh?”

  “I’m lending you the money,” Dylan said. “I’ll give you all fifteen thousand. We’ll go see Victor right now.”

  “But… but you can’t. I already told you I have seven. Besides, I don’t even know when I’d be able to repay you, and—”

  “We’ll worry about that part later. Better you owe me than Victor.” Dylan got to his feet and pulled a set of keys from his desk drawer.

  “I didn’t come here to ask for money. I was just hoping you could help me convince Victor to—”

  “Look.” Dylan turned on him, dark-eyed and serious. “Victor won’t leave you alone until he has his money back or you’ve paid him a blood debt. You don’t have the money. I do.”

  Stunned, Avery blinked up at him. “But we’re not mated. You don’t even like me.”

  “Do you think my wolf would stand by and let you be killed? No way in hell. Mated or not.”

  “Your wolf.” Avery flushed and turned his face away, his stomach twisting. Dylan’s wolf… but not Dylan himself. Of course not. Why would he expect anything different? Since their ill-fated first meeting, he’d gone out of his way to act like a snobby, prickly little shit whenever he and Dylan crossed paths. Now Dylan had offered to help him without a second thought. He should be grateful.

  So why were Dylan’s words echoing in his head, causing more pain each time around?

  “Come on,” Dylan said gruffly. “Grab the jacket. Let’s go.”

  “HANG ON tight,” Dylan called over his shoulder, then leaned forward slightly as the beast beneath him roared into motion.

  A wide grin split his face. Avery didn’t hesitate wrapping his arms around Dylan’s waist as the hog roared down the road. Tight. Intimate. Dylan’s breath hitched when Avery’s lithe frame pressed fittingly against his back, the way Avery clung to him as if he was his only means of protection. Dylan even liked the way Avery’s helmeted head pressed to his back. The brat was more endearing the more time Dylan spent with him. He was glad Avery couldn’t see his face. He would probably get the wrong impression.

  And what impression would that be?

  Dylan’s steady balance didn’t waver when he felt a tickle above his belly button—not much knocked Dylan’s concentration—but he was surprised when he realized it was Avery. His hands resting low at Dylan’s waist, Avery’s graceful fingers had found their way beneath the cotton of his shirt and were petting the groove bisecting his abs. Goose bumps raced up his neck with a barely suppressed shiver. Dylan grabbed Avery’s hand to stop him. The next thing he knew, their fingers were laced together.

  A feeling Dylan couldn’t—and didn’t want to—explain fluttered uncomfortably in his chest. He glanced down at their entwined hands—Avery’s long, delicate fingers paired with his work-roughened, grease-stained cuticles.

  Apparently Dylan needed to keep reminding himself of the meaning of “not meant to be.” Pulling his fingers from Avery’s grasp, Dylan white-knuckled the handle. When Avery tensed against his back, Dylan felt the slight distance it put between them as if it were miles, but he didn’t take it back. He wouldn’t. For both their sakes.

  Parking was always a pain downtown, and midday didn’t make the task any easier. After locating a curbside spot a couple of blocks from the bank, paying homage to the parking gods by way of the meter, and attaching the ticket to his seat, Dylan growled out a “Wait here,” then strode down the sidewalk.

  Less than an hour of annoying paperwork later, Dylan exited the massive building, with an envelope of fifteen grand tucked inside his back pocket. He was almost surprised to see Avery exactly where he’d left him. With his butt resting against Dylan’s bike and face tipped up to the sun, Avery would have looked carefree if Dylan didn’t know better. Although he had to admit—and only to himself—seeing Avery on his bike, in that too-big leather jacket, knowing Dylan’s scent leached into his pores, marking him… it did things to Dylan. And fuck if Dylan didn’t like those things.

  As if Avery could sense Dylan’s thoughts, he pulled the jacket tighter around himself and buried his nose in the collar, inhaling deeply. A groan erupted deep in Dylan’s chest, and Avery’s attention snapped to him, bright pink patches tinting both cheeks. Dylan chuckled.

  He closed the distance separating them in a few strides and pulled out the envelope, flapping it in front of Avery.

  “Are you sure you’re okay taking this grease monkey’s money to help you out of trouble?” It was a dick move, and Dylan knew it. Throwing Avery’s original sneer back at him should have been sweet and satisfying, but even after doing so, Dylan only had the desire to soothe the hurt he’d caused.

  Avery’s happy smile fell from his mouth, fury reddening his face. “You know what?” he spat. Resentment and devastation blazed behind the wounded expression when Avery shoved his chest. Hard. “Fuck you and your money. I don’t—”

  “Slow down, killer.” Dylan gripped Avery’s bicep before he could move away. “You’re going to take the money. And you’re going to say thank you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Only if you beg, brat.”

  Avery’s mouth drew into a tight line, and his jaw tensed. His nostrils flared, and the red tinge to his face deepened.

  Dylan stared at him then quirked an eyebrow until he calm
ed down. Damn, the hedgehog had a temper.

  With his eyes still narrowed and glaring at Dylan, Avery’s color slowly faded to his normal ivory.

  “Now,” Dylan began, “like I said, you’re going to take this and say thank you.” He held up a hand when Avery opened his mouth—no doubt to launch into an epic battle of who can throw the biggest tantrum.

  Dylan had news for Avery. He didn’t lose. Ever.

  “But before I hand it over”—he waved the white bill-sized envelope in Avery’s face—“you’re going to tell me everything.”

  From where he watched, seemingly entranced by the envelope, Avery’s gaze snapped to Dylan’s. “Huh? What?”

  “The truth, Avery.” Dylan crossed his arms over his chest, the envelope tucked in the fold of his elbow. “You’re keeping something from me. Something happened between last night and when you showed up at the shop that you’re not telling me. I want to know what it is.”

  Dylan’s hunches were rarely wrong. Avery had been honest with him so far. He was certain of that. Why would he lie about Victor and the races? But still there was something that had hurt Avery deeply, and Dylan didn’t think it was a physical ache, which made it harder to piece together.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I care.”

  “You mean your wolf cares.”

  “Me? My wolf? We’re the same. My wolf cares. I care.”

  “That’s not enough.” Avery’s voice was soft. Pained.

  “I don’t know what you want from me, Avery. I’m trying, but I need you to give me something in return. What’s going on with you? I want to help if I can.”

  Dylan didn’t know how long Avery stared at him—long enough for him to notice gold flecks melted within the green-and-brown of Avery’s eyes. Avery finally spoke up. “My daddy cut me off.”

  “What?” Dylan squinted.

  Something Dylan thought was embarrassment flashed across Avery’s face before Avery glanced away.

  “Daddy,” Avery repeated, his gaze fixed on the concrete between them. “I told him about the races. And the wolves. And the money. He cut me off.” Avery took a deep breath and drew himself up straight, the rich, haughty air that always surrounded him back in full force. Just then, Avery was every bit the Southern diva Dylan had cast judgment on for the past couple of years.

  Except when he spoke again, Avery didn’t whine, as expected. “I don’t actually come into my trust fund until I turn twenty-five. A little under two years. Mama and Daddy were sending me an allowance every month, but Daddy….” Avery’s thinly veiled confidence fell at once, leaving only sadness-tinged fear. “Well, it doesn’t matter, because Daddy is pissed, and he’s cut me off. I still have the loft—for three more months—but I now have to pay my own bills and buy groceries.”

  Avery’s eyes shot wide—shocked—and his mouth gaped. His breathing became fast and ragged, uneven. “What about dry cleaning? And housekeeping? What about Sven?” Avery’s watery eyes rounded, pleading with Dylan to understand. “I forgot about him. He had some kind of emergency, but then he never called me back. Oh God, what am I going to do without Sven?”

  “Calm down.” Dylan reached out and gripped Avery’s shoulders, tense beneath his hands. Then the rest of what he’d said filtered into Dylan’s head. “What the fuck’s a Sven?” He didn’t appreciate the sound of the unknown man’s name on his mate’s lips, especially when there was so much emotion behind it.

  Avery blinked as if Dylan had spoken another language. “He’s my personal yoga instructor.”

  “Your yogi?” Frustration fled, making room for his smirk.

  Avery glared. “Don’t call him that,” he huffed. “This is serious. What will I do without him?”

  Dylan focused on Avery’s breakdown, trying not to think about the fact that Avery was worrying over this Sven character, whom Avery may or may not be in a relationship with. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. “I’m sure there are classes you can take around town that won’t break the bank.”

  Avery jerked back like he’d been slapped. “A class?”

  He sounded scandalized, and it was all Dylan could do to keep from laughing at the outrage coloring his face. He almost expected Avery to clutch at nonexistent pearls next.

  “A. Class?” he screeched. “You expect me to find my drishti in a room full of people? Is that even possible? And then what? Bikram?” Avery’s eyes rounded further, and his head shook from side to side. “I can’t. Not hot yoga. I’ll melt. Literally. I’ll never survive without Sven.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. What is this guy to you?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Seems to me there’s more to it. You fucking him?” Dylan didn’t bother keeping the snarl from seeping into his tone.

  “What?” Avery gasped. “No! Besides, I’m not his type. His boyfriend is a bear. Literally. As in grizzly. He’s dating that bear shifter, Warren Harting.”

  “The guy who owns the shipping company?”

  “One and the same,” Avery supplied.

  Dylan’s eyes narrowed at Avery. “But what aren’t you telling me?”

  Avery muttered something too soft for Dylan to hear, which was saying something, considering his wolf’s exceptional hearing.

  “What was that?” Dylan pushed.

  Avery turned his glare on Dylan. “He introduced me to Victor.”

  “You see”—Dylan pointed a finger at Avery—“that right there is why you need to worry about yourself and not all this other shit.” He reached out and covered Avery’s mouth when it looked like he’d dig himself in for an argument. “Shut up and listen. You see where all of this”—Dylan flashed the envelope—“has gotten you. Get over yourself and move on. It’s time to take care of your own shit. The alpha is always looking for people willing and able to help the pack, but you have to go to him and ask for help. He’s not going to come to you.”

  When Dylan backed away, Avery looked… unsure, for the first time.

  “Come on,” he sighed and nudged Avery back toward his bike. “Let’s go see a man about some payback.”

  “I can pay part of it,” Avery grumbled as Dylan turned to hook the helmet over his head.

  “I said no. Why are we still having this discussion? You’re going to need the money you have saved. Especially now.”

  “But—”

  “No.” Dylan cut him off and got on the Harley. Then he kick-started it to life, the roar of the engine drowning out any further discussion.

  “WELL, WELL, well, if it isn’t my favorite little erinaceid.” Victor’s squirrely voice already worked Dylan’s nerves, and they’d just walked in.

  Dylan rolled his eyes at Victor’s butchered pronunciation of the scientific family name for the hedgehog. Obviously, someone knew how to use Wikipedia.

  Dim lighting did nothing to soften Victor’s sharp features. If anything, they were further pronounced, shadowed purposefully by his choice in seating, like some wannabe gangster. Dylan rolled his eyes.

  Victor sat in the corner booth. His porcelain skin all but glowed in the dark. Long, greasy hair gathered at his nape, à la Travolta in Pulp Fiction. The black-and-white pinstriped suit he wore covered a powder pink shirt decorated with a skinny electric purple tie. It hurt Dylan’s retinas to look at him too long.

  “Hey, Victor. I—” Avery glanced at Dylan then back at Victor. “Uh, we wanted to bring you your money and say….”

  When Avery hesitated, Dylan tossed the envelope in front of Victor, where he sat surrounded by four other guys Dylan sort of recognized but didn’t know by name. Who did Victor think he was—the Godfather?

  Victor glanced down at the cash and back up at Dylan, like he had only just noticed him standing with Avery. A sneer split his face. “Good thing the hedgehog has such a… respectable wolf watching out for him.” Respectable came out as if it were the filthiest thing he could think of.

  Dylan ignored the barb and glared down at Victor. “You’ve got your mone
y. Call off your hounds and leave Avery out of your games. I mean it.”

  “Or what?” Victor leaned forward and the men around him tensed, ready for action.

  It was a rare occasion for Dylan to worry about being the vulnerable wolf in a group. He knew in this room, of the five men before him, he was the strongest. But not in an unbalanced fight—five against one.

  Dylan didn’t acknowledge Victor’s question; instead he said, “He’s finished, Vic. Don’t let me find you sniffing around him again.”

  “Avery’s a big boy,” Victor purred and fixed his gaze on Avery. “Aren’t you, Avery?”

  “I am, Victor.” Avery spoke up to Dylan’s surprise, his tone stronger than it had been since they’d arrived. “I’m done. You—” His voice cracked and he shook his head. “You sent your guys to…. They were going to hurt me, even if they didn’t kill me. I can’t do this. Not anymore.”

  “Oh, come on,” Victor chortled. “Josey’s a big puppy. He was only playing. I made him promise not to hurt you, only to”—Victor flapped his hand back and forth—“convince you to pay up. And look. Here you are. Task accomplished.”

  “Enough,” Dylan snapped. “It’s over. You have your cash. You’re even. Leave Avery out of your shit.”

  Ignoring Dylan, Victor leered at Avery, rose, and rounded the table. He didn’t stop until he invaded Avery’s personal space. It took everything Dylan had not to rip the guy apart for simply being near his mate.

  Shorter than Avery by at least three inches, Victor had a good twenty pounds on him. Dylan watched with a curious eye and wondered how Victor ever struck fear into anyone. He looked like an overdrawn bad guy caricature.

  Victor knuckled the collar of Avery’s jacket and pulled them closer. “You’re always welcome here, Avery. I’ll even open a credit line for you,” he murmured. “VIP.”

  Oh, hell the fuck no.

  Without a thought to what he was doing, Dylan grabbed the back of Victor’s neck, then slammed him face-first into the nearest table. The room around them exploded in chaos, but Dylan ignored it and leaned in close to make sure Victor would hear him. “Stay the hell away from my mate, or the next time I will rip you apart. Slowly.”