Chris swallowed the last of his sandwich and chased it with a slug of cold coffee. “But for bigger stuff, I got a flatbed we could use. It’s not runnin’, but I could get ’er goin’ if you want.”
“So you’re a mechanic too?”
Chris gave his half smile. “I’m a man of many talents, dude.”
Dylan decided he’d only imagined a flash of heat in Chris’s eyes. Sunset was drawing closer, and all of Dylan’s senses were beginning to go into overdrive, making him restless and slightly dizzy. And horny. Oh God, he was horny.
Without saying more, Dylan returned to the kitchen. With the wall to the dining room gone and all the cheap cabinetry taken away, the room was looking better than ever. But there was still plenty of work to be done before he could begin reassembly. The green vinyl floor needed to be pulled up, as did the brownish shag carpeting in the former dining room. Then they’d tackle that rooster wallpaper. One thing at a time , he reminded himself. At least with Chris’s help the work was going a lot faster than he’d anticipated.
It didn’t take them long to rip up the carpet, revealing scratched oak flooring beneath. “You gonna refinish this?” Chris asked.
“No, not in here. I want the whole room consistent. Usually I like bamboo or cork, but not for a house this old. I was thinking either maple or salvaged oak, but now I’m leaning to tile.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I need to make up my mind pretty soon.”
“Anything’s gonna be an improvement, dude.”
They moved to the kitchen area and started to peel up the vinyl, a much harder job than the carpet. Somebody had used some really good glue when they installed the ugly stuff. As Dylan sweated and winced at his raw fingertips, Chris was right beside him, sometimes humming tunelessly under his breath. Dylan had to be careful not to look at him too often or too long, because the sight of Chris down on his knees, hair hanging in his eyes, ass covered in worn denim and waggling temptingly, was almost more than Dylan could bear.
“Who was that guy?”
Chris had been silent for so long that Dylan startled a little at the question, and then it took him some time to formulate an answer. “An old mistake.”
“You move out here to get away from him?”
Dylan snorted softly. “If so, I wasn’t very successful, was I? Nah, he’s not the reason I’m here. At least, not directly.”
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Chris was looking at him curiously, but Dylan was in no mood to elaborate so he changed the subject. “So, you grew up here?”
Chris paused a long time before answering. “I stayed here pretty often, with my gramps.” There was something odd about his tone, as if the topic were uncomfortable. And then he yanked, pulling free a big section of flooring with a rip and a grunt. “Since we’re sharing, what happened to your parents?”
“Car wreck. Big rig rolled over on the Terwilliger Curves and flattened their car. Dad was DOA, and Mom died a few days later.” He’d recited this little tale dozens of times, but the pain still felt new and raw. Sometimes, though, he was almost glad the accident had happened. At least they’d been spared the heartache of their younger son getting himself turned into a goddamn werewolf.
“How old were you?” Chris asked.
“Eighteen. Freshman in college, so it wasn’t like I got shipped off to an orphanage or anything.”
“It’s still a bitch.”
“Yeah.” Dylan dared another peek at Chris, who wasn’t looking at him. “You?”
“Mom died when I was fifteen. Cancer.”
“And your dad?”
“For all I know the bastard’s still kickin’. Haven’t heard from him since I was five or six.”
“Oh.” Dylan wasn’t sure which was worse—a deadbeat father or one who was just plain dead. Either one sucked.
They labored for another hour after that without speaking more than a few necessary words. Dylan didn’t often get to do
“So you’re a mechanic too?”
Chris gave his half smile. “I’m a man of many talents, dude.”
Dylan decided he’d only imagined a flash of heat in Chris’s eyes. Sunset was drawing closer, and all of Dylan’s senses were beginning to go into overdrive, making him restless and slightly dizzy. And horny. Oh God, he was horny.
Without saying more, Dylan returned to the kitchen. With the wall to the dining room gone and all the cheap cabinetry taken away, the room was looking better than ever. But there was still plenty of work to be done before he could begin reassembly. The green vinyl floor needed to be pulled up, as did the brownish shag carpeting in the former dining room. Then they’d tackle that rooster wallpaper. One thing at a time , he reminded himself. At least with Chris’s help the work was going a lot faster than he’d anticipated.
It didn’t take them long to rip up the carpet, revealing scratched oak flooring beneath. “You gonna refinish this?” Chris asked.
“No, not in here. I want the whole room consistent. Usually I like bamboo or cork, but not for a house this old. I was thinking either maple or salvaged oak, but now I’m leaning to tile.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I need to make up my mind pretty soon.”
“Anything’s gonna be an improvement, dude.”
They moved to the kitchen area and started to peel up the vinyl, a much harder job than the carpet. Somebody had used some really good glue when they installed the ugly stuff. As Dylan sweated and winced at his raw fingertips, Chris was right beside him, sometimes humming tunelessly under his breath. Dylan had to be careful not to look at him too often or too long, because the sight of Chris down on his knees, hair hanging in his eyes, ass covered in worn denim and waggling temptingly, was almost more than Dylan could bear.
“Who was that guy?”
Chris had been silent for so long that Dylan startled a little at the question, and then it took him some time to formulate an answer. “An old mistake.”
“You move out here to get away from him?”
Dylan snorted softly. “If so, I wasn’t very successful, was I? Nah, he’s not the reason I’m here. At least, not directly.”
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Chris was looking at him curiously, but Dylan was in no mood to elaborate so he changed the subject. “So, you grew up here?”
Chris paused a long time before answering. “I stayed here pretty often, with my gramps.” There was something odd about his tone, as if the topic were uncomfortable. And then he yanked, pulling free a big section of flooring with a rip and a grunt. “Since we’re sharing, what happened to your parents?”
“Car wreck. Big rig rolled over on the Terwilliger Curves and flattened their car. Dad was DOA, and Mom died a few days later.” He’d recited this little tale dozens of times, but the pain still felt new and raw. Sometimes, though, he was almost glad the accident had happened. At least they’d been spared the heartache of their younger son getting himself turned into a goddamn werewolf.
“How old were you?” Chris asked.
“Eighteen. Freshman in college, so it wasn’t like I got shipped off to an orphanage or anything.”
“It’s still a bitch.”
“Yeah.” Dylan dared another peek at Chris, who wasn’t looking at him. “You?”
“Mom died when I was fifteen. Cancer.”
“And your dad?”
“For all I know the bastard’s still kickin’. Haven’t heard from him since I was five or six.”
“Oh.” Dylan wasn’t sure which was worse—a deadbeat father or one who was just plain dead. Either one sucked.
They labored for another hour after that without speaking more than a few necessary words. Dylan didn’t often get to do
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