Chapter Fourteen
DylansaidgoodbyetoAlice on the sidewalk outside the Just-as-High. They hugged briefly, and Somerset, watching from a window, felt something sour and possessive try to choke him. He didn’t see why. Dylan was, from what he’d picked up, only into men. So Alice was no sort of competition. Somerset started a dick ahead of her.
Still. The way Dylan squeezed her hand before he waved her off made Somerset scowl.
Whatever, he told himself. It didn’t matter. After tonight, one way or another, Dylan would never see the blond woman again. The idea cheered him up. He stepped away from the window as Dylan came back in and grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair.
It was one Somerset had not worn for a while, butter-soft black leather that fit him like a glove. Silver zippers at the collars and throat. If he was going to play Yule Lad for the night, he might as well look the part.
“Took you long enough,” Somerset said.
Dylan ignored the hook. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up lean forearms, and Somerset was briefly, harshly distracted by that. He realized it was the first time he’d seen Dylan dressed up. It had always been paramedic uniforms or jeans and a t-shirt. None of which Somerset would complain about, but Dylan in slim-fit black jeans and a charcoal gray sweater that hung off lean muscle was something to appreciate.
“She doesn’t remember,” Dylan said.
“Doesn’t remember what? You?” Somerset asked. “She looked like she knew you well enough.”
“No, last night,” Dylan said. He paused and corrected himself. “No. She does remember. It’s just not what happened. She thinks someone tried to hold up the gas station and that Lund got shot stopping them. We saved her life, apparently.”
“You did,” Somerset said.
“I left her,” Dylan said. His voice was rougher than normal, frustrated. “And Alice. I don’t deserve the credit.”
“Or the blame,” Somerset said. “It’s what happens. People don’t want to be part of our world, so they forget and rewrite it as something that makes sense. Will Lund recover?”
Dylan shrugged and put his hands in his pockets.
“She’ll live,” he reiterated, “But it sounds like she’ll be eating hospital turkey until New Year’s, and they don’t know when she’ll be back to work. I don’t know why I feel guilty. She was the one who made a deal with the Wolves.”
Somerset zipped his jacket up. He felt a little smug that it fit the same as the last time he’d tried it on. It was a very human thought. Maybe he had spent too long in Belling. He walked over and cupped Dylan’s chin in his hand to hold him still for a kiss.
Not that he had to. Dylan leaned in eagerly, his hands pulled out of his pockets to clutch at the sides of the leather jacket.
Somerset drank down the heady, sweet warmth of Dylan’s mouth and then broke the kiss.
“Humans don’t care for our young,” he said. “But once we’re grown, even the darkest of us can turn someone’s head. Lund made a call, and she paid for it. In the end, the only person she hurt was herself… and unlike Alice,she’llhave to remember that.”
The door to the kitchen creaked open, and Stúfur leaned out. He curled his lip as he saw how close Dylan was to Somerset.
“I’d tell you to get a room,” he groused, “but we don’t have time. New Santa here already wasted enough of it.”
“She’s taking care of my cat,” Dylan said. “She needed the key to my apartment and money for food. It’s like we were discussing the Grizzlies match with the Packers.”
Stúfur frowned at him. “I thought you said your grandfather never did anything for you after that first meeting,” he said. “Who sent the cat?”
“It’s a stray cat,” Dylan said. “It sent itself.”
“Like you said, it’s a cat,” Stúfur said. “And you’re not interesting enough for it to follow you around for no reason. Someone gave it the idea to watch you. Now, get a move on. Either we leave now, or we don’t bother.”
He disappeared back into the kitchen. Dylan watched him go before turning his puzzled frown on Somerset.
“Is that an urban legend?” he asked.
“No,” Somerset admitted. “But it’s not worth worrying about. Just because a cat was asked to watch you doesn’t mean they’ll report back. That’s too much work. Are you ready?”
Dylan hesitated, still caught up on whether or not his cat was a spy from his expression. Then he sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair.
“No,” he said. There was something defeated about the way he said it, resignation in the set of his shoulders. It reminded Somerset of Dylan’s grandfather—back when he had a name, a wife, and a life. Just as he accepted he was going to let all of that go.
