Ruff Trouble

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

  Bobby rubbed his thumb and index finger over his forehead, pinching the skin, trying to deter a growing headache. “Sometimes.”

  “All the time. Given the chance, he would have rolled onto his back, all four paws in the air.”

  “Sam doesn’t have paws.”

  Chantelle smirked. “Metaphorical paws. If he’d presented to you, what would you have done?”

  “Fine. If I’d realised what he wanted, I would have taken advantage.”

  “And when I came along?”

  “I…don’t know.” Would he have discarded Sam? His animal side might have, despite regret, but his human half wasn’t so sure. Put those two aspects of his personality together, and he would have struggled to abandon Sam.

  “But it never happened and now you’re with me.”

  By itself a miracle. Two shape-shifters of the same type working for the force in the same precinct? From the moment he first smiled at her, Chantelle had sought Bobby out as her mate. Knowing this, how could he deny her anything?

  “So, we leave Sam to get on with his life?” The question came from her lips, sounding like a plea for him to do the right thing. Whatever that was. “If you’re happy to, fine. If you can dismiss Sam’s puppy dog gaze, deny you love him, and still walk away, that’s what we’ll do. But if you regret it, I don’t want the disappointment to eat away you, at our relationship. Accepting him as ours might be easier.”

  Bitch! He didn’t say so although he wasn’t at all sure she didn’t read it in his eyes. Know it all, interfering…lovely, wonderful, fantastic, sexy bitch of mine. She had him to rights. “Why did you have to tell me how Sam feels?”

  “Because to do less would be a betrayal. Be like I’d lied to you, and you’d smell the anguish on me. Besides, I believe we can all be happy. I’ll never love Sam the way I love you, but Sam wouldn’t need me to. I can cope with you loving Sam and he you. But you need to hurry and decide if you want to see this through because he will be back any second.”

  As if Chantelle called him to the table, Sam emerged from the men’s room, held the door open for someone following in his wake.

  “Even if it’s true, he’s not…like us.” Bobby lowered his voice. “He’ll always feel separate.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Are you going to deny him the chance?”

  “The chance?”

  “For love. For a family.”

  “Ahh…heck.”

  “Now you understand my point.”

  He did. Sam took the long way around the tables in the wider spaces so his bum leg wouldn’t become entangled. The man had more than his share of bad experiences. Sam came from a broken home, and the aunt he loved and who raised him died young. Sam had studied, kicking and clawing his way through his education. He’d applied to the police because of a yen to come across as respectable, which explained why it wasn’t his passion. Sam might not know what his heart’s desire was.

  Except maybe for me.

  Did he want Sam? The question made him frown, brow drawing tight.

  “What?” Sam asked as he made it back to the table. The grumpy voice and disgruntled gaze changed Bobby’s scowl to a grin. He glanced from Sam’s face to Chantelle’s, and although she stared at the table, she smirked.

  Spend the rest of his life without Sam’s moodiness? Preposterous. Of course, if Sam wanted what Chantelle claimed he did, and they gave him what he craved, maybe he wouldn’t be so moody.

  Who was he kidding? He knew what Sam was like before his first cup of coffee of the morning. That and a thousand other little annoyances would always be cause for Sam’s disposition. His moods weren’t the problem. The bleakness that shone from Sam’s eyes most-recently worried Bobby.

  “Sit, you twat.” Bobby nodded to the approaching waiter. “Your dinner’s here. How about we eat before we down a few more beers back at my place?”

  “I’m…No, some other time.” Sam nodded at the waiter in thanks and pulled his plate closer.

  “Why? What the fuck you got going on later you can’t pop back and have a drink with us?”

  “Just…things.”

  “A hot date?”

  Under the table, Chantelle kicked him, a gentle swing of her leg so Sam wouldn’t notice, but no way had Bobby mistaken the resulting pain for anything but a warning. Sam glowered sideways at him. All three of them were aware Sam hadn’t gone out with anyone since he’d damaged his leg. Besides, Sam kept his personal life private. If he were seeing guys, Bobby now understood why. Maybe he saw no one, being hung up on yours truly for the last four years. “Well, if you don’t have date plans, what arrangements have you made?”

  “What do you mean?” Sam’s expression became wary. His smell changed. Instead of being gritty with anger, it flared smoky with caution.

  “You know as I do a desk job ain’t going to cut it for you. You must have made other arrangements.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Providing analytical support to help detect and reduce crime by collating and studying information,” Bobby quoted, pulling a face as he did so.

  “I may apply for another job in time.” Sam shovelled some of his meal down, took a swig of beer to chase it.

  “Even if it means moving away?”

  Sam paused, the glass in his hand halfway back to the table. He set it down, swallowed, and glared at his dinner as if it was at fault. “Trying to play detective?”

  “You make it easy.”

  “Let’s not argue,” Chantelle interrupted.

  Sam snorted, spurned her, and faced Bobby. “You couldn’t sniff out a clue if someone stuffed it up your nose.”

  “It would surprise you what I pick up with this nose.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Sam glowered, before taking his anger out on his food, savaging it into submission. Bobby watched in amazement as Sam became a ravening animal and wolfed down half his meal. “If a fresh beginning means moving,” Sam at last said, “yeah, I’ll move. What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing.” Bobby kept his tone level, displaying more calm than he felt. Chantelle was right. He stared into her eyes although she would sniff out the dread Sam’s words instilled in him. “All the more reason for us to have fun while we can. We should have a few drinks.”

  “A few drinks and it’ll be late, and you won’t be able to drive me home. A cab from your place will cost me a fortune.”

  That explained part of the reason for Sam’s hesitation. His leg was so bad he struggled to drive, hence his being stuck behind a desk. “Then stay the night.”

  “No!” Even for Sam the retort came out too forceful.

  “Tequila,” Chantelle chimed in.

  “What?” Both men asked together, gazing at her.

  “We need tequila.”

  Sam’s favourite tipple. The idea she knew appeared to startle Sam so much, Bobby caught the scent of surprise even beneath all the anger.

  “Come onnnnn,” Chantelle wheedled. “Who knows when we’ll get another opportunity? We have a whole Sunday to get over the hangover.”

  True. Had Chantelle waited to approach the topic when all three of them had the weekend free?

  “I need you to help me tease this man here. We need to dream up more dog jokes.”

  Despite his annoyance, Sam’s lips twitched.

  “No. No dog jokes,” Bobby insisted. “I’ve had enough to last a lifetime, and I swear you started them at work.” He turned the accusation on Sam. “Go on. Confess. Admit your guilt. All those years ago, you were the one responsible for the guys buying me all those rubber bones and squeaky balls.”

  “With a name like Pooch, what did you expect me to do?” Sam took another swig of his beer, grinning as he did so.

  “I had enough problems with Bobby as a first name.” ‘Bobbies’ was a time-honoured English nickname for British police officers, as was the lesser-known name of ‘peelers’ in Ireland. Both terms originated from Sir Robert Peel who, in 1829 when Home Secretary, reformed and created the
modern concept of England’s police force. Hard to say which was worse—the Bobbie ‘on the beat’ jokes, or the Pooch ones. He liked the dog jokes more because Sam started them.

  Maybe he should take heed of those emotions. Didn’t it say something about how much Sam meant to him? Maybe Chantelle had a point. Of course, Sam didn’t appreciate the extent of the pooch and dog jokes. What would happen when he did?

  “Tequila?” Chantelle mentioned again, making it a question.

  Sam peered at her over his beer glass. “Tequila.” He nodded.

  Bobby exchanged a glance with his lover. They had manoeuvred Sam to where anything was possible. Now the question arose of what might happen later, and how they would all face each other come morning.

  Chapter 3

  Sam braced his weight on his elbows. Covered by nothing more than a sheet, he rubbed a hand over his face, blinking. Okay, he’d be the first to admit he’d had a couple of beers and a few shots of tequila—he hadn’t counted how many—but he didn’t recall it being so many he should hallucinate. The scratch of early morning stubble certainly suggested he was alert and not dreaming.

  How early? He took his eyes off Bobby to peek at the red digital readout of the alarm clock. How could it be only 3am?

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Bobby drawled out the words.

  “Wake…?” Sam peered around, trying to focus, trying to remember. His place and bed weren’t this nice. He lay on Bobby and Chantelle’s mattress, wearing his boxers. They had a guest room, but they hadn’t bought furniture for it yet, so he’d crawled into here, their room. Bobby stood in the doorway to the master bedroom’s en-suite, the other door to the living room ajar.

  “Chantelle’s using the main bathroom, and neither of us could wait.” Bobby waved a hand behind him and, putting a logical course of thought together, Sam worked out his friends had awoken at the same time, both needing to use the toilet. Either that or they’d never fallen asleep. The couch wasn’t much of a cosy spot for two although he’d slept on it a few times.

  He opened his mouth to apologise, about to say, since this was their bed, was only fair if one of them woke him, but his reason for being here came flooding back. His fuzzy head recollected watching a movie, a few hands of cards. He didn’t recall finishing. Some remark…a mention of…oh God! Strip poker. He’d ignored them though his heart fluttered. Didn’t stop his friends, though. They continued playing and throwing back alcohol, grinning, laughing, all the while Sam’s mood grew ever more brooding and darker. Even without Sam taking an active part in expanding the game, the couple had changed the way they played, swapping items of clothing and kisses, and other stupid forfeits as they lost hands to each other.

  At some point, Sam opted out and sat leaning against the sofa, watching while the exchanges grew more heated. Kisses weren’t mere pressed lips, but duelling tongues. Hands tickled, groped. A pile of surrendered clothing grew. Bobby had scooped Chantelle onto his lap on the floor as she lost another hand.

  “You did that on purpose.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.” He’d smoothed back her hair, studied her face. For an instant they might have been the only two in the room, Chantelle down to her bra although she’d kept her undies and jeans, Bobby in his underpants.

  Even now, Sam recalled his disappointment over Bobby winning the final round, having never seen his friend naked. He might now never get the chance. Not that the current view was in any way terrible. The man wore nothing more than boxers, the kind that clung; the cut gave his body an athletic outline, made Sam bite his lower lip.

  The ghost of an image haunted him—Chantelle in Bobby’s lap, Bobby’s fingers snaking into the wild tumble of her hair, kissing first her lips, before tilting her head back as she exposed her throat. Bobby fastening his lips and teeth there as if he would rip apart her tender flesh.

  From her throat, he’d kissed to her breasts, and Sam had watched as Bobby eased her down, climbing over her, all the while kissing and licking her neck and chest. With his head swimming with confusion, Sam had moved from the floor to the sofa, nerves screaming for him to leave. To hell with the cost of the cab—he should call despite the expense—but he hadn’t been able to think straight enough to follow through. With no way to walk out, he was trapped. Fucking leg. No way to get far on the damaged limb and all the alcohol screwed with his brain. Still did.

  The sole relief came at the end from closing his eyes, but he hadn’t been able to block his ears.

  “Hmm…there. Oh, Bobby, yes, right…there.”

  In his mind, it had been Sam screaming out, Oh Bobby, yes, right there. Impotent in every way but the one for which he wished, Sam’s attempt to tune them out had resulted in a single prayer: his best friends were not about to screw right there with him in the room.

  If only he could forget, but the fog continued to clear from his brain and Chantelle’s soft moans came through to him even though they’d long ceased. Even though she weren’t in the room now.

  Those sounds had called to something inside him, made Sam picture his helping Bobby pleasure the woman. He might do anything to please Bobby, and, although he preferred men, if he were to sleep with any woman, he’d choose Chantelle. The woman was too sexy for words. Few men, or women, resisted responding to her if she gave them her attention.

  Lying tangled in a bed with sheets a mere day or two washed but distinctly smelling of the happy couple, he wasn’t sure he didn’t feel the same way right now. Why did they screw around in front of him forcing him to leave the room? Had they expected him to join in? Did Chantelle have a two-dick fantasy Bobby wished to make real?

  Yes, Bobby. Anything you say, Bobby.

  Did Bobby witness the notion in his eyes? Why did the man continue to stand there, staring at him?

  Sam recalled his last words as he’d fled: “If you two are going to fuck around in here, I’ll go sleep in your room.”

  He regretted saying it; certain he’d lost a chance at something he wasn’t sure he even had a right to hope for. He longed to apologise even if unsure of why he felt sorry. He couldn’t, too distracted by the persistent illusion Bobby had two contrasting eyes.

  “What the fuck is wrong with your eyes?” Either Bobby would explain or tell him he was crazy, in which case he probably was.

  “Nothing. I wear a contact so they match. This is how my eyes are.”

  Sam heard someone laugh, realised it was him. “No…one has eyes like that.” He almost said human.

  “Most people don’t have a dick and a vagina, but it’s possible.”

  “Shit.” Not eloquent but what should he say when one blue eye shone like a beacon in the night? Like a warning signal coming toward him. He put a hand out as Bobby crawled over the mattress. He met the other man’s stare unable to drag his gaze away.

  “I’m still me, Sam.” Bobby crouched over him, knees to Sam’s right, a hand braced near his right shoulder, the other hand close to Sam’s left side. “Did you flag on us, or did we frighten you away? We were trying to be subtle, but it’s not our strong point. Maybe a more direct approach is called for.”

  Huh?

  No way did Bobby mean what Sam thought he did. The fantasy playing out in his head should remain trapped, yet the vibrancy of the blue-ringed eye made a mockery of dreams, even erotic ones.

  That’s it. This is a dream. Maybe they slipped something into my drink. Someone must have because tequila never affected him this way.

  Bobby cocked his head to one side. On all fours and with those different-coloured eyes, all Bobby needed was a collar and lead. The image brought a bubble of laughter to Sam’s throat, but before it burst out, Bobby chased it back by saying, “You thinking of running out on me?”

  “What?”

  “Are you leaving? Chantelle says you are, even before we talked over dinner.”

  How did she know? Didn’t matter how she knew or what she guessed at. Knowing Chantelle, the likelihood of her making an accurate assumpti
on was as strong as the chance of a rumour, though he hadn’t spoken about his plans to anyone. Sam shrugged as best he could, on his back flat to the bed. “Maybe.” How best to answer? Difficult to decide while he stared at the blue eye more than the brown, unable not to, mesmerised. “There’s nothing for me here.”

  He didn’t mean to sound harsh. He didn’t intend to make Bobby flinch. Leaning more on his left hand now, the man used his right to trace the outline of Sam’s cheek to his jaw with his index finger. “And what if there were?”

  Sam didn’t get to respond, or even consider Bobby’s words. The man’s touch, as his finger slipped over Sam’s face by degrees sent little jolts into his body. The first couple Sam quelled, or at least held inside. By the third, his body betrayed him, and by the fourth into the fifth pause against his skin, Sam closed his eyes, threw his head back, and arched.

  Ah, fuck…

  He tried to formulate a way to excuse his response, but what was the point when a hot tongue settled to licking all the way from the hollow of his throat along his neck to his ear, chased by teeth that fastened on his skin.

  Vaguely aware his hands braced a fine broad chest Sam regained enough sense of self and strength to hold Bobby at bay. His body went back flat to the bed, and he once again peered into those peculiar eyes. Hell, if the posture he found himself in wasn’t submissive. Bobby leaned over him, Sam baring his throat to the other man. “Am I dreaming?”

  “No, honey.” Chantelle’s warm, rich voice drifted from the doorway. Although he made out her shape, he failed to see much of her face.

  “I-I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do.” Bobby’s voice was a whisper. Sam frowned at him, the blue eye cold and penetrating, the brown eye softer, yet still a little menacing. How was it possible to feel threatened even when safe? He was safe, wasn’t he? Yes. He had nothing but confidence in Bobby. He trusted the man with his life. The question was whether he had enough faith in the man with anything else.

  “I’m not about to lose you,” Bobby declared.

  Sam snorted. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t do something against your nature.”