Prickly Business

by Piper Vaughn

  “Are you saying all this time you haven’t been getting laid? It’s been two years, Dylan. I don’t expect you to be a monk, and really, if you’re a virgin, then I’m King Kong.” Avery winked, the jerk.

  Dylan snorted. “I get it, but no more, okay?”

  “You can’t just go around demanding—”

  Holding a hand up, Dylan sighed. “Look if you want to fuck other people, fine, tell me now.” Christ, maybe this was a bad idea all around. “I’m not promising forever, and I’m not asking for it. But I’m not the man you want if you think I’m gonna sit back and watch you prance around and make me look like an idiot.”

  “I don’t prance,” Avery mumbled. Huffing, he leaned back, crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes, and clenched his teeth. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “No more clubs or no more… you know?”

  Dylan knew. Clubs weren’t his deal, but if Avery needed to let loose every once in a while—to dance—he thought he could be okay with it. Maybe.

  Suddenly the thought of Avery going to a club alone pulled at the possessive side of Dylan for two very different reasons. Imagining Avery dancing, moving that graceful body. For him. Well, that alone was worth dealing with overcrowding, watered-down drinks, and too-loud music. Then again, the thought of other men—and women, for that matter—all over his mate….

  “No, just not… not….” Dylan sighed. “If we’re going to do this….”

  “You and me?”

  “Yeah, if you and I are doing this, then….”

  “I’m not fucking anyone else, Dylan.” He shrugged. “Don’t want to.”

  “Fine,” Dylan huffed.

  Avery didn’t look convinced. “If I want to go, I’ll take someone—Jaden or you.”

  Dylan grimaced. If he had to. He didn’t want to sound like he didn’t trust Avery, because he did. He just wanted…. Well, he just wanted to be the only man who touched his mate, and those assholes at the clubs were sure to think Avery was available.

  Reading Dylan’s thoughts, Avery said, “I promise to only go dancing. How’s that?”

  “I didn’t….” He paused, because he wasn’t going to lie to his mate. “It’s not you that I don’t trust, Avery.”

  His smile was warm and gentle. “I get it, but I’m not an idiot. I know what I have in front of me. I can handle myself. And I fully believe in the buddy system. I don’t go unless I have Jaden with me anyway. And if he can’t go, at least now I know I can call you.”

  “Yeah, you can call me any time.”

  “You’re gonna growl at everyone who comes near me, aren’t you?”

  Dylan tilted his shoulders in a shrug.

  “You’re an ass.” Avery pointed a finger in his face.

  Dylan snapped at the finger with his teeth, and Avery jerked it back, laughing. “And you love it.”

  Something passed through Avery’s eyes, but before Dylan could figure out what it was, it was gone.

  Their food arrived—Dylan’s steak and eggs and Avery’s tofu garden scramble—and the conversation slowed. When they did talk, Avery told him more about his family in Louisiana. He enjoyed Avery’s stories from the plantation. He and his siblings, left to get into trouble in the middle of nowhere. Dylan especially liked Avery’s recounting of his time with his grandmother and her love for jazz classics. A faraway look glazed Avery’s eyes when he spoke of that time, like it was something good in his life he wanted to hold on to. A part of Dylan wanted to hold on to it for him, because it was apparent Avery hadn’t had too many of those good memories in his past.

  Before Dylan knew it, they were both hovering over their empty plates, still talking low.

  Avery glanced around. “I think they’re ready to close up.”

  Dylan hadn’t noticed the rest of the patrons leave. When he turned to the counter, he saw Jenny pretending to wipe down the already sparkling surface with a clean rag.

  Dinner had passed much too quickly for Dylan’s liking. “I think you’re right.”

  Leaving was not what he had in mind when he turned back to Avery. The expression on Avery’s face was half heat and half… something else. Something sweet and real. God, he looked like some sort of innocent vixen, temptingly adorable.

  The drive, much like the entire night, flew by, with Avery’s arms hugged warmly around his chest, his body leaned flush against Dylan’s back.

  When he parked across the street from Avery’s building, neither of them moved to get off the Harley. Dylan pressed a hand to where Avery’s were joined at the base of his sternum. He wasn’t ready for the night to end, but the only next step in that direction involved going upstairs with Avery. Dylan had some thinking to do before that happened. A lot of thinking.

  With a heavy sigh, Dylan pulled off his helmet and hung it over the handlebar, then got off the bike. When he turned, Avery stared up at him, his eyes so full of want and heat, tinged with a hint of vulnerability. The look scared Dylan as much as it called to him.

  Shaking off the desire to drag Avery upstairs, Dylan removed Avery’s helmet and waited for him to dismount. “We’ll… um…. We’ll do it again, yeah?” Out of form, Dylan fumbled for the right words.

  Avery didn’t move. His gaze, bright and unwavering, locked Dylan in place. Then Avery stepped forward, and Dylan felt himself drawing Avery into his arms. Avery lifted up on his toes, his fingers curling in the leather of Dylan’s coat, and brushed his lips across Dylan’s—a simple connection—and he was lost. He moaned into the almost chaste kiss. Almost because Avery ended it with a lick and nip to Dylan’s bottom lip that sent a jolt of fire rushing down his spine. It was full of promises—of what was to come, of what could be, of what they had to look forward to. Dylan blinked hard when Avery stepped back and out of his arms.

  “Yes,” Avery answered, cheeks flushed. “We definitely have to do it again.” And with a bashful smile, he turned and trotted across the road to his building. At the door he turned around and waved, the grin on his face full of joy.

  Dylan watched as Avery disappeared into the building, then mounted his bike and headed home. Even the booming clap of thunder and the accompanying, unseasonal downpour couldn’t wash away Dylan’s good mood.

  He wasn’t sure where this thing between them was going. Despite all that he and Avery talked about over dinner, their first meeting hadn’t come up, but Dylan was positive now that one or both of them had gotten the wrong impression. And maybe it wasn’t too late to fix that.

  Still, the seed of doubt niggled at the back of his mind. What if attraction wasn’t enough? What if mating wasn’t in the cards for Dylan?

  Dylan ignored the worry for a little while, lingering on his night with Avery. And that kiss. It would be a while before he slept.

  He was beginning to realize that with Avery in his life, he might never get a good night’s rest again.

  Chapter Eight

  THE FOLLOWING Friday morning, Avery sat in the van waiting for Mrs. Caudwell, one of the wolves on his route, outside of Dr. Scully’s office. Along with his partner, the doctor mainly treated shifters, but since they tended to be a healthy bunch overall, the doctors also saw human patients. There were no illnesses that could be transferred from humans to shifters or vice versa. Despite their many similarities, they were entirely different species—but there were pregnancies, injuries, and as shifters aged, they were susceptible to certain types of cancers and the infirmities that came with growing older. As time passed, their healing abilities lessened as well. Most of Dr. Scully’s patients were the elderly pack members.

  Avery wasn’t thinking about Dr. Scully as he waited, though. For the umpteenth time this week, he found himself daydreaming. His thoughts lingered on his date with Dylan, on his immediate impression when he walked into that diner—cheap, greasy, tacky. At first it had put him off that Dylan would take him there, but as they talked and ate the admittedly fantastic food, it had struck him how friendly and down-to-earth the place seemed. How welcoming. How very… well, Dylan.

>   By the end of the meal, he’d relaxed and enjoyed himself. He really needed to work on his inclination to make snap judgments. Why hadn’t he learned by now?

  Then came the ride and the kiss. He’d wanted to invite Dylan upstairs. He’d wanted more kisses. He’d wanted… so much.

  Probably better that Dylan hadn’t come inside. With their history, if they rushed in, Avery could see their relationship imploding. Right now they were heading toward something good. They were at least beginning to understand each other and maybe becoming friends. If they could get beyond what had happened in the past. If Avery could ignore the huge amount of money he owed Dylan and the fact Dylan knew how much of a screw-up he’d been.

  So, baby steps. That was how it had to be.

  Still, Avery was happier than he could remember being in a long time—which was funny considering he’d traded his carefree life of clubbing and shopping for a job and nights at home. Maybe he felt better for being useful, and for contributing to the pack that could’ve felt like family if he’d only put in the effort before now. Or maybe it was Dylan.

  Being close to his mate felt wonderful. Even if they weren’t together yet. For the first time ever, there was possibility, and that tiny little hint of a chance changed everything.

  Avery pulled his phone from his pocket and rubbed his thumb across the screen, considering. He wanted to call Dylan and invite him out again. His fingers itched to dial that number and hear Dylan’s deep, familiar rumble. The one that never failed to rouse his cock.

  No. Rushing is bad. Rushing will lead to disaster.

  Besides, there was Mrs. Caudwell on her way to the van. He had to drop her off at home and finish his deliveries.

  Avery put his phone away. Later.

  He hopped out of the van to open the back door for Mrs. Caudwell.

  WHEN HE arrived at the Acker house a few hours after taking Mrs. Caudwell home, Avery let himself in with the spare key Mr. Otis had given him earlier in the week. Mr. Otis had handed it to him with a shamed mumble about it being difficult to get to the door some days. Avery took the key, surprised at the level of trust Mr. Otis showed to a veritable stranger. Not that Avery would abuse it. He hadn’t missed Mr. Otis’s grimaces and stiff, pained movements. Avery had seen him wearing the prosthetic leg on occasion, but it seemed to bother him more than it helped. Usually he answered Avery’s knock in the wheelchair. If Avery could spare him the trouble, he saw no reason not to use the key.

  “Mr. Otis?” Avery stepped into the house with the tote bag of food hooked over his elbow.

  “In here.”

  Avery found Mr. Otis seated at the small kitchen table, sorting pills into a daily dispenser. He set the bag on the counter and started unloading it.

  “What is it today? Do I smell Salisbury steak?”

  Avery glanced over his shoulder. The old wolf was focused on his task, but his coloring looked good and the tension that bracketed his mouth wasn’t as pronounced as usual. “Got it in one. Salisbury steak for dinner, but there’s a Caesar chicken wrap and pasta salad for lunch. Your meals for the weekend are in here too.”

  Mr. Otis grunted. “I don’t like those wraps much. Care to split it with me?”

  The invitation startled Avery so much, for a moment he couldn’t think of how to respond.

  “It’s okay if you have to go,” Mr. Otis said gruffly when the silence stretched.

  “No, I… I’d be glad to.”

  Avery finished unpacking the bag and put Mr. Otis’s dinner and the extra meals in the refrigerator for later. He’d helped get Mr. Otis set up enough times he knew the location of the plates and cutlery. He grabbed the necessary supplies and carried them to the table with the Styrofoam box containing Mr. Otis’s wrap and the carton holding what smelled like a pasta salad drizzled with balsamic vinegar and feta cheese. He split the contents onto two plates while Mr. Otis shoved his medicine to the side. Then Avery grabbed a bottle of water for himself and the grape juice that had been sent for Mr. Otis.

  When he joined Mr. Otis at the table, the old wolf picked up his wrap and took a bite with his typical lack of enthusiasm. Avery started on his own food and searched for something to say. It wasn’t lost on him that the Avery of months’ past would have been judging Mr. Otis’s dingy kitchen and mismatched plates and flatware, sneering at the tattered curtains on the window over the sink and the pockmarked linoleum floor. He would have felt uncomfortable in this modest house and worried about whether or not the dishes had been properly sanitized.

  Now, Avery knew he was in no position to judge. He hadn’t earned a single thing in his expensive loft. His modern dinnerware set only matched because his family’s cook, Miss Georgie, had purchased it for him as a housewarming present when he’d moved to Portland. Same for his Italian leather couch, which his parents had given him, though now he suspected it had probably been a gift to celebrate him not returning home.

  How could he maintain any level of snobbery when he’d been living on his parents’ handouts for years? Sure, his trust fund would be coming to him fair and square. By birth, he had a right to that money and the luxurious lifestyle it afforded him. He’d simply gotten lucky being born with a proverbial silver spoon in his mouth instead of the stainless steel Mr. Otis had been dealt.

  If the circumstances surrounding Mr. Otis’s birth weren’t as auspicious, that certainly wasn’t Mr. Otis’s fault. He’d done what he could with what he had—and that deserved respect if nothing else. Avery had gained enough perspective to acknowledge that.

  “I’ve seen some pictures around the house,” Avery said for lack of any other ideas. “Was that your wife, the dark-haired woman?”

  Mr. Otis stopped chewing and went still. After several seconds, he swallowed hard and took a slow sip of his juice. He nodded without looking up. “Yeah. That was my Evie. She died. Five years ago, in the accident that took my leg and eye.”

  Avery recalled some of the other pictures he’d seen. “And the younger girl?”

  Mr. Otis stabbed viciously at one of the bowtie noodles on his plate. “That’s my daughter. Lacey.”

  That explained the shrine-like, girlish bedroom Avery had stumbled on when searching the house for Mr. Otis last week. Avery hesitated. He wanted to ask if she’d passed in the accident too, but he couldn’t think of a way to phrase it that wouldn’t be completely tactless.

  As if reading his mind, Mr. Otis continued, “She’s been missing for a couple of months.”

  Avery blinked. “Missing?” Whoa. A dead wife and a missing daughter. No wonder Mr. Otis seemed so depressed. “What happened?”

  Mr. Otis lifted a bony shoulder, but his fingers clenched around his bottle of juice, betraying the casual gesture. “Dunno. The police haven’t gotten anywhere. They and Alpha Odell think she’s run off with some man.”

  “Why do they think that?” Avery asked, his tone careful. He didn’t want to insult Mr. Otis, but he sensed there was more to the story.

  Mr. Otis’s grip on the bottle tightened until the plastic creaked. “Lacey’s been a bit wild the last few years. Staying out late at those clubs. Dating around. Just having fun and sowing her oats. She’s a good girl.” Mr. Otis’s voice wavered, and he stopped to clear his throat. “Her purse and phone were found at that big club downtown. Inter-something? I got a call from a young man, A.J., who said he found Lacey’s purse lying on the floor under his table. He saw me as her emergency contact and called. He was sweet enough to bring it by too. Not very many people would do that these days. But when he dropped it off, and I hadn’t heard from her, I knew something was wrong. Lacey always had that phone with her. She wouldn’t leave it anywhere. Not by choice.”

  Avery’s brow furrowed. When he’d seen the photos of Lacey, he’d felt a vague flicker of recognition, but nothing solid. Those pictures must’ve been old, though. That girl could never have gotten into a club, not even with the best fake ID. “Do you have a recent picture of her?”

  Mr. Otis met his gaze. “In he
r bedroom. It’s on the dresser.”

  “Mind if I go look?”

  Confusion twisted Mr. Otis’s features, but he shrugged and waved down the hall. In moments, Avery stood in front of a dresser lined with makeup, bottles of perfume, and nail polish. A picture of Lacey sat on one corner in a cheap plastic frame. He picked it up and carried it back to the kitchen, where he resumed his seat.

  “How old is this?”

  “Oh, I’d say about eleven months. It was taken around Thanksgiving last year.” Mr. Otis reached out and touched the frame with a shaky finger. “Lacey was our surprise late in life. We thought the time had passed and we wouldn’t be blessed with a child. Then there she was. Evie was so happy. We both were.”

  Avery considered the picture, his throat tightening at the sorrow in Mr. Otis’s voice. He’d definitely seen this girl before. “Do you know if Lacey spent any time at Howl?”

  Mr. Otis tilted his head. “That’s one of the shifter clubs, right? Downtown?”

  Avery nodded.

  “Yep. I think she went there almost every weekend.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her.” Avery set the picture on the table. “She looks really familiar.”

  Mr. Otis straightened in his chair. “Recently?”

  “No. I haven’t been to Howl in a while. I only go there when….” When he was in the mood for mindless, trashy fun. Howl wasn’t good for much more. Avery had to be in a very specific mood to go there. He preferred the higher-end nightclubs, classier ones with top-shelf liquor that weren’t owned and run by shifters. However, he couldn’t exactly say that to Mr. Otis when his daughter frequented the damn club. “I could go tonight and ask around.”

  Mr. Otis’s watery eyes widened. “You… you would do that?”

  Avery shrugged lightly. “Sure. I go there sometimes anyway. It wouldn’t be a hardship.”

  Mr. Otis swallowed and looked at the picture. “I’d appreciate that.”