by Amy Lane
Training rescue dogs was no way to get rich. Preston was lucky, because Glen and Damien had gotten funding for their business and included him in it. He could afford to pay Ozzy and Belinda with more than free rent.
But the work was, in the end, a labor of love.
“What a wonderful dog,” the woman behind the counter said happily. “He’s a service dog?”
“Yes.” Preston thought the orange vest was self-explanatory, but she seemed well-intentioned.
“What kind of service? Antianxiety? Epilepsy? Depression?”
“He finds people,” Preston said, wondering if she thought Preston had those things. He smiled extra wide so she would think he was okay and not ask him any personal questions.
“Dead people?” she squeaked, and on the plus side, she suddenly looked less interested in him, but on the minus side, now she looked afraid.
“Live people are his specialty,” he said. “But I have dogs at home who will find you super quick if you’re dead and need that.”
The woman held her hand to her throat, like she was afraid Preston was going to make her dead. He tried another smile, and she recoiled, and he lowered his hand to Preacher’s head. Preacher licked his wrist, and Preston relaxed his smile. He knew Preacher was his friend—he had nothing to prove here.
The woman resumed ringing up the tremendous grocery order, and Preston paid for it and left.
As he was loading the car, Preacher waiting patiently at his heels, he reflected that people didn’t understand the nature of dogs at all. Preston didn’t bring Preacher into Walmart because he needed company or because Preacher could do something for him—he brought his buddy with him because Preston loved him. Dogs were so simple. You gave them a task, and you gave them a reward. Sometimes the reward was beef jerky or Pup-Peroni. Sometimes it was a solid pet and an attaboy. What the dogs didn’t realize was that watching them work, giving them the task, giving them the reward—that was Preston’s reward. Big happy furry bodies—or little wriggling yapping ones—and all of that ferocious goodwill.
Most dog handlers worked for free in their spare hours—and each dog required an amazing number of hours to train. Preston only knew of one dog handler in his association who had a functional working relationship that wasn’t with dogs—and that was because Carla’s wife also worked with her own dogs. It was a family thing.
Preston had gotten lots of sex in college, and that was lucky, because for the last few years, not counting a few hookups when he’d been out running rescue jobs with Glen and Damien, his great romance had been with his dogs.
Which was fine, because no lover had lived up to the torch he’d carried for Damien. He’d expected the burning in his chest whenever Damien smiled at him or went in for a hug to dim over the last twelve years. He wasn’t stupid—he knew people’s feelings changed over time.
But Damien had only gotten more wonderful.
Even in the last year and a half, since the accident, when all of that happy chatter stopped and Damien had looked almost afraid of his own words every time he spoke, Damien had remained wonderful.
Irritating and closed off, maybe, and he’d continued to regard Preston with a look that Preston had no corresponding picture for. He couldn’t define what was wrong with Damien, and that had been hard. Damien was always so good at defining things for Preston—when he couldn’t define things about himself, Preston was left cross and at sea. It had something to do with Damien’s leg, and something to do with how he’d gotten sick before he flew, but Preston needed Damien to connect the dots for him, and Damien kept running away from a conversation that would do that.
Preston had asked Glen if he’d done anything wrong, but Glen’s answer had been… less than satisfactory.
The previous year, in the godforsaken month of February
“WHAT did Mallory say?” Damien asked, looking pale and waxy in the hospital bed.
Glen looked up from Damien’s phone and rolled his eyes. “He said the funeral was nice, and he and Tevyn are humping like bunnies.”
Preston laughed, because bunnies did hump a lot, and after Mallory and Tevyn had been rescued from the helicopter crash that had injured Damien, they’d looked at each other like they’d wanted to hump.
“That’s rude,” Damien muttered. “Just rude. I don’t want to know if they’re humping like bunnies. I don’t want to know if they’re humping like turtles. I just wanted to know if they were okay.”
Glen tilted his head, his eyes narrowed like he was about to say something completely shitty that nobody would forgive him for but Damien.
“They’re okay, Damien. They were okay two weeks ago after the crash, and they were okay a week ago when Tevyn’s grandmother died. What you really wanted to know is if Mallory has suddenly given up the sad, helpless crush he’s had on Tevyn for, hello, five years, and decided that he’d rather hump you instead. The answer is no. Close your eyes, go to sleep, and try to forget they’re ripping your leg open again tomorrow.”
Damien’s warm brown eyes were enormous. “Remember the last time I saved your life?”
Glen bit his lip in thought. “Bangladesh, two years ago. It was not my fault that guy grabbed my ass in a no-gay zone, but thank you.”
“Consider it revoked. Invent a time machine, go back to that moment, and don’t count on me to evac you from someone’s backyard this time.”
Glen let out a filthy laugh. “That guy gave great head. Totally worth it. Now shut up and sleep.”
Damien opened his mouth to offer what would probably be a brutal retort, but Glen stood restlessly. “Preston, keep him from leaving. I’m going to hit the head and get us something to eat.”
“Which you will eat in front of me when I get nothing but ice chips? Get back in that time machine. I’m killing you twice.”
Glen’s laughter was still filthy as he left, but Damien’s irritated face vanished as soon as the door shut, and he tilted his head back against the pillows wearily.
“Are you in pain?” Preston asked, expecting Damien to lie like he had been for the last two weeks.
“A little,” Damien said, surprising him. “I’m… happy, I guess, for my friends.”
“You don’t look happy,” Preston said, hating the green feeling of jealousy in his chest. He’d known Damien had crushed on Mallory Armstrong since he’d begun shuttling Mallory for work, and he’d contented himself with the knowledge that Glen had been certain Mallory was in love with Tevyn. Now that they were together, seeing Damien sad… hurt.
“I am,” Damien said. And then, surprisingly, continued, “That’s not a lie. I’m just….” His lips twisted in what would probably have been a pretend smile.
“Tell the truth,” Preston demanded. He was already tired of this Damien who lied.
“I am not feeling like a man to love,” Damien replied, and that sounded like the truth, even though Preston didn’t understand.
“You should be loved,” Preston said, dismayed. “Why wouldn’t anybody love you?”
Damien shook his head and avoided his eyes. “I’m being a dork. I’m starving, and my leg hurts, and this is the most you’ve talked to me since I’ve gotten back.”
“You’re hurt, and I don’t know what to say,” Preston replied shortly. “I don’t like it when you’re hurt. You come back from surgery, and you lie there, and you look dead, and I hate that. You’re not supposed to be hurt, and you’re not supposed to be sad, and you’re not supposed to be crushing over Mallory Armstrong.”
“Well, it’s not like you want to kiss me either!” Damien snapped, and Preston blinked.
Anger washed over him, and he lied like a teenager then. “Why would I want to kiss you? You’re sad.”
“No reason at all,” Damien muttered and turned his face away. “Go away, Preston. I need to sleep.”
Preston stood up and left, hurt, but when he’d gotten outside, Glen had been there, hands full of sandwiches, face full of exasperation.
“You don’t think he
meant that, do you?”
Preston gaped at his older brother—not his bigger brother anymore. Preston had passed him up by four inches in his senior year of high school. Glen had a smaller, prettier face and expressive blue eyes. Preston didn’t doubt he got laid all the time, but like with Damien, he didn’t want details either.
“But he’s Damien. He never says things he doesn’t mean. Not to me.”
“Well, you just told him you didn’t want to kiss him, and I know that’s a lie. He’s hurt, Preston. And he wasn’t in love with Mallory, but he was distracted by him. He needs us to be patient with him until he’s back on his feet.”
Preston nodded unhappily, but he regarded Glen with a great deal of faith. “Should I… should I tell him?” he asked finally. “That I’ve never stopped wanting to kiss him?”
Glen shrugged, uncharacteristically uncertain. “No,” he said after a few moments. “No. Not yet. Wait until he can come home from the hospital, Preston. Wait until he can walk again. Wait until he can get back in the air.” For the first time since Damien had been rescued, strapped to the back of a makeshift sled and wearing a helmet slapped together with chair stuffing and duct tape, Preston got to see his brother’s unguarded expression, and he realized that Glen had been wearing a lying face for two weeks too.
“We almost lost him,” Glen said softly. “And he knows that. And he’s afraid. Men like… like Damien—like me—we’re not brave like you. We can’t always tell the world what we’re thinking. It hurts us sometimes. Give him time.”
SO Preston had given him time.
He’d given him a year and a half, and Damien might have recovered from his crush on Mallory Armstrong, but he hadn’t stopped wearing his lying face, hadn’t stopped being quiet and withdrawn. The last time Preston had heard Damien threaten Glen with death had been in that hospital room, and Preston was done.
Preston was determined that Damien had gotten all the time he was going to get, and they were going to start discussing why they hadn’t kissed yet.
It was almost as important as getting his brother back.
When Preston got back to the hangar, Damien had pulled the Cessna out to the tarmac and was busy positioning the supplies they did have to make way for what Preston had bought behind the cargo net. They loaded up quickly, making room for Preacher to lie down behind Damien so Preston could reach out and pet him if he needed, and setting their essentials in two backpacks in the seat behind Preston’s. Preston had brought a charged tablet full of games that he used to help settle his mind, and a charger to go with it, because when the tablet went out and he was in a strange place, staying centered got a lot harder. He’d also brought sudoku books, because those helped when the tablet failed, but not too many because they were bulky.
Damien pulled the hangar door closed and locked up, then got into the pilot’s seat, his body moving with that steady confidence Preston had always associated with him. Even with the limp, for a moment, it was easy to pretend nothing had changed.
Preston was silent as Damien radioed the control tower of the little airstrip and then taxied to the takeoff. He remembered when Damien and Glen would sit in the front and talk bullshit from the minute they got into the plane to the minute one of them would leave the other in charge and cop a nap in the back.
Damien didn’t talk bullshit anymore—he clenched his teeth and squared his jaw and tackled every takeoff and landing like it was the most serious thing in the entire world.
It was unnatural. It was like if one day, Preacher stopped being Preston’s best friend and became a burden on him instead.
Preacher was never a burden. Preston knew that dogs lived shorter lives than humans—he’d said goodbye to several dogs he’d loved with all his heart. His grandma had told him that the shorter lifespan was God’s way of making people pay attention to dogs, because otherwise they took them for granted. Preston never took his dogs for granted—and seeing Damien hate the thing he’d loved so much made his chest hollow and achy.
It needed to stop.
Preston waited until Damien had reached cruising height and the plane had leveled off in its flight toward LA before he broached the subject.
Turbulence
DAMIEN took a deep breath and turned his head, the better to see if Preston was really serious about this subject at this moment.
“Really? You’re going to ask me about this now?”
Preston was, of course, unruffled. “I told you we’d talk about it. Why are you surprised?”
“Because!” Damien looked back at the clear sky, trying to find peace in the wide-open blue. For a moment it worked, but then he was taken back to when God had apparently decided to crumple his helicopter in one casual gesture and tossed it into the middle of the Sierra winter.
He was prepared for the sudden jerk of his breathing, because it happened every time he flew now, but he wasn’t sure if he could hide it from—
“I saw that,” Preston said. God, he was persistent. His eyebrows drew down, his mouth compressed, and his entire face tightened. Damien just wanted to rub his thumbs over all those fearsome forehead wrinkles and soothe them away, but he couldn’t do that when Preston was aiming all of that terrifying will at Damien. “I saw that, but….” And for once Preston didn’t sound sure of himself. “I don’t know what it means. Let’s start with that. What does that look mean?”
“I’m not sure being up in the air is the best time to talk about this,” Damien said, his own uncertainty very much to the fore. He’d been shoving all of this fear back down his gullet for the last year—ever since he’d gotten back in the air—and he wasn’t sure when it was worse. When he was up in the air, he very much had to do things to keep him that way. If he could cling to the gears, to the stick, with enough ferocity, if he could exert every ounce of his will on the aircraft, it might not go down.
Might.
That “might” was the only thing that got him on the plane sometimes.
“Well, you won’t let me talk about it any other time,” Preston said. Preston was nothing if not logical. “If you’d talked to me down on the ground, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.”
“Maybe I don’t want to have this conversation at all,” Damien snarked. “Maybe we could be talking about movies!”
“Fine,” Preston said. “Let’s talk about the movie where the two guys who should be having sex are having a conversation in an airplane.”
“I haven’t seen that one,” Damien said dryly. “Does the airplane land?”
“Safely,” Preston said, completely serious. “Like airplanes do ninety-nine percent of the time.”
“Yeah, but it’s that one percent that’ll kill ya.” Damien felt his lips twisting. Preston was not particularly good at sparring—not like Glen, who would exchange barbs with him until their mouths dried up and their tongues fell out. But when Preston did fire back, the results were often hilarious—and always 100 percent truthful.
“This one won’t.” Preston’s cheerful confidence was Damien’s undoing.
“How do you know?” he asked, and he’d meant to keep things light, to effectively avoid the conversation Preston had been pushing for, but the throbbing in his voice was something not even Preston could miss.
“Because you have to believe that, don’t you?” Preston asked. “It’s how you and my brother take off and land almost every day.”
Damien’s next breath was shakier than he would have liked. “But it only takes once,” he said. He wanted to look at something, anything, but he was flying a plane. He had to look at gauges—that reminded him sometimes gauges lied. He had to look at the sky, clear and blue and cloudless, but you couldn’t see turbulence, could you? He had to look at—
Preston’s hand on his shoulder was unexpected, and Damien’s eyes flew over to meet his, startled. Preston made direct eye contact, which didn’t happen often, and only with family, before Damien had to look away.
“I was worried about Glen,” Preston said.
The blood hummed under Damien’s skin like the eye contact had been hands on his body. “Now?”
“Well, yes, now—but when he first went into the Air Force to be a pilot. Our mother was furious—all the good grades, all the charm.” Preston swallowed. “He was so good with people.” As Preston was not. Damien could hear the unspoken part of that. “I didn’t want my brother to die.”
“He didn’t,” Damien soothed.
“And we met you, and I didn’t want you to die.”
Damien swallowed. It had been a near thing. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said gruffly.
“But everybody dies. You can’t stop it. You can just have the happiest life you can manage.”
“It’s what I’ve always believed,” Damien said, cheered up a little hearing it from Preston’s mouth.
“Then why are you doing this?” Preston asked, his voice rising one of the few times of their friendship.
“Because we need to get to Glen!” Damien shouted back.
“You’re being dense! That’s not my question, and you know it!”
Damien found a surprised smile twisting his lips. “What question are you asking, again? I’ll be honest, Preston, I’m lost.”
Preston scowled at him. “I’m asking why you get sick before you fly now. Why does your sweat smell funny? What’s wrong? Your leg isn’t all of it. What’s wrong?”
Maybe it was the repeated question or the worry about Glen. Maybe it was the fact that Preston was sitting so close—so close Damien could feel his body heat, smell that wholesome combination of dogs and hay and sun and sweat. Maybe it was that the hug Preston had given had been solid and real and life affirming.
But Damien said it, the thing he hadn’t even wanted to say to Glen in the last year and a half, even though they all knew it was the truth. “I’m afraid.”
Preston let out a long breath. “Why now? Why not when you were deployed?”