running…?
Puffing, Ken came to the top of the rise at last, gun ready, his bruises aching in sympathy with the hard beating of his heart, reminding him that this man he was hunting had nearly taken his life.
In the bright moonlight, brush still trembled ahead, signaling someone’s passage. The meadow was silent, making the perspiration on Ken’s back ice as he moved forward.
Wylde’s long black hair swung from side to side as he ran above Ken, in pursuit of someone!
Ken powered up the incline, Glock gripped in his damp hand. He’d never fired in anger at another human being, but if he had to protect Wylde, protect himself….
A branch stung his cheek. Smoke wisped through the trees, rising like a terrible incense from his studio below. He heard his labored breath, caught another flash of Wylde’s moccassined foot, dirt spitting from above.
Keep him safe. Keep him safe. His running footfalls were a tattooed prayer.
And then he was up on the dirt road above his cabin, trembling, hair sticking to his skull, dripping sweat, gun high and ready….
Taillights, gravel spattering under an SUV’s wheels as it fishtailed ahead. Wylde ran after it, and Ken wanted to call him back, tell him to just… give up….
The license plate was covered with mud. He couldn’t make it out. All he knew was it was blue, a Toyota.
A lot of men drove them in the county. Shit.
He crouched, breathing hard, gun limp in his hand.
H E REBOOTED when Wylde put a gentle arm around him. “Ken, I can hear sirens,” Wylde said.
Ken looked at him, aware that a tear spilled down his
cheek, hot against his damp skin. “I’m afraid to see what’s left,” he admitted in a raw voice, the words feeling as if they burned his throat. “My studio…. It’s the place I dream.”
Wylde took his hand and lifted it against his chest and sketched out the kanji for love.
Ken closed his smoke-burned eyes, pain lodged in his throat. But he kept his palm pressed against Wylde’s bare chest, feeling that steady heart beat.
T HE fire truck was just pulling in behind a deputy’s SUV. Ken waited in the driveway, waving wearily. Behind him half the structure of his studio had collapsed. Wylde had held him when it happened, but then Ken had jerked away, needing a moment, needing to be composed to meet with people on the job.
The first person to find him at the scene was Marty Grimble, his fellow deputy. He squeezed Ken’s shoulder in sympathy. Ken filled him in, watching through dazed eyes as Wylde carefully carried out Ken’s giant ficus plant, which he’d had since he was a teen. It was from a cutting in his grandmother’s greenhouse, cherished since it made him think of her. The green leaves were singed, some curling, but it looked like most of the plant had survived.
The firemen joined Wylde with shovels, and pretty soon Ken’s beloved studio was smoldering white ash, the roof collapsed to one side, some timbers standing up like blackened Greek ruins. He stared at it, rubbing his short hair back and forth under his palm.
He was glad his father had those ikebana vases. Who knew how long it would be until he could make something again? His workspace was charred, unsafe.
Jim Hollander, a guy he knew from the clubs as well as on the job as a firefighter, came over and ducked his head to give Ken a sympathetic look with his kind green eyes. They’d been together a few times, so Ken felt comfortable with him. “Looks like he used gasoline as an accelerant. Your studio reeks of it.” Jim shook his head since he’d visited Ken previously for dinner and peeked into his pottery shop. “I’m sorry, buddy. I know how much mucking around in there meant to you.”
“Yeah,” Ken rasped. Now that most of the guys were leaving, he felt numb.
Jim looked around and then ducked close to brush his lips over Ken’s. Ken stiffened.
“I can stay,” Jim whispered.
Ken remembered the last time they’d been together had been right off duty, so he’d pulled open Jim’s
Puffing, Ken came to the top of the rise at last, gun ready, his bruises aching in sympathy with the hard beating of his heart, reminding him that this man he was hunting had nearly taken his life.
In the bright moonlight, brush still trembled ahead, signaling someone’s passage. The meadow was silent, making the perspiration on Ken’s back ice as he moved forward.
Wylde’s long black hair swung from side to side as he ran above Ken, in pursuit of someone!
Ken powered up the incline, Glock gripped in his damp hand. He’d never fired in anger at another human being, but if he had to protect Wylde, protect himself….
A branch stung his cheek. Smoke wisped through the trees, rising like a terrible incense from his studio below. He heard his labored breath, caught another flash of Wylde’s moccassined foot, dirt spitting from above.
Keep him safe. Keep him safe. His running footfalls were a tattooed prayer.
And then he was up on the dirt road above his cabin, trembling, hair sticking to his skull, dripping sweat, gun high and ready….
Taillights, gravel spattering under an SUV’s wheels as it fishtailed ahead. Wylde ran after it, and Ken wanted to call him back, tell him to just… give up….
The license plate was covered with mud. He couldn’t make it out. All he knew was it was blue, a Toyota.
A lot of men drove them in the county. Shit.
He crouched, breathing hard, gun limp in his hand.
H E REBOOTED when Wylde put a gentle arm around him. “Ken, I can hear sirens,” Wylde said.
Ken looked at him, aware that a tear spilled down his
cheek, hot against his damp skin. “I’m afraid to see what’s left,” he admitted in a raw voice, the words feeling as if they burned his throat. “My studio…. It’s the place I dream.”
Wylde took his hand and lifted it against his chest and sketched out the kanji for love.
Ken closed his smoke-burned eyes, pain lodged in his throat. But he kept his palm pressed against Wylde’s bare chest, feeling that steady heart beat.
T HE fire truck was just pulling in behind a deputy’s SUV. Ken waited in the driveway, waving wearily. Behind him half the structure of his studio had collapsed. Wylde had held him when it happened, but then Ken had jerked away, needing a moment, needing to be composed to meet with people on the job.
The first person to find him at the scene was Marty Grimble, his fellow deputy. He squeezed Ken’s shoulder in sympathy. Ken filled him in, watching through dazed eyes as Wylde carefully carried out Ken’s giant ficus plant, which he’d had since he was a teen. It was from a cutting in his grandmother’s greenhouse, cherished since it made him think of her. The green leaves were singed, some curling, but it looked like most of the plant had survived.
The firemen joined Wylde with shovels, and pretty soon Ken’s beloved studio was smoldering white ash, the roof collapsed to one side, some timbers standing up like blackened Greek ruins. He stared at it, rubbing his short hair back and forth under his palm.
He was glad his father had those ikebana vases. Who knew how long it would be until he could make something again? His workspace was charred, unsafe.
Jim Hollander, a guy he knew from the clubs as well as on the job as a firefighter, came over and ducked his head to give Ken a sympathetic look with his kind green eyes. They’d been together a few times, so Ken felt comfortable with him. “Looks like he used gasoline as an accelerant. Your studio reeks of it.” Jim shook his head since he’d visited Ken previously for dinner and peeked into his pottery shop. “I’m sorry, buddy. I know how much mucking around in there meant to you.”
“Yeah,” Ken rasped. Now that most of the guys were leaving, he felt numb.
Jim looked around and then ducked close to brush his lips over Ken’s. Ken stiffened.
“I can stay,” Jim whispered.
Ken remembered the last time they’d been together had been right off duty, so he’d pulled open Jim’s
Similar Books
The 30-Minute Vegan's Taste of the East: 150 Asian-Inspired Recipes--from Soba Noodles to Summer Rolls
Mark Reinfeld, Jennifer Murray
