by Jaime Samms
“So glad you do as you’re told, dumbass,” Cobalt bitched at him as he opened the door.
“I’m sorry?” Preston blinked at him.
“Oh! Not you. I told the mutt to stay in the living room.” He waved the frying pan in Chance’s general direction. “He ignored me.”
Chance danced back from the open door, retreating to the living room doorway as Preston gently extracted the pan from Cobalt’s grip and placed it back on the stove. Chance didn’t move until Cobalt had closed the door behind Preston and the outside was once more safely on the other side. As soon as it was, he rushed forward to wash Preston with showers of joy and dog drool.
“He’s doing better,” Preston said, crouching to put down his tools and focus all his attention exactly where Chance demanded it.
“If by better, you mean instead of shaking like a leaf every time he hears a kid outside or a car pass, he’s just wandering the very center six square feet of the house, then I suppose.”
“Give him time.”
“I have the world’s only agoraphobic dog.” He flicked a hand into the air. “We make a perfect pair. I don’t like going outside, and he’s afraid to. Now we just have to teach him to use the toilet.”
“We’ll take him out later,” Preston said, getting to his feet. “He’ll be fine.”
“We?” Cobalt lifted one eyebrow.
“You remember how I’m kind of good with animals?” Preston leveled a look at him. “Just because one horse threw me doesn’t mean I lost my touch.”
“Right.” Cobalt shivered. Threw him, kicked him, stepped on him, broke three ribs, a leg, an arm, a hip and damn near caved in his skull. But he tried hard not to remember that day. The sound of panicked horse. The blood. Preston not moving. He stuffed shaking hands under his armpits and smiled weakly, gaze drawn once more to the scars on Preston’s face.
“It was a long time ago,” Preston said quietly, moving close enough to place a hand on Cobalt’s arm. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Why are you here?” Cobalt shook himself, dislodging Preston’s hand.
“Oh.” Preston shuffled back and waved a big hand at the kitchen window. “Your window. It’s broken. I can fix it.”
“You’re a chauffeur.”
“I’m a lot of things,” he said, his voice low and calm as he bent for the toolbox.
And he was. Driving a car was pretty much the least of his abilities. Cobalt knew that.
“Sorry. Of course. But you don’t have to.”
“It has to be fixed.”
“I can hire someone. I don’t need you to—”
“If you actually could have hired someone to fix it, you wouldn’t have taped a piece of cardboard over it.”
Cobalt glared at his back as he set the toolbox on the counter and began to peel away the tape. Asshole! “Hey! I didn’t ask you to do that!”
“No. You didn’t.” He tossed the tape and cardboard aside and poked at the muntins surrounding the broken pane with a wide fingertip. “Putty’s starting to crack,” he mused.
“What? Putty?”
“Ever had this window out?” he asked.
“What? Out? No. Why would I?”
“Maintenance.” With a frown, Preston studied the edges of the frame. “Looks painted in. You don’t open it?”
“It’s stuck.”
“Yes.” His frown deepened. “Are all the windows like this?”
“It’s an old house.”
Preston opened his toolbox and selected a knife that he zipped open. For a few minutes, Cobalt just watched as he cut around the edges of the frame, slicing through layers of paint. It took him a while to get the window loosened enough to force it open. Once he had, he propped it up with some paint sticks from his box and pried a piece of the frame itself loose. That made removing the window easy, which he did, then laid it on the small table in the corner.
Cobalt watched as he busied himself removing the putty and the broken panes and taking measurements.
“I’ll have to go get new pieces of glass. You want to come?” He eyed Cobalt’s attire.
He was still wearing a pair of loose purple sleep pants and a filmy white tank top that clearly had not been bought in the men’s section of any store.
Cobalt crossed his arms over his chest. “I—” Heat rolled up into his face. “Pajamas,” he mumbled.
Preston nodded. “I see.” His voice was very low, slightly thick, and he cleared his throat. “I can wait… for you to change.” He blinked and licked his lips. “Or… go.”
Cobalt lifted his chin. “You can wait,” he said imperiously. “I’ll have to pay for whatever you buy, after all, won’t I?”
“Yes. Sure.”
Cobalt turned on a heel and strode from the room. Fuck Preston if he thought he’d intimidate Cobalt out of wearing whatever the hell he pleased. He hurried up to his room and pulled open his closet. He had half a mind to dig deep in the depths of it for one of the long tunic shirts he could pull over leggings. See how Preston liked walking through a hardware store with a man in a dress.
But Preston might not like that. Might not want to be seen with him dressed that way. Not that he hadn’t seen Cobalt in the most fem attire Cobalt owned often enough. He did drive him around more and more lately. But this was different. This wasn’t a driver escorting his eccentric charge around. This was… what was this?
He dug through the clothes, shoving aside one thing after another, searching. What the hell did a person wear to a hardware store? He finally settled on a worn pair of washed-out gray jeans with holes in the knees under a long peach blouse and fuzzy sweater-vest. They were comfort clothes, lax and worn, and he knew they complemented his too-skinny frame and too-pale complexion. The peach reflected at least a bit of color up onto his cheeks, and the rust of the furry sweater-vest almost matched the current red-dyed tips of his spiked hair.
He threw on the bare minimum of makeup. Foundation to cover his sallowness, liner and mascara around his eyes so they wouldn’t look so hollow, and gloss to soften lips now too prominent in his gaunt face. He’d fill out again eventually, but for now, a little help wouldn’t hurt.
“Good enough,” he muttered, keenly aware of the heavy presence of the man waiting downstairs. He found some black half boots with reasonable heels and hurried back down the stairs.
“Ready?” Preston asked, standing from where he’d been sitting on the hallway floor at the foot of the steps, playing with the dog. “We should—oh.” He stopped midturn, headed for the corner where the dog’s leash was stored, and stared.
“What?” Cobalt took a step back, tripping over the bottom step.
Preston shot out a hand to grip his elbow and wrapped warm, firm fingers around it. Everything about him was so warm, strong. Steady.
Cobalt was glad of the support, because his knees wobbled as he stared back. “Is something wrong?” He suddenly doubted his choice of apparel. Was it too much? Too fem? Too outrageous for this staid, calm, completely normal man?
“Nothing wrong at all,” Preston said. His smile reached his eyes, and there were limitless horizons in there.
Cobalt couldn’t look away.
“Shall we?” Preston asked, motioning toward the door. “Chance can ride in the back.”
“Chance.” Cobalt crashed back to reality. “Damn. He—we—shit.”
“What?”
“He wouldn’t even let me put his collar on all day. He’s worse after last night than he was when I first got him. He won’t go—”
“This collar?” Preston pushed three fingers under the bright green bedazzled collar around Chance’s neck.
“How did you…?”
“I convinced him the rhinestones complemented his fur, and he condescended to wear it. Honestly. It had nothing to do with going outside. Maybe it was blinding him?” Preston winked and Cobalt almost had to smile.
“He likes that one.” Cobalt lifted his chin and met Preston’s gaze, daring him to make an issue of it.<
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“It suits him,” Preston agreed with a smile.
He was still talking about the dog. Cobalt narrowed his eyes. Wasn’t he?
“We’re a lot alike,” he said, tone even and bold.
Preston’s smile widened. “I had noticed, actually.” He plucked Chance’s leash off its hook by the door. “Ready?”
Chapter 8
PRESTON WAS so very glad for the distraction of the dog pressed against his leg as he opened the door. Chance seemed to think he could body meld to Preston for safety. “You’re okay,” Preston assured him, placing a hand on the top of his head as he kept tight hold of the leash and took a small step forward.
It was good having something to concentrate on other than the way Cobalt’s jeans clung to dance-toned thighs, or the pretty flush in his cheeks lent by the sweater Preston longed to caress. Chance shivering against him gave him focus, and he talked quietly to the mutt while Cobalt gathered his wallet and keys.
“I told you he didn’t want to go outside,” Cobalt said from behind him. “He’s terrified.”
“He’ll be fine. He can’t never go outside. He’ll get bored, then frantic, and drive you crazy with him. He just has to get over the fright.”
Cobalt lifted an eyebrow exactly like his brother, looking down his nose, lips pursed, arms crossed. “Good luck with that.” He canted a hip and leaned on the stove. “It took me three weeks to get him to look out the living room window after I first got him. I had to litter train him.”
“You can’t litter train a dog.” He glanced down at Chance. “Can you?”
Chance whined and pushed closer, curving his body to the contour of Preston’s thigh.
Preston crouched. “I am not going to let them near you, okay? You’re safe.”
Chance licked his chin.
“Good.” Preston stood and looked to Cobalt. “Put a coat on and go outside. If he sees you out there, it’ll make him more comfortable. He trusts you.”
Something fleeting and frightened passed over Cobalt’s face, but he straightened and plucked a thick woolen cream-colored shawl off a hook by the door. It took him a few seconds to wrap it around his shoulders, then reached into a basket. He came out with what looked like a polished stick, which he wove through a few voids in the shawl, pinning it securely in place.
The sight of him, his angles shrouded in the feminine attire, caused a brief, light-headed moment where Preston couldn’t quite breathe properly. He didn’t look like a woman. He looked like himself, strong and confident, and so unlike the man who had slunk home from the ballet to buy a house in the slums and lick wounds the world had left him with. Today, he was light-years from the man who had curled on the couch only a few weeks before, wan and quiet, bundled under a heap of blankets, looking shell-shocked and more than a little angry at the world.
The dog licked Preston’s fingers, and he shook himself. The moment passed.
Cobalt strode to the door, turned the handle, then looked over his shoulder. “You ready? Because in about five seconds, that suck is going to rip a few of your fingers off trying to get back under the coffee table. Don’t hold the leash too hard or he’ll hurt you.”
“He won’t,” Preston assured him, stroking a soothing hand over the dog’s ruff. “Have faith. He’s a survivor.”
“Aren’t we all, honey.” Cobalt turned his back and opened the door with a flourish. He pushed the screen open and stepped out onto the porch.
Chance whined under Preston’s hand, pushing so hard against him, he had to take a side step to brace himself. He held firm, pushing his own confidence and reassurance back at the dog, staying in charge of what was happening. Reinforcing that he was going to go outside, and Chance was going to go with him, because that was what he wanted Chance to do. Preston tugged lightly on his leash and moved toward the door.
There was momentary resistance as Chance planted his feet. A loud keening rose from the dog, but after a heartbeat, he moved, following close, shivering side still hugging Preston’s leg.
Cobalt took up a spot on the other side of the dog, flanking him, touching his head with the palm of his hand, the touch steady as he walked.
“That’s it,” Preston said to them both. “This is fine. We’ll get in the car, and you can go lock up, yeah?”
“Of course.” Cobalt glanced over. His eyes were shining in the late morning sunshine. He blinked hard and gave a curt nod. “Thank you.”
Preston smiled and opened the back door of the car. Chance needed no urging to get inside. He jumped up onto the seat and slunk into a tight ball in the center, chin on his paws. He gazed back at them, eyes conveying something between gratitude and accusation.
“You’re all right,” Preston told him again as he shut the door.
Cobalt was soon back, and Preston hurried to open the passenger door for him. “I should sit in the back with—”
“You should give him some space to know he’s okay on his own,” Preston said. “Get in.”
That sounded like an order. Damn. He hadn’t meant it to sound so demanding.
Cobalt shot him a look, eyes wide, lips a small, parted O of surprise. His cheeks flushed and he swallowed.
Preston drew in a deep breath and pulled himself up taller. He should say please. Or apologize. He nodded toward the empty seat, though. He couldn’t look away from Cobalt, whose tongue came out to lick at glossy lips.
“Fine,” Cobalt said. The word was the same haughty sort of response Preston expected, but there was too much air behind it. Too much… breath… and waiting.
Preston kept himself tight. Controlled. No way did that exchange—that hitch of juxtaposed positions between them—just happen.
Cobalt sank into the car. He glanced over his shoulder and said something to the dog Preston couldn’t hear. A complaint? A derisive remark about Preston’s gall at ordering him around?
But when he had hurried around to the driver’s side and got in, Cobalt was sitting serenely next to him, hands demurely clasped in his lap. He stared straight ahead and said nothing.
Preston likewise remained silent as he started the car and pulled out into the street.
Neither of them spoke while he drove, until they passed the nearby chain store and headed west, toward the parts of town Cobalt usually avoided.
“Where are we going?” Cobalt demanded. His staid poise was suddenly tight, fingers clenched around each other until the knuckles whitened. Though he hadn’t actually moved, every line of his body conveyed tension and unbearable strain.
Preston longed to reach over and take one hand in his, soothe away the anxiety, but that was a step too far and he knew it. He tightened his own grip on the wheel. “I’m not comfortable leaving Chance in the car while we shop. The chain store won’t let us bring him inside.”
“So where are we going?” Cobalt separated each word with a sharp, dangerous space.
Preston straightened his back. No way would he allow Cobalt to wedge bits of his privilege between them. Not today.
“We can get what we need at a smaller place and not have to leave the dog in the car.”
“You mean the one by Father’s stables. I don’t go there,” Cobalt said. His hands had moved. One gripped the armrest of the door. The other stroked reflexively over his shawl, fingers playing along the nubs in the material like they were a road map to calm.
“We can take Chance inside with us.”
“No.”
Preston turned the car off the main road onto a side street that led past the edge of the larger estates toward those on the outskirts of the city. These homes had fields, elaborate barns housing horses, staff, and prestige. All the things Cobalt had left behind.
Preston guided the car away from the big estates and toward a small business center, avoiding a pothole as he drew up to a stop sign. Once stopped, he glanced over at Cobalt, set his jaw, and placed a stilling hand over Cobalt’s more and more frenetically moving ones.
“Yes,” he said firmly. Sure. It was a ga
mble, putting his foot down. But it was a calculated one. He hadn’t been rebuffed yet, so he had a fifty-fifty chance he wouldn’t get told where to go this time either. He liked his odds.
Cobalt stared at him, lips pursed, eyes wide. For a long moment, his mascaraed lashes trembled. Then they fell in a slow blink. When he opened his eyes again, there was a deeper expanse to them. Preston had to brace himself not to fall in.
“What?” Cobalt asked, voice low.
“We are going to the place we know so we can take Chance inside with us. I won’t leave him in the car alone in a parking lot for any length of time.”
“I said—”
“Today, I say.” Preston closed his fingers around Cobalt’s and drew their hands down to rest on the console between them. “So sit tight and stop trying to throw your weight around. Today you don’t have to be in charge.”
“I am always in charge.”
Preston eased off the brake and rolled through the intersection, attention back on the road. “Not today.”
He expected more argument. None came. He didn’t dare look over to see what Cobalt was doing. He could happily focus on what he wasn’t doing for the moment, and that was removing his hand from under Preston’s enclosing grip. For a little while, until Preston needed that hand to drive, he was happy to let it remain protectively over Cobalt’s and not question why it was allowed to continue.
Chapter 9
HE SHOULD be working up a great rage at being told, basically, to sit down and shut up. He didn’t let people tell him what to do. He’d never listened to his parents. That was why they were no longer a part of his life. He didn’t do as Cal ordered either.
Cobalt frowned. That wasn’t really true. Gently he extracted his hand. Not because he didn’t want to leave it in contact with the warmth that was Preston. Because Preston didn’t deserve to be treated like this.
There was Cal, who would never understand this—whatever it was—that was going on with Preston. If he’d seen any bit of what had been Cobalt’s life over the past twenty-four hours, he would be ordering Preston away from Cobalt and demanding he find a new driver.