Wolf, WY Read online

  Randy's breath caught in his throat. He softened his voice, and fell back on the belief that sometimes the saner of two evils prevailed. "What could I possibly need to know about you to let your kids have a cookie, Vaughn? What great secret could possibly prevent me from being able to share an afternoon with my neighbor's kids?"

  Isaac and Hannah had paused at the top of their driveway and stood motionless, looking back at the two of them. The wind picked up and rifled through the trees, sending a light shower of snow to the ground. The silence that hung over the yard seemed heavy enough to crush everything in it.

  Vaughn tensed his jaw and stepped back from the door. "This is ridiculous. We're done here."

  Randy resisted the urge to slam the door. Instead, as Vaughn turned and began to stalk away, Randy's tongue got the better of him. "Well, now, you have a lovely night, Mr. O'Connell. As always, it's been a pleasure to talk to you."

  Vaughn stopped halfway down the stairs and turned slowly. "Do yourself a favor, Shield Wolf. Find yourself a wife and have your own kids. Leave mine alone."

  The second the door was shut, Randy found out for the first time in his life what it felt like to punch a hole through the sheetrock.

  *~*~*

  In Randy's opinion, the worst part about a fight like that was coming to the conclusion that he was the one who'd been wrong. He'd known the O'Connells were private people. Vaughn had made it very clear that he wanted nothing to do with Randy. But even if that hadn't been the case, even if Vaughn had been the nicest neighbor in the country, he still shouldn't have asked Vaughn's kids into his house without Vaughn's permission. Nor should Randy have been so inconsiderate as to raise his voice or state his opinions in front of the kids. Vaughn might have been an overbearing ass, but Randy had been the big-mouthed dick.

  Full of self-disgust, Randy had sat in his dining room and sulked at the window. Then he'd moved to the living room, tucked himself into a chair in front of the woodstove and read until he admitted to himself that not a single word was registering. Finally, he did what he always did as a last attempt at calming himself. He'd grabbed a very tall glass of wine. It was the drink that was his saving grace. It slowed Randy's head back down and forced him into reasonable thought.

  It wasn't as if Randy was actually worried for the children, because he wasn't. He didn't think for a single moment that Vaughn had dragged them back to house and beat on them. (Hurt nothing smaller and weaker than yourself.) There was no worry that the kids were going to grow up lost, alone, and strung out on hard drugs or booze because they had a father that was a little too tough on them. Respect and discipline were both admirable traits. No one knew better than he did what being unconcerned as a parent could do to a young person. The courts were full of little bad-asses that could do very well with spending a summer at the O'Connells.

  He did, however, think Vaughn was too hard on that particular set of kids. Was that any business of his, though? If they were fed, and clothed, and sheltered, if they were protected and loved in whatever way Vaughn could show it, then they were doing better than fifty percent of the kids in the country. So what if Vaughn disliked him? So what if Vaughn had told his kids that they were expected to avoid him at all costs? What did that have to do with Vaughn's parenting skills? Jack shit.

  When Randy finally came to terms with that idea, his glass was empty and the sky was darkening. Worse, he was even more fucked up than he'd been when Vaughn had been standing in his doorway. Because now he had no choice but to walk over to Vaughn's and eat crow. Again. Without the placating booze or coolant. Although... Randy lifted his head and eyed his kitchen counters. He did have cookies. Could you buy forgiveness from a man like Vaughn with cookies? Did Vaughn even eat cookies? Or did he prefer his snacks in the form of night-crawlers and roaches?

  "You're not helping," he scolded himself as he rose from the chair. As charming as thoughts of wriggling insects squirming helplessly for their lives from between Vaughn's sharpened teeth were, it wasn't exactly a humble one. And humility, Randy decided, was a necessity at that point. He cleared the image from his mind and replaced it with the one he'd carried from the barn the night he'd dropped off his first round of peace offerings—the small, all but hidden smile he imagined on Vaughn's face when he thought of Vaughn murmuring his thanks into the engine of the truck. Even so, as he packed cookies into Tupperware, he eyed his bottle of wine. "Don't you go anywhere. I have no question in my mind that you and I will be in need of some intimate moments when I get back."

  Outside, the waning moon was having a hard time keeping up with its duties to the night sky. Darkness crept into everything, shadowing corners and hiding all but the largest and most obvious objects. In another week or so, when the moon finally retired to rejuvenate, Wolf would be a mire of black. He'd seen it before, but with the cold stripping away both sound and life, with the swirling snow clouds darkening the skies to new depths, the night-time seemed impenetrable.

  Vaughn did not light his driveway. Trees hung heavy over the narrow passage of gravel. The illusion of being watched from the sidelines was more unnerving than it had been on the road. Randy trained his gaze on the barn, and with cautious steps he clung to the container of cookies as if it would, somehow, prevent him from falling ass over teakettle.

  The O'Connell home was silent. All manner of life appeared to have retired or to be lying in hibernation somewhere quiet and dark. No blue flickers of television sets played ghost games against the wall. No green illuminations confessed to a quietly rocking stereo system. Not even the soft pink or white radiance of a hooded nightlight shone through the dark panes of glass. Perfect silence, perfect stillness; all the little soldiers had been soundly tucked into their barracks for another night. Only the barn showed any sign of life, and it was just a suggestion—a soft glow through side windows. No violent outbursts met Randy's perked ears as he approached the building, not even the distant clink of tools as they served their purposes. Instead, when Randy dared to nudge the door to the barn aside, the moody, barely-there notes of a saxophone greeted him. Jazz? Blues? Either way, the music was lonely, understated, and it tugged at Randy's chest the same way the low bay of the wolves did.

  Only one set of overhead lights was on, way in the back, and Vaughn was sitting on some kind of strange couch. It took Randy several seconds to realize the 'couch' was an old bench seat from a car, and another half a second to think that was a pretty cool idea indeed for a garage. He didn't voice the thought, though. Humor seemed out of place; levity would have been uncalled for.

  Whiskey in a familiar crown-shaped bottle that was either similar to the one Randy had purchased or that very one sat open beside Vaughn on the seat. The dark liquid shone through the glass resting in Vaughn's hand, seemingly ignited by the reflection of the flames in the woodstove across from him.

  The expression on Vaughn's face told Randy everything he needed to know, but just to make sure Randy understood, Vaughn sighed heavily and asked, "What do I have to say to you to make you go away?"

  Randy didn't wait for Vaughn's invitation. He dropped down beside Vaughn and handed over the container of cookies. "Peace."

  Vaughn didn't reach for it. He didn't stop attempting to burn a hole through Randy with his gaze. He didn't even blink.

  "Please, Vaughn."

  The eye-roll Vaughn gave him was almost laughable, but Vaughn reached for the Tupperware. "Stop bringing me shit."

  "That's what neighbors do. Surely you've had other neighbors—"

  "My last neighbor was eighty-four," Vaughn said drily. "And more miserable than I am."

  "Impossible."

  Randy was hoping for a smile, but he certainly wasn't expecting it. So when it came, how Randy managed to stop himself from standing up and dancing was beyond him. It wasn't much of one, if Randy had to estimate he'd have said one one-hundredth of a real one, but it was a smile nonetheless.

  "So," Randy started again, slapping both hands against his thighs and taking a deep breath, "I
owe you an apology."

  Vaughn looked Randy squarely in the eyes. He didn't argue the comment.

  "I had no right to ask your children into my home without your permission, especially when you'd already made it clear that you had concerns about me, and I certainly didn't have any right to question your parenting methods when you came to retrieve them. I was out of line, and I was out of control. I'm sorry. I'm sure you're a good father, and that you care about your children, and you don't need someone like me, who doesn't even have kids of his own, to call you out on your rules or your beliefs."

  Vaughn flicked his eyes back to the woodstove and took a sip from his glass. "Sounds about right."

  Randy fought to hold back the 'Are you kidding me?' that threatened to fall off his tongue. That's what Vaughn wanted. For whatever reason, Vaughn wanted Randy to dislike him. He wanted Randy to get mad and leave.

  Not this time. Randy reached out and touched Vaughn's shoulder, startling Vaughn into a jerk that caused liquor to tumble over the lip of his glass. When Vaughn sent Randy a withering look in retribution, Randy simply held Vaughn's gaze and smiled. "Just tell me this one thing and I'll leave you alone if you want. Scout's honor." He held up two fingers in what he hoped was a semblance of the sign. "What did I do? Why do you hate me so much?"

  Vaughn took another sip and drew a breath between his teeth. "That's two things."

  Son of a... Randy held up a hand and shook his head, more at himself than anything else. "Then I'll fix the question. What have I done that's made you hate me so much?"

  Vaughn reached for the bottle of booze, and then back to snag another glass from off the workbench. "I already told you, I don't hate you. I don't like what you represent, and I don't like what you're doing here, and I definitely don't like you interfering with my family. But I don't hate you as a person." He crooked his fingers over his own glass and the new one, tilted the bottle for a quick pour into each, then set one beside him and handed Randy the other.

  "What exactly is it that you think I represent?" Randy took a tiny sip, breathing in the scent more than actually tasting the liquor. "What do you think I'm doing here? It's because I'm gay, isn't it?"

  The sharp breath that Vaughn took was confusing. "No. No, definitely not. That ain't got a thing to do with nothing." Vaughn took another drink, lowered his voice, and stared at the flames. "And sorry about the smart-ass wife comment. It was out of line."

  Randy shrugged and attempted another taste of the whiskey. "What is it, then?"

  "You gonna storm out of here in a snit and get lost in the forest if I tell you?" Vaughn swirled the drink in his tumbler, watching it slide around the glass. "'Cuz I don't want to have to—"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah, Lyle already got to that line first, remember?" Randy offered Vaughn a smile to let him know the comment was a joke as opposed to outright sarcasm. "You don't want to have to come sniff my body out of the snow. And no, I won't. I'm a little tougher than that."

  "You see..." Vaughn turned so he could look at Randy directly. "I don't think that's true. I don't think you are. I think you're a big, soft mess of spoiled city life and coddled parenting. I think something happened back in the city and you ran like a frightened deer. You found a place where you could hole up and hide and try to ride out the storm."

  Though Vaughn's voice was soft, his words were harsh, and they stung more than Randy thought they should.

  "You don't know anything about Wolf and you don't know anything about her people. You breeze in and you use us all up until you're happy with yourself again, and then you'll run back to the city and live happily ever after. And everyone here in Wolf has to go on until the next city brat shows up and tries to do it again. Things are different here, Shield Wolf. You're either part of the pack or you're not." He took a breath, and then drained his glass. "And you're not."

  Randy tried to follow suit but didn't even come close to half the shot before his throat threatened to close up on him. He swallowed hard, refusing to cough, and kept swallowing until the feeling passed. The alcohol pooled in his belly and drifted out from there in warm, swirling tendrils. "Well, you know what?" Randy smacked his lips, one of his father's habits, and nodded firmly. "You're absolutely right."

  Vaughn frowned and reached for the bottle. "In regard to what?"

  "Everything, of course. The Great Vaughn O'Connell is never wrong, is he? So I admit it to you, sir, yes, I am—I was—running from something. From someone. And yes, he ripped me up like I was a piece of trash and left me for dead."

  The frown that darkened Vaughn's face made Randy chuckle. "Figuratively, not literally. He broke my heart and couldn't care less that he'd done it. And, yes, I did choose to run. And I do want to hide. And I found the perfect place for that if I do say so myself. And yeah, I get that I'm not one of your 'pack'." He finger-quoted the word for emphasis. "But you know what?" He paused, he shrugged, and he finally huffed a dry chuckle. "Not one of those things makes me so evil that I shouldn't be allowed to give your damn kids a cookie if I see them. So suck on that."

  "Suck on..." Vaughn tilted his head and stared blankly. "I thought you came over here to apologize."

  Randy nodded. "Me too. Apparently, I was wrong."

  They looked at each other for a long minute before Vaughn shook his head. "Drink your drink, Shield Wolf. Then go home and go to bed."

  "You could just call me Randy."

  Vaughn cocked an eyebrow. "Would that make you go home?"

  "Nope." Randy smirked and settled back against the seat.

  A clock ticked above and to the right of their heads, the radio hummed out a slow blues ballad, the woodstove clicked as heat transferred through metal, and the logs within shifted with a shower of sparks. Behind them, lights flickered and buzzed, and something small scurried somewhere dark. To the sides of them, the corners of the windowpanes sparkled and shone with the elaborate artwork of young Mister Frost. Beyond the windows, snow had started to fall again, and it dropped in lazy, swooping spirals. Fat flakes landed on the glass, gazing for a moment into the warmth before fading into water. The earth grew darker as the clouds overtook the crescent of moon. Morning would bring shovels and snowmen. Bright light would reflect off of fresh mounds and drifts, and people would start to think that much harder about the approaching Christmas holidays. Children would laugh and squeal as they played, and adults would hustle around in the throes of instinctual preparation for the next few months of bad weather.

  For that moment though, dark and quiet were more than enough.

  "Vaughn?"

  Vaughn laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Hm?"

  "You think it would be all right if I borrowed them tomorrow to help me finish the cookies?"

  "Who?"

  "The kids. I promised them they could decorate and we didn't get the chance. I thought maybe if I asked you first this time..."

  Vaughn turned his head and when Randy caught his eyes, Randy could have melted into them right then and there. Such an awesome color: brown, yet not. Gold, yet not. They were more like the dark topaz that Randy had once had in a ring—the kind of eyes that made Randy think that if he wasn't careful, he just might fall into them and get lost forever. And for just a moment, he did. Then in the shape of Vaughn's lips. And the cut of Vaughn's jaw. But the second that Randy found Vaughn's gaze again, Vaughn turned away, and it was gone.

  Randy sipped, and swallowed. He waited for his breath to come back. He waited for the worms to die in his guts.

  "What was his name?"

  Randy desperately rewound their conversation in his head, searching for the right answer to the question. When he finally caught the correct train of thought, he cleared his throat and said, "Avery."

  In the warm, cozy space the name seemed as cold and dirty as the worst four-letter word Randy could imagine.

  Surprisingly enough, Vaughn smiled. "I hate that name."

  Randy returned the grin. "Yeah, me too."

  Without asking, Vaughn poured them each a
nother shot, and though Randy's memory jumped up to remind him that Vaughn had told him to finish the drink and go, he didn't pull his glass away.

  When Vaughn was done pouring, he lifted his glass, and tilted it toward Randy's. "May the fucker burn in Hell."

  Randy choked on a laugh and clicked the two tumblers together. "Indeed."

  He was startled when Vaughn rose, but relaxed when Vaughn grabbed a poker and opened the woodstove to dig at the embers inside. The moment gave Randy a perfect opportunity for a good, long, close look at the frame he'd had been gawking at for months. In a sleeveless shirt that hung loose, with sweatpants that had seen more oil than most engines but that hung perfectly over hips and ass, the man could have been a poster boy for mechanic love.

  Randy had never had a thing for muscular men. Though Avery had spent time at the gym, he had never really tried to be anything beyond aesthetically fit. In hindsight that probably had more to do with the countless hours Avery had invested in winning over pretty little gym brats than anything else, but the reality of the situation was that Randy preferred leanness to bulk, tightness over size.

  Vaughn, though... Vaughn was definitely something else. Maybe Randy had been confused all this time; maybe he'd never taken the time to get to know a build like that. Maybe seeing it working, sweating, moving and rippling really did make a difference. Because Vaughn's shoulders, Randy was realizing, were fantastic. The way his hard ass and thick legs flexed was sinful.

  By the time Vaughn sat back on the bench seat, Randy had imagined Vaughn naked in pretty well every sex position that he knew. He'd spent an enormous amount of time trailing his eyes over the seam of Vaughn's pants, the one that not only snuggled between both ass cheeks, but got to rub against all the rest of it. And he knew no logical reason how, in mere hours, he could go from scorn to imagining Vaughn in bed. He eyed the glass in his hand and nodded—no more whiskey. Whiskey bad. Whiskey teased Randy with ideas that he shouldn't be thinking.