by BA Tortuga
Thayne was definitely bad for business.
Home Fires
HOUSTON CRAWLED under the fence, whimpering as the wood caught on his skin, tore his stolen shirt. Only a few more yards. He’d made it across country. He’d walked. He’d ridden.
He’d run.
Three days. Seven hundred miles. Dirt. Thorns.
Pain.
Still, Houston was free and he….
Houston lifted his head, sniffed the air.
Jackson.
Oh sweet Jesus. Please.
He sniffed again, his head going back so he could really scent the air. Yes. Jackson. Faint, but there. Somewhere in this great mass of land, Houston knew he would find Jackson. Tonight.
He’d stolen the tattered scrubs he was wearing and they hung from him like a clown’s clothes. Would Jackson know him still? Over a year and a half since they’d fought and growled and gone their separate ways. So long since….
Fuck.
He wasn’t here to stay.
He just couldn’t figure out where else to go.
The creosote and rocks pulled at those stupid clothes, making him snarl, making him stumble. When the lights finally came into view, he was just ready to give up and howl his fury to the night.
His knees hit the dirt, heart slamming in his chest, sending the blood moving through his body like fire.
No. No, he wasn’t fucking giving up here.
Not here.
Not yet.
Houston stumbled to his feet, growling low as he lurched toward the lights.
The house wasn’t at all what he would have expected. It was a simple adobe, old and shabby, with one big light illuminating a yard of prickly pear. Damn. Someone was grumpy these days, if that yard was anything to go by.
He headed straight to the door—Jackson had to have scented him. Had to. And if the fucker killed him straightaway? Hell, he wouldn’t have died in a cage.
The door opened just as he got to it to knock, the barrel of a shotgun poking out. “Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying.”
“I don’t have a dime to my name, Jackson, and I’m dead on my fucking feet. Either shoot my sorry ass or let me in.”
“Jesus. I fucking thought someone was baiting me with your scent.” The gun went away, and Jackson came out and put an arm around him, leading him in.
Oh.
Oh fuck him. That scent washed over him in a rush, and the low keening sound poured out of him.
“I got you, man. Whatever it is, I got you.” He could almost feel the confusion vibrating through him from Jackson, but bless him, the man didn’t ask. Just took him to the couch and eased him down. “Water?”
“Please.” Houston blinked at his hands, the bruises and dirt making them look almost like he remembered them—tanned and healthy instead of dead pale.
“Sit a minute.” It was like he’d just left yesterday, and on friendly terms, the way Jackson went and snagged a bottle of water, coming back to press it into his hands.
He didn’t have any words. None.
Houston just sat there and stared at Jackson, drinking the man in.
“You need anything else?” Jackson asked, squatting down and patting his leg.
“I….” He could feel his eyes rolling a bit. “Jackson.”
“Shh.” Warm brown eyes were right there for him to stare into when he could see again. Solid as a rock, that was Jackson. “You need to grab a shower and rest, man.”
“Yeah.” Yeah, he did. If he could just sit a few more seconds. Breathe.
“Take your time.” Another pat and Jackson stood up, sort of toodling around, getting towels and shit, quiet as a mouse.
It was fucking weird.
Which, given the last year of his life had been spent in a cage with three other lycs like him? Was pretty fucking impressive.
Finally Jackson wandered back over, handed him a sandwich. “Here, man. Eat something.”
His stomach snarled, the hunger sudden and sharp. His mouth watered, teeth bared at the scent of meat and cheese.
“That’s it, man, you look half-starved. Have this and I’ll get you some juice. Go slow, though. No puking.”
He pounced, words lost in the rush of hunger. Food.
Food.
Good food.
He wasn’t a bit sick, either. Not one bit. He could probably eat five more. Jackson just grinned and went to get him another, along with some bright, tart juice.
His tongue was lolling; he knew it. He couldn’t stop it. He hadn’t been able to in months. Not since….
Oh.
Juice.
Juice.
“There you go. Tastes good, huh? You’ve been doing some kind of thirsty work.” So fucking nice. Concerned.
He gave Jackson a laugh that was more bitter bark than anything. “Running’ll do that.”
“You’re gonna tell me all about it. But you’re gonna bathe and get some rest first.” Pulling him up once he’d finished his juice, Jackson took him to the bathroom, where those almost threadbare towels lay on the sink. “Get a shower. I’ll fold out the couch.”
“’Kay.” One night’s sleep and then he could go again. He just needed a night and a pair of jeans and maybe some shoes. He nodded to Jackson, padding over to the shower and tearing the stolen scrubs away.
The water started flowing, and he groaned, knees hitting ceramic as the filth slid from him. He would have cried out with it if he hadn’t been asleep before his joints stopped throbbing.
MAN. JACKSON stared at his mate, looking like a bag of bones in the sheets. Hell, he didn’t know what had happened to Houston, but between the skin-and-bones look and the medicinal smell, well… it had to suck. Shit, it had to suck so bad that he hadn’t even had the heart to yell at the man.
He always thought he’d want to if Houston showed back up on his doorstep. But then, his doorstep used to be just outside of Albuquerque, not down in the desert outside of Tularosa. It was a whole new fucking world these days, so maybe he ought to give Houston the benefit of the doubt.
The man was flat on his back, snoring and whining, his hands opening and closing when Jackson walked in to check on him. Hell, the guy would have to eat every few hours to get his strength back, so maybe it was time to offer him a steak.
He moved closer, and Houston snarled, going from dead-asleep to painfully awake in a single breath, green eyes huge and scared.
Scared?
What the fuck?
“Hey. You want something rare and juicy, man?” He spoke calmly, easily, soothing Houston the best he could.
“Jackson.” Houston panted, staring at him, nostrils flaring. “I wasn’t…. I didn’t know if you were real.”
“Right here.” Grinning, he held down a hand. “Come and let me feed you.”
Houston’s hands were torn up, two nails missing. “You smell good.”
“Yeah?” Still smiling, Jackson pulled, getting Houston to his feet, unsteady as he was. “Well, good. I’d hate to think I stank.”
“I do.” Houston looked out the window a little, nostrils flaring. “I…. Do you really have food?”
“I have steak and eggs ready to go. I just wanted to make sure you were hungry.” Oh, baby, what happened to you? He wanted to ask, but Houston wasn’t near ready.
Houston nodded, stepped close, and just rested that poor shorn head on his shoulder. Jackson could remember that dark brown hair thick, streaming down over that broad back. Now it was just… gone.
One hand came up of its own volition, stroked over the stubbly skin, soothing them both. “You need to use the head? I’ll get the steaks under the broiler. One minute on each side, yeah?”
He got a nod, a low sound that broke his heart, and then Houston stepped away, the soft sweats he’d let the man borrow hanging from pointed hips.
Grabbing Houston’s arms, he looked into the man’s eyes and held them. “You can stay as long as you need to, baby. You know that, right?”
“They’ll
find me.” One hand cupped his cheek. “I just had to come.”
No matter what the world said, they all still mated for life, didn’t they?
Who? The word trembled on his lips, but Jackson held it in, shaking his head instead. “Whoever it is will have to wait for me to get done with you. Now, go pee. I’ll cook.”
Houston nodded, almost grinning at him, tongue sliding on his chin so quickly he almost missed it.
That had him laughing, swatting Houston’s butt. But gently, because there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh there. Then he headed off to the kitchen to start the steaks, his own mouth watering at the smell of good, fresh meat.
It didn’t take long before Houston came padding in, smelling of soap and clean water and pure hunger. “Smells good.”
“Yeah, it does.” He’d been up half the night, checking on Houston from the doorway. He needed his energy. “Scrambled or fried on the eggs?”
“What?” The honest look of confusion made him want to growl.
“Eggs, baby. How do you want them? You used to like scrambled and runny.” Someone was gonna die for that look.
“Did I? I can eat them any way.” Houston stepped closer to the stove, licking his lips, staring at the meat. “Real meat. It’s so pretty.”
“How long has it been?” That was a good place to start, right? The eggs went into the pan, the steaks came out of the broiler, and he slid one onto a plate, pushed it over.
“Over a year since they took me. I broke out four days ago? Five?”
The questions rose up again, but the haunted look in Houston’s eyes had him biting them back again. “Eat, man. No one’s got you now but me.”
“Thank you.” Houston pounced on the steak, acting as lost in it as he’d ever seen the man. It just didn’t add up—this desperate, near-feral man that he remembered as a strong, sly go-getter who was heading to the big city to make money, to make a name away from the desert. Watching the man eat like that, like a starving beast, made him hurt deep down. Lord knew, he’d always said that the city thing would end badly.
The plate was licked clean, every speck of food gone, Houston already starting to droop again, looking a little green around the gills.
“Maybe the eggs should wait until you lie down some more, baby.” The baby had popped right back up like Houston had never curled his lip over it while leaving.
“I…. Fuck, I’m tired.” Houston shivered, panting a little.
“There you go. You’ll have a nap. I’ll work some. You can have more food when you get up. Ain’t no hurry.”
“I should go before they find me. I took the homing device out and left it outside Yuma.”
“The homing… okay, baby. I have to know what you got into.” Goddamn, but something evil had gotten a hold of his Houston. He needed to know, just in case it did show up on his doorstep.
Houston lifted one arm, the ribs there visible and covered in what looked like a fucking barcode, topped with a gash, something obviously torn out of Houston’s body. Jesus fucking Christ. Look at that. “They call it the LCP.”
“The LCP.” What the fuck was that? The Light-shorts Cancer Patrol? The Lofty Cocksucker’s Party?
“Lycan Control and Prevention.”
Control and prevention? What the fuck? “Like in Prevention magazine? Or like pest control? What the fuck?” Goddamn, it made no sense.
“Yeah. Prevention fucking magazine. That’s it. I was running with a pack on the fucking sand, and a bunch of soldiers took us, popped us in cages, and started asking if our motherfucking cholesterol was high!”
“Oh, well. At least you know you have a healthy heart. Did they stick a finger up your ass to check your prostate too?” The man had to be crazy. That was the only explanation. The government didn’t believe in werewolves.
Houston snarled, teeth bared, and the man blind tackled him and took them to the floor, his head whacking on the tile hard enough that he saw stars. The growl in his ear was pure animal, the fury dripping in the sound. “I pray you never fucking know what they did to me.”
The urge to let the alpha out and take Houston down almost overtook him, but he checked it. Jackson figured Houston needed this, needed whatever tiny shred of control he could grab. Needed to prove he was still a big fucking dog. “Okay, baby. Just calm down, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Houston started to change—which so fucking didn’t work, since the full moon wasn’t for another week, at least—then stopped. “Thanks for the steak.”
Then Houston just pushed up and off, heading for the door.
Fuck, talk about running hot and cold.
Oh hell no. That was his very next thought before he stopped thinking and leaped, taking Houston right down under him and twisting them until he could get to that long, pale throat. “No.”
Houston didn’t have a fucking chance—he never had, even at his prime, and fuck knew Houston was a thousand miles from that.
His teeth sank deep for half a second before Jackson pulled back. “You’re not leaving, baby. You’re in no shape. You’re going back to bed.”
“Jackson.” He’d seen that fucking look so many times it was branded in his head—that look that was more thought than instinct, that confusion that only went away when Houston was sleeping or fucking. Goddamn the man’s mother for refusing to raise her cubs knowing what they were.
He growled, appealing to the instinct instead of the intellect. “Get your ass up and go to bed. I’ll keep watch.”
Houston growled back, eyes rolling a bit, but the man moved, heading for the sofa, exhaustion written in the lines of the lean body.
There. That was better. He watched Houston settle in, then covered the man with the quilt. “I’ll take care of you, man,” he said as those eyelids drooped.
And while Houston slept, he’d do a little research on the LCP. Just because.
MEN. MEN with guns and masks and fucking tear gas. They were at the window, ripping away the mosquito netting, the sound of waves crashing on the beach almost drowning them out. Bright lights flared to life, leaving all of them dazed and blinking. Then the guns started popping, pop-pop-popping, smoke bombs dropping in on them, abrading their senses even as rough rifle stocks smashed their heads in. Then everything went dark. They were taken….
He woke with a start, eyes rolling. They landed on an old painting of some mountains in the middle of fucking nowhere that Jackson had carried around for twenty years. Sentimental bastard.
The urge to go over and tear it from the wall, bash it into thousands of pieces, was so huge it hurt.
Burned.
If he did it, then no one else could take it from Jackson and use it.
Fuck, he needed to get the hell out of there.
Like he’d conjured the man up out of thin air, Jackson came padding over, sat on the edge of the saggy mattress. “Bad dream?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you okay?” So fucking fine. Jackson had improved with age, grown stronger. The man was all heavy muscle and warm eyes and long, long black hair.
“I’m good. Was just working on the workroom a little. Cleaning.” Jacks winked at him, reaching out to put a hand on his chest. “You’re racing, man.”
“Always running.” Busy, busy—running with the pack, working at the bank, the scent of people everywhere.
“Well, here you can just sit a bit, okay?” Leaning down, Jackson pressed their foreheads together. “Rest.”
Those eyes were the darkest brown he’d ever seen, the rim around the irises a deep gray. Fuck, he’d missed them.
Jackson grinned, then kissed him lightly. “I’m glad you came here, baby.”
Where else would he go? No matter how they’d fought and scrapped, Jackson was home. “There wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be.”
“Then you made the right choice. So did I, letting you in. I almost shot you.” That was said with a laugh too, so he knew better. Knew Jackson would never hurt him like that.
“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand gre
nades.” He took a deep breath, pulling the good scents of Jackson in.
“Uh-huh. And steaks. Almost cooked. For us, anyway.” They both grinned at that one, the fact they used to argue about how long to cook the damned meat hanging there.
“I missed your face.” He shouldn’t have left. He should have stayed with Jackson.
“Yeah?” Scooting down, Jacks wrapped around him, sort of cuddling right in. Just like that. “I missed you too. Sort of wandered until I found here. Away.”
Oh. Oh yes. It was more than he could do, not to hum and moan, wallow into those muscles.
“I thought I’d never find it.”
“I… well, I wanted to be out where no one else came. Just the coyotes and lizards.” Jackson shrugged, nuzzling at him. “I needed the solitude.”
Yeah, and he’d needed the crush of people everywhere just to shut out that voice in him that kept howling for his mate.
He guessed they all took what they fucking needed.
“I don’t want to push, baby, but sometime soon you’re gonna have to tell me who had you. What we need to do to prepare if they do come.” Jacks was always the practical one.
“Soldiers.” He closed his eyes, forcing himself not to growl. “Soldiers and doctors. They took ten of us. There were two others left when I escaped.”
Two bitches, one left mindless and broken, the other paralyzed. He’d never forget the look in her eyes as he killed two guards and hit the window.
“Jesus, baby. You weren’t shitting me? What the fuck?” Hugging him tight, Jackson breathed air into his space, the scent calming him again.
“They did tests. Made us change without the moon.” He’d been cut and beaten, starved and driven nearly out of his mind. “They want to make soldiers who can change at will, eventually. They want to breed the women.”
The shakes took him, the wolf snarling and forcing itself to the surface, and he fought it back.
“Shh. Shh, baby. It’s not time yet. You’re all messed up.” It wasn’t an accusation. Just soothing words, spoken against his skin.
“I know. They inked me, made me theirs. Shaved me.” He’d howled for days after that.