by Amy Lane
“He doesn’t yammer, and he listens,” Damien had said.
“You talk more than any person I know!” Glen laughed.
“Yes, but I don’t say anything.” Damien had laughed too, and Preston had spent the rest of the afternoon wondering how a person could talk a lot but not say anything. He figured that if anybody could do that, it was Damien and his brother—they bantered, insulted, bitched, and chattered enough to make Preston put his hands over his ears, and much of it had two meanings, which Preston had trouble understanding.
But he hadn’t felt rejected, and he hadn’t felt awkward, and Damien’s halo grew, if anything, a little shinier.
Glen continued to bring Damien with him whenever they had leave together. One summer evening when Preston was fifteen, he overheard Glen and his mother talking while he was sitting on the porch, checking his grandmother’s massive Labrador mixes for ticks.
“Son, you and Damien aren’t… you know, a thing, are you?”
“If you’re asking if we’re gay? Yes. If you’re asking if we’re dating? No. We never… you know. Clicked that way.”
Preston heard the pause and wondered what his mother was thinking.
“So you’re gay?” she asked, her voice squeaking.
“Yeah. Do you want us to leave?” Glen was what his mother called “blunt.” Preston was also blunt, but he usually managed to horrify his mother and grandmother with his bluntness.
“No! No, honey. Just, you know, had to let it sink in. I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t been ready for the answer.”
“So Damien can stay too?”
“Well, yes—we love having him come here. Does he not like going home?”
Glen grunted. “His parents aren’t great with him being gay,” he said. “And they’re even worse with him being in the military. He likes it here.”
“Well, good. And frankly, it’s good that Preston has the two of you.”
“Why?”
“Hey, Preston!” Damien said, striding from the direction of the barn, which was around the house. “How you doing, kid?”
Preston startled, arms going out, head coming up, like a baby moved too fast. Cletus, his grandmother’s most easygoing dog, gave a startled whuff and trotted off.
“Whoa! Preston! What’s wrong?”
Preston sighed. “My mother was talking about me,” he said, working hard on voice modulation. It was something he practiced during his special day class at school. How to have the appropriate voice for the appropriate surroundings.
“Oh.” Damien dropped his voice automatically. “Sorry. What was she saying?”
Preston looked over his shoulder and saw that the window had cleared and his mother and Glen had moved to another part of the house.
“She was telling him why I got in trouble today,” Preston said glumly.
Damien whistled. “I forget you guys are in school this late. Bummer. Why did you get in trouble today? Your teachers usually love you!”
“I was inappropriate to Ozzy.” He cleaned the dog brush disconsolately, rolling the dog fur into a ball.
“Isn’t Ozzy your best friend?”
Yes. Ozzy was in the special class because he had dyslexia. Preston learned how to modulate his voice, and Ozzy got extra time to listen to books on tape. But Ozzy said the books were boring and he’d rather talk to Preston.
“Yes,” Preston confirmed. “We were sitting next to each other, listening to one of his books. He smelled really good. I told him that, and he laughed. So I tried to kiss him.”
Damien made a strange sound, and Preston looked at his pretty face quickly, checking his expression, running it through the practice expressions he used during SDC. “What is that face?” he asked suspiciously.
“You surprised me,” Damien told him. “I didn’t know you were gay.”
“Neither did Ozzy,” Preston said shortly. He rolled Cletus’s fur into a tighter ball. “And he hit me because he was surprised.”
“Aw, Preston. I’m sorry. Did he get in trouble?”
Preston shook his head, still looking at that perfectly round ball of dog hair. “No. Because before the teacher could get mad, Ozzy said, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! You startled me! I’m sorry, Preston. I’m not gay, but can we still be friends?’”
“Oh wow,” Damien said, sitting next to him on the white-painted porch. Preston kept rolling the dog hair, but now he was looking at Damien’s thighs.
They were very nicely shaped, he thought. Compact and highly defined. He was wearing cargo shorts and a thin T-shirt. Preston stared at the middle of that T-shirt and wondered what his skin felt like under it.
His own skin started to tingle around his nipples and his groin, and he sighed. He’d had erections before, and he knew why they occurred, but he didn’t want to have that discussion with Damien.
“Oh wow what?” Preston asked.
“Oh wow, that’s important. What did you say?” Damien asked, his voice soft and sort of fuzzy.
“I said yes,” Preston told him, surprised. “Why would I take it personal if Ozzy didn’t want to kiss me? He still wanted to be my friend.”
“Yes, he did,” Damien said. “And that’s important. You want to treat a friend like that really good.”
Preston looked up and risked eye contact. Damien’s eyes were kind, and his lips were pulled up in the corners, like he was happy with Preston.
Oh, that was such a relief. His teacher had not been happy at all.
“That’s what I told him,” Preston said. “And the teacher told me that you couldn’t kiss people without permission, and Ozzy said he wasn’t mad. But they had to send a note home explaining why I had a bruise on my cheek, and Mom was… difficult to understand,” he said. Until he’d overheard her talking to Glen, he hadn’t been sure if he’d been in trouble for liking Ozzy or not.
“Well, parents are often difficult to understand,” Damien told him. “I don’t get mine at all.”
“Glen said they don’t like that you’re gay, but they really don’t like that you’re in the military.”
Damien’s mouth twisted. “Something like that. Has anybody told you that listening under windows is bad?”
“All the time,” Preston replied. “I do it anyway. It’s a dumb rule.”
Damien laughed, and Preston’s stomach warmed. Oh, he liked that sound!
“It’s a polite rule,” he corrected. “But given who your brother is, I don’t expect you to know that.”
“Glen isn’t polite?” This was news to Preston—he thought Glen was perfect—but Damien’s even deeper laugh told him that Damien had a different experience.
“Glen’s the rudest jackass I’ve ever met,” Damien said when he could breathe. “Oh my God, he can’t open his mouth without pissing someone off. I once bet him a steak dinner he couldn’t keep quiet for a puddle-jump between San Francisco and Sacramento. I ate steak that night, Preston, believe me!”
Preston’s smile was always a little scary to him because smiling happened without his control. Times like this, it seemed to take over his face.
“He lost the bet!”
“Yes, he did!”
“What did he talk about?”
Damien snorted softly. “Something you’re still a little young to know about.”
“I know about sex,” Preston said. “We’ve had sex-ed four years running.”
“Well, good for you, but I’m too young to be telling you what he was talking about, and we’ll leave it at that. Anyway, your brother talks too much, and he tells inappropriate jokes. So don’t worry about living up to Glen, buddy. You just keep being you.”
Oh, talking to Damien—always a joy—was not getting any worse. For a moment, Preston laughed, but then he remembered the thing that had really bothered him about the altercation with Ozzy.
“What’s wrong?” Damien asked, that kindness in his voice still. “You got sad again.”
“I really wanted to kiss someone,” Preston said on a sigh. “Ho
w am I going to get to kiss someone if I’m not allowed to do it?”
“Well, for one thing, kissing in school is inappropriate.”
“Other kids do it.” That pissed Preston off.
“Yes, but you’re better than that. You only kiss where it’s appropriate—and if anybody tries to get you to make out during class, you use that line, okay?”
“Fine.” But it was disappointing.
“Which brings us to the other thing. If you are hanging with another boy, and you’d like to kiss him, ask his permission. You’re always so honest. Don’t stop. Say, ‘I’d like to kiss you, but I won’t do anything without your consent.’”
And a big lightbulb went off in Preston’s head. “We talk about consent all the time!” And now it made sense.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“So if I wanted to kiss you—”
Damien held up his hands. “I am too old for you, Preston. And that would be inappropriate.”
Preston sighed, his shoulders slumping. “That’s depressing,” he said.
“Here, kid,” Damien said. “I’m going to put my arm around your shoulders. I still don’t want to kiss you, but I want to be your friend. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” Preston said, accepting that Damien had been honest with him and he shouldn’t push that boundary—not now.
“Good.” Damien’s arm was so comforting, Preston forgave him for saying no to the kiss.
“Wanting to kiss someone is so confusing,” he said, his disheartenment obvious.
“Yeah, kid. I know. Here, I’m going to hug you for a sec. Don’t startle.”
Damien put both arms around him, and Preston rested his cares and his confusion on Damien’s strong shoulders.
And he breathed deeply, because that helped him to relax.
Damien smelled so good.
DAMIEN smelled good now too—but he smelled different. The sun smell and the hay smell were gone, and in their place was sweat and a faint cologne. He melted into Preston’s chest, boneless and warm, as though he trusted Preston to carry the weight of his cares and confusion like Preston had trusted him twelve years ago.
Preston had gotten a lot of sex since then.
Damien’s advice had proved incredibly sound. Just telling boys, “I would really like to kiss you, but I won’t do anything without consent,” had helped lessen the confusion. Yes, sometimes boys got hostile, but once the word got out that Preston was gay—and over six feet tall with a chest like a tank—those boys didn’t hang out with him anymore. That hurt, yes, but it also made high school and college very clear-cut. His friends would be his friends, and the other people weren’t let into his heart.
That was comforting.
This hug was the opposite of comforting. Preston’s nipples began to tingle and his groin too, and he’d had enough sex, and enough hugs, to know that that original feeling he’d had for Damien—the one that had made him Preston’s lodestone so no matter where Damien went that was the way Preston pointed—that hadn’t gone away.
For a moment, Preston thought about pulling back, but he remembered Damien’s pale face, the way he had always smiled before the accident, and how now he had no expression, like he was holding them all in his head, and he thought Damien had probably had a lot of sex too.
Damien wouldn’t care if Preston had an erection, right?
But when Damien’s thigh brushed up against Preston’s groin, Damien gave a little shimmy. He leaned back enough to look at Preston’s face.
“Really?” he asked, surprised enough to let some of the old Damien through.
“I have never stopped wanting to kiss you,” Preston said, refusing to be uncomfortable.
“But after the accident—”
Damien’s pocket let out a chirp, followed by a “Danger Zone” ringtone. Damien pulled back and jerked his phone out, his hands obviously shaking, and then he swore.
“Glen?” Preston asked anxiously.
“The call dropped.” Damien pressed a few buttons and then speaker, but there was no message on the voicemail, and he swore.
Another chirp, and he frowned at the screen.
“What’s it say?” Preston asked.
“Bring supplies goddammit. Fucking Nayarit.”
A rather stunned silence hung between them before Damien smirked.
“My brother is an asshat,” Preston said, because that about covered it. “What’s wrong with Nayarit?”
“Not a damned thing,” Damien muttered. “I like Jalisco and Nayarit. But the supplies….” He grimaced. “The earthquake. He must want to help. Damn, I should have thought of that.”
“You were worried,” Preston told him. “The last time one of you disappeared, you almost died.”
Damien gave him a look.
Preston wasn’t sure what sort of look, but it was very much a look.
“I could have gone the entire day without you mentioning that,” Damien said sincerely.
“I don’t know why. We’re both thinking about it every goddamned minute.”
Damien’s mouth dropped, like he’d said something shocking, but Preston thought it was only the truth. “Did he text anything else?”
Damien let out a grunt of frustration. “Yeah. Battery dead.”
And for once they were on the same page. “What. An. Asshole,” Preston said at the same time Damien said, “Ass. Hole.”
They both took a deep breath, the kind that helped them steady their temper. “So Nayarit isn’t bad?” Preston asked.
“Nice beaches, condos, nice people, good food,” Damien confirmed. “Buddy lives there—you remember him from that case with the hiker?”
Preston remembered. Most places had their own rescue dogs, but Preston got called out about six times a year, usually to places where the authorities regarded the certainty of a trained dog with the deep suspicion of witchcraft. They’d known Buddy for a while, and Buddy had called them out on the job a couple of times—Preston in particular—because there simply hadn’t been an association of trained dogs nearby. “Yes,” he said. “Buddy and Martha—they were kind.”
Damien smiled briefly. “Yeah, they were. He’s Glen’s contact, tracking down this Cash Harper kid.” He looked troubled. “I hope they haven’t been hit too hard by the quake. Here—tell you what. I’ll put the plane through flight check, and you take Preacher downtown and get supplies. I’ll send you a list. The survival place is closed today, but Walmart should have what we need.”
Preston nodded. If they knew Glen was okay—at least for now—he could take a minute to breathe.
“We’ll still have the whole flight to talk,” he warned Damien.
“Believe me,” Damien muttered, “I know.”
PRESTON had an orange vest for Preacher in the truck—one of many. Preacher was one of the dogs he took to the special school as a therapy dog twice a month, so Preacher’s was a little bit worn and a little more wrinkled by grubby hands.
Preacher wasn’t really being of service today—but Preston didn’t want to leave him in the back of the truck, and Preacher was too well-trained to act up in public.
Preston traveled up and down the concrete walkways of Walmart, his face set, his mission firmly implanted. Water, granola bars, packets of nuts, plain oatmeal, jerky, gauze, disinfectant, wet wipes, toilet paper, and beach towels. If the survivalist store had been open, Preston would have gotten fire retardant Mylar blankets, which packed really small and conveniently. They were closed on Sunday, though, so Preston grabbed the thin, brightly colored beach towels by the handful and hoped there were no fires. By the time he was done, he had three carts ready to take through checkout, and if it wasn’t for Preacher’s hopeful little twitch of the eyebrows, he might have forgotten the most important thing.
“Treats?” he asked Preacher gently. In response, Preacher allowed his bright pink tongue to loll in his chocolate-brindled face.
Preston smiled at his best friend and scratched him behind the ears, then grabbed the bag of sof
t-meat treats that Preacher loved best of all. With any luck, Preacher would get the whole bag to himself for just sitting and calming people down, but Preston had been training dogs since he was a little kid. His grandmother had helped lead search-and-rescue teams with dogs when he, Glen, and his mother had moved to the ranch, and Preston had kept with the tradition. If he knew one thing about dogs, it was that they worked hard for love and toys—but they worked extra hard for treats.
It didn’t matter what kind of dog either. He had drug-sniffing dogs and people-sniffing dogs and gun-sniffing dogs—and cadaver-sniffing dogs, because cadaver was a fancy word for dead body.
Preacher went for the live people, mostly, although he’d let you know if there was a dead rabbit nearby. Or a dead person, but that was depressing.
Preston took in strays and tested them for aptitude, and some dogs took to people work with so much enthusiasm, Preston had to wonder if they’d been people before they were dogs. The dogs that had aptitude were trained up, but even if they were dumber than posts, Preston always had a place for them on the ranch. And if the ranch wasn’t their favorite place, he had help finding them a place somewhere else.
Ozzy and his girlfriend, Belinda, had moved in with Preston after his grandmother died and his mom had moved to a nearby apartment complex. Preston had taken nearly every animal husbandry class his local junior college had to offer and was capable of giving his dogs shots, of helping the pregnant ones give birth, and of stitching up the occasional ripped ear or damaged paw. He made a small income supplying trained dogs for the local law enforcement, and he got a commission whenever he helped Glen and Damien with their private search-and-rescue business.
Preston spent six hours a week training with his local dog association, learning police protocols when dogs were being employed, networking with the other dog trainers so he and his dogs could help more than they got in the way. It was enough to pay the taxes, to keep up the house, to feed and house the dogs. At least once a month, he and the dogs he was working with most participated in an overnight exercise or endurance run—taking dogs through uninhabited land and looking for lost campers or hikers was not for the weak or the unprepared.