In my life, I’d never thought about it until I ended up inheriting this situation. Never thought about animals at all, really, unless it was how to avoid someone’s guard dog. The longer I stay here though, the more it grates on my nerves having to watch the damn things be penned up.
It makes me feel penned up. Who wants a wild animal as a pet anyway? They have the whole goddamn forest to themselves.
I literally sling fentanyl and firearms for a living, and it gives me the fucking morality ick. That has to mean something.
It’s out of my control, though. The deal we made when we took the property was that the club prez’s widow would get to stay, and she comes with fucking foxes. Sav even refers to her as“the fox widow” and thank God he’s not around, or all the guys would be copying him. Padraig may be a piece of shit when it comes to a lot of things, but he takes his word very seriously, so her and her foxes are here to stay.
Fallow doesn’t look annoyed at the noise, though. His face is positively serene, in fact.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Mmm,” he says, nodding. “I’ve never really heard anything like this before.”
“Like the screaming of a demon-chorus that’s coming to take your soul?”
That almost makes him laugh, just enough that the tip of a very pink tongue peeks out between his teeth. Once again, I’m hit with regret that I never got to kiss him before I aggressively shove the thought away.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice breathy and completely out of sync with our surroundings. “It’s peaceful.” Then he cocks his head to the side. “A little sad, maybe.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. He clearly clocks my reaction as well because his hint of a smile broadens as he holds my gaze. It’s obvious he gets unending pleasure from making the people around him uncomfortable or feel off-kilter, and from what I can tell, he’s a fucking master at it.
We stand there in silence looking at each other for a beat too long. I’ve forgotten all about the greater context of what we’re doing, distracted by that damn tongue, and I don’t usher him into the house fast enough.
Instead, the screen door swings open with a creak before smacking against the side of the house, and the too-familiar sound of Lucky’s voice grates my fucking nerves.
“Yo, Colm! Where the fuck are Archie and Vince? And what took you so long?” He trots down the few stairs leading up to the porch and jogs over to us. His mohawk looks even more greenin the bright sunlight, or maybe he re-dyed it recently based on the matching green stains on his ears, and there’s a fresh bruise forming under one eye.
He’s always goddamn fighting. In the house, out of the house, as a joke or seriously, it doesn’t matter. I’m getting sick of it. It pisses me off so much I don’t process everything he’s saying as quickly as I should.
“Who’s your creepy friend? And why are you naked?” The torrent of questions continues.
He reaches out to poke my arm, like he’s confirming that I really am shirtless, but I bat his hand away with a growl.
“Archie and Vince are dead. I’ve been with the Aryans getting tortured, if you can call it that, and now I’m back. No thanks to the rescue party you guys didn’t send out. Nice to know I can be two hours late and no one thinks to look into it. I’m starting to think the fucking foxes would make better guards.”
Lucky’s eyes widen, his lips part like he’s going to keep motor-mouthing, but I’m not in the mood to hear it.
“And who thisisis none of your goddamn business. But if you insult him again, I’ll build a woodshed just so I have someplace to take you out back and belt you like your daddy clearly didn’t. You’re an adult, Lucky. Watch your fucking mouth.”
That might have been an overreaction. Okay, it was definitely an overreaction, but Lucky has always rubbed me the wrong way—especially when he won’t shut the fuck up—and I’m on wafer-thin patience right now. My body is getting sore now that the adrenaline is well and truly gone, and if he sniffs a scent of queerness on Fallow and starts one of his homophobic, oh-so-clearly self-hating rants, I don’t think I have the ability to play nicely—or heterosexually—about it.
“Ignore him, he’s an idiot,” I say to Fallow. “Come with me.”
Turning to lead him into the house, it takes me a second to figure out why he’s looking at me with narrow eyes and an assessing expression. Then he speaks, and the penny drops.
“Sure thing,Colm.”
Fuck.
I let out another heavy sigh.
“Look, I’m tired. Can you please murder me after I’ve had a shower and something to eat? It’s been a very long day.”
Fallow looks between me and Lucky, his gaze bouncing back and forth as he seems to make a complex series of assessments. Eventually, the tension falls from his face, replaced by a smirk, and he licks his lips.
“Sure. I know you’re probably covered in all kinds of unsavory fluids you need to be scrubbing off.”
It’s an obvious dig and reminds me that while I wiped myself off quickly before I left, anyone who looked close enough could potentially see evidence among the dried blood and dirt of the cum I practically begged him to spray across my chest about half an hour ago. Warmth pools in my cheeks at the thought, something else that never happens to me, and I turn around swiftly to hide it.
