by Gayle, Linda
A Shadow of Wings
By
Linda Gayle
Published By:
Linda Gayle
A Shadow of Wings
Copyright © 2013 by Linda Gayle
Thank you for downloading this eBook.
Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Adult Reading Material
Dedication
To Kate, because she has a computer and isn’t afraid to use it.
And to Paul and Connor, for their endlessly inspiring dialogue.
Chapter One
All right, so throwing himself between a steel-toed boot and a scrawny dog might not have been Dylan’s best idea, but hell if he’d let those assholes kick the yelping mutt one more time.
The boot connected with the side of his knee instead of the dog, and Dylan let out a yip of his own. He staggered back. Behind him, cringing against the shitty brick wall of the shitty Mexican take-out place, the bloodied tan pit bull growled. Great, now she’d take a chunk out of his ass while her attackers beat the crap out of him.
“Hey!” Dylan dodged a fist this time, catching a glimpse of the snarling face of the idiot dog-kicker. “Leave the dog alone!”
“Fuck you, man. Dat my bitch. I do what I want.” The guy’s friends, two of them—yeah, this definitely was not Dylan’s smartest move—glanced at each other, then at Dylan. A cold chill dove straight to Dylan’s balls. He knew that look. That vacant, rabid-animal stare that meant the brain had shut down and instinct had taken over.
Killer instinct.
Dog-kicker, a punk with a washed-out, acne-scarred face and a red bandana tied around his head, curled his lip and threw the frayed leash to the side. Dylan heard the scrabble of claws on cement and figured his rescuee had abandoned him. Dog-kicker’s friend, bigger and older, jerked his chin up and growled, “Who you, anyhow? This our street. You don’t belong here, man.”
Yeah, he didn’t belong anywhere, story of his life, one he didn’t think they’d want to hear right now. Dylan looked right and left, but it was late, past midnight. The restaurant had closed an hour ago, this shortcut between buildings was deserted, and it was just him and the three bullies.
“I say we let the pack have ’em,” the third guy said. “Let the dogs tear him up.”
Dog-kicker gave a soulless laugh. “Let’s get him nice ’n bloody. They like their meat raw.”
Fuck. Dylan dodged and tried to bolt past them, but a fist in his gut drove the breath out of him. Something pointy and hard—an elbow, probably—walloped him between the shoulder blades, and once his knees slammed into the pavement, they were on him. All he could do was curl in a ball toward the wall, try to protect his head while boots and fists pummeled the breath out of his lungs. A fist that felt like a rock crushed his cheek into the pavement. A metallic taste flooded his mouth. Lights dimmed. The stink of beer, piss and garbage flooded his nose.
Stunned by pain, he couldn’t move, but the heartless, grunted laughter and shouting abruptly stopped. He still heard the sick thud of fists on flesh, surprised swearing. And then something fell next to him. What the hell…? Dog-kicker crumpled against the bricks, his eyes rolled back, lip split and slick with blood. His big, leather-jacketed buddy landed by Dylan’s head. Then, shouting, and running… The third guy took off.
Leaving someone worse than the whole gang behind.
Dylan groaned and tried to push himself up, but a hand on his shoulder pressed him down again.
“Don’t move,” a low voice murmured. Ha, as if he could. The best he could manage was to roll onto his back. Haloed by lamplight, his face half in shadows, some dude gazed down at him. Shaggy dark hair fell over a forehead furrowed with concern, shielding his eyes, and a really nice mouth sloped downward. Why he should be noticing it was nice mouth when his insides felt like they’d been rearranged, Dylan had no idea.
“Dog…” Dylan croaked.
The man glanced around. “No dog here. Were you walking your dog? Bitten by one?”
He licked his lips and caught his tongue on the edge of a newly broken tooth. Shit. “They were kicking it.”
The nice mouth curved up at one corner. “And you thought you’d save it?”
A little annoyed at the patronizing tone even as he was intrigued by the accented voice, Dylan sat up gingerly and palmed his throbbing skull. “Gotta find her. She was hurt.” So was he. When he breathed, he felt like his chest was too small. “Fuck.”
The hand came back on his shoulder. “You got the wind knocked out you. Several times over, I’d say.”
That accent… Irish, maybe? Before he could ponder further, a groan from behind got Dylan moving. “Is he okay?” He looked at Dog-kicker, still slumped against the wall.
“He will be.” The bigger gangster moaned, and Dylan’s rescuer said, “Him too. We better get moving.”
“Hey.” Dylan tried to draw his savior’s gaze, but the guy kept his eyes averted. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did. But I don’t want to have to do it twice, so…” He stood and held out his hand, which Dylan gripped, and he pulled Dylan to his feet. Quick and smooth, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Dylan staggered, but the guy wrapped a strong arm around him. “Can you walk?”
He nodded. “Did you see which way the dog went?”
“Forget the dog. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
Alarm jolted through him, the tense jerk of his muscles making him wince. “No. No hospital.”
“Why not? Are you in trouble with the cops or something?”
The question posed in that lilting tone almost made him smile. Almost. “No, just broke and I got no insurance.”
“Emergency room has to take you.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. Tougher than I look.” He glanced down and saw a spatter of blood. He pointed to it. “That might be from her.”
“Your dog?”
“Yeah.” He pulled away from the other guy, even though the heat of his body had felt real good against his side. “Thanks again. I gotta go find her. They really did a number on her, and I know she needs a vet.”
“So you’ll pay for a doctor for a dog but not for you?”
Dylan managed to quirk a swollen lip. “I work for one— a vet, I mean. Not that she isn’t sick of me bringing in strays, but, hell, what’s one more?” Then he felt like a total ass for not even considering his rescuer might have been hurt in the fight. He ran his gaze over the guy, from tousled dark hair to black T-shirt to tight hips and long legs. Mmm-mmm. “Hey, uh, you okay? I mean, those dicks didn’t get any punches in, did they?”
“No, I’m fine.” His shy gaze focused on Dylan’s boots. “Guess I better help you find your pup. These two’ll be up soon, and their friend is still out there.”
“Shit, yeah…” Dylan rubbed his sweaty palm over his T-shirt, then held it out. “I’m Dylan, by the way. Dylan Broderick.”
“Cam Coburn.” Cam had big hands, not that Dylan’s were small, but he felt the heat and power in that grip. Finally, the gaze flicked up, and Dylan’s breath stilled. Something good happened to his insides when he looked into the stranger’s shadowed gaze, as if a little wood fire caught and spread comforting warmth through him. His aches and pains melted away. God, this guy had incredible eyes. Reminded Dylan of warm days when he was a kid, and he’d lie in the thick green grass in backyard and just stare at the sky, thinking about all the possibilities…
Who knew how long they’d been staring at each other when Dog-kicker spa
t and swore. Dylan jerked his hand free, Cam glanced down, and by the way he cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, Dylan figured he felt as awkward as Dylan himself did. Weird shit.
“Let’s go, then,” Cam said and started following the trail of dark drips.
Cam shoved his hands into his jeans pockets so Dylan wouldn’t see them shaking. He might be able to fake looking calm on the outside, but inside, he vibrated. Why? Wasn’t the adrenaline from the fight. He’d been in plenty of those. These idiots had gone down easily. When he’d seen the man—Dylan—on the pavement getting his kidneys kicked into his throat, Cam knew he was his mark. He’d felt the call earlier that day, a slight tingling that started in his scalp, then traveled across his shoulders and down his spine as the day went on. He’d known he’d be driven to go out that night. He’d been pacing in his rented house, waiting until the tingling spread to an itchy, unbearable thrum beneath his skin. Someone needed him. He’d let his instincts guide him to the closed restaurant and the dimly lit alley. It hadn’t been a surprise to come upon the thugs attacking the single man on the ground.
It was what happened afterward that shocked him. When Dylan gazed into his eyes—something Cam shouldn’t have allowed. He’d rushed out of his house without his dark glasses; mistake number one. He’d have to be careful not to look directly in Dylan’s eyes too long, as much as he’d like to.
Now the buzzy annoyance of the call had faded, but something stronger bubbled in his gut. He ran his hand through his hair again, knotted his fingers in it and tugged, but the slight pain didn’t help. He glanced at the man walking beside him. There was nothing spectacular about the guy. An inch or two shorter than Cam, maybe six foot, but easily thirty pounds lighter. Dirty blond hair that needed cutting and a scruffy jaw that needed shaving. Straight nose, determined cast to the mouth. Ears pierced with black gauges, and a tattoo of something on the side of his neck. Plain gray T-shirt and faded jeans that hung on his hips as if he’d bought them when he had a few more pounds on him. Still, bloodied and bruised, Dylan Broderick walked, or limped, like a man on a mission.
Cam cleared his throat. “So, this dog, what’s it look like?”
“Tan-and-white pit. Skinny as hell. I noticed her ears were ripped. Probably those guys were using her for baiting.”
“Dog fighting?”
“Yeah. Fuckers.” He slowed to peer along a dark path between two brick buildings. “Looks like she might have gone down here.”
For a rare self-indulgent moment, Cam wondered what it would feel like to have all that intensity focused on him. Dylan might not look like much, but Cam suspected he had a big heart if he was tracking down a wounded stray. And he also suspected he should have said good-bye once he knew Dylan was safe, like he normally would have after a call. Hadn’t he been warned often enough not to get involved with humans?
But instead, here he was following Dylan into the alley, with his blood surging restlessly beneath his skin in a way he knew would only lead to trouble.
A low growl raised the hairs on Cam’s nape and brought him back to the present.
“That her?” he murmured. A bony dog quivered against a garbage can.
“Yup. Poor thing. Wish I had something to give her, something I could lure her out with.” Dylan glanced at him. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any snacks on you?”
When Cam shook his head, Dylan stepped forward, closer to the dog. Cam put a hand on Dylan’s shoulder, felt hot muscle and bone beneath. “She’s got her teeth bared. Sure this is such a good idea? Maybe you should call animal control.”
“Animal control’ll just put her down. That’s what they do to stray pits around here. They assume they’re bad.” He squinted into the gloom. “I can hear her, but I can only just make her out. You must have good night vision.”
“You could say that,” Cam muttered. The dog’s growling escalated as they inched nearer, and he wondered if she sensed what he was. Unnatural. A monster. Cats never minded his kind, but dogs often reacted with confusion and sometimes hostility, at least until they got to know him better.
Dylan got close enough where he could see her. He crouched down about five feet from her and reached out his hand. He murmured soft nothings, but the dog’s focus stayed on Cam. “I think it’s me,” Cam said quietly. “I’ll wait for you out in the street.”
“Don’t be silly.” Dylan shuffled forward, fingers straining toward the end of a makeshift rope leash. “She’s bugged out over being beaten half to death.” He grabbed the leash just as the pit surged toward Cam.
If Dylan hadn’t gotten a good grip on the rope, she would’ve either bolted past Cam or gone for his throat. She never got either chance. Dylan was quick. The dog yelped and barked and snapped at the rope, but Dylan, fearless Dylan, reeled her in until her attention was back on him. She squatted on her haunches, pulling against the rope, trembling like a leaf in a strong wind. Using his voice and his body language, Dylan soothed her, calmed her, won her trust until his hand was on her back. Within a few minutes, as if realizing she’d finally found someone she could trust, the dog shuddered against his leg and lowered her muzzle into his open palm. A big sigh raised the dog’s clearly visible ribs.
The sight of the savage, wounded beast surrendering to Dylan’s touch moved Cam so much his chest ached. To see a creature so maligned, so damaged, so hated, be accepted, even…loved. His heart felt wrung between two strong fists.
He turned his face away.
Dylan came up to him with the dog glued to his side. He grinned. “Just like I thought. She’s a good girl. Most pits are sweethearts, if you just give ’em half a chance.” Then his grin faded. “Hey, man, you okay? You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?”
“No, it’s fine.” Cam forced a smile, his eyes carefully averted, wishing again he’d worn his dark glasses. “That was amazing. You really have a way with animals. No wonder you work for a vet.”
He gave a modest shrug. “I just clean the cages there, stock the drawers, run errands. Wanted to be a vet, but, you know, shit happens, or don’t.” He looked down at the quivering dog and sighed. “Now what do I do with you till the clinic opens, huh?”
The dog gazed up at him, and Cam could see one eye was swollen partially closed. In fact, she had multiple cuts and scrapes all over the poor thing. Her ears had nearly been bitten off—the source of the dripping blood—and not all the wounds were fresh. Some had scabbed and scarred over. She and cruelty were old companions. “She must have seen a lot of action.”
“More likely she was the bait dog. They use them so the fighting dogs can practice on them.” He reached down and stroked his fingers over the dog’s broad head. “Makes me sick. I’d like to…” He shook his head so his hair hung over his brows. “Well, I wish I knew how to fight. I wish I could’ve done what you did tonight. If you hadn’t come along when you did…”
“Don’t worry about it.” The fierceness in Dylan’s voice did strange things to Cam, like make him want to gaze at him with the same undying adoration the dog did. He dropped his attention back to the mutt and shrugged. “I’ve studied martial arts here and there, so it’s good practice when I get to try it out for real.”
“Black belt, huh? Cool.”
He tipped his head. “I could show you a few things, simple moves that could get you out of a situation like that. If you want.” Even while he knew what he was doing was wrong, Cam couldn’t keep the words from coming. Didn’t want to stop them.
Dylan nodded. “Might not be a bad idea. Wish I’d seen you in action. I was too busy holding my guts together. Bet you were better than Jackie Chan.” His gaze rolled over Cam in a way that brought Cam’s temperature up about a hundred degrees. Dylan reached to absently pet the dog again, and Cam noticed the other man’s hand shook. In fact, small tremors racked Dylan’s body. After-fight nerves, plus the guy had to be in pain.
“You look a little shaky. That’s not unusual,” Cam hurried to add when it was clear Dylan would deny it. “I should prob
ably walk you back to, uh…” He let his voice trail off, hoping Dylan would fill in the blank and they’d have a few more minutes together.
“Uh, yeah. I can’t take the dog back to my apartment. They’re not allowed. I… Shit.”
It was as if fate had given Cam a little shove in the back. “You could bring her to my place. It’s just a few blocks that way.” He jerked his thumb vaguely over his shoulder.
“You wouldn’t mind? I mean, I’d be by to pick her up early, before eight. That’s when the clinic opens.”
“She can stay as long as she needs,” he said, stupid words pouring out like water. If Tash found out—when Tash found out—Cam would be dead meat. “Besides, you look like you need some patching up yourself.” Shoving down the insistent voice that said he shouldn’t touch, shouldn’t feel, he reached up and cupped Dylan’s bristly chin, turning his head toward the light. Not that he needed it. His night vision was as good as any owl’s, but he wanted to see the pale glow play over Dylan’s features. He felt the other man’s pulse racing beneath his fingertips. Blood crusted on Dylan’s lower lip. With a force that pushed a small huff of breath from Cam’s chest, the urge to lick it off, then suck softly on those lips left him shaken. And hard.
The dog growled and glared at Cam, startling them both back to the moment. Cam dropped his hand.
“Hey.” Dylan nudged the dog with his leg. “He helped save you too. Be nice.”
With a little whimper, the pit sat. Her body language—head lowered, muscles stiff—clearly said she didn’t like this situation one bit, but for Dylan’s sake, she’d go along with it.
“She’s just being protective,” Cam said. “For what it’s worth, I approve. I think she deserves a good dinner. I’ve got some stuff in my fridge, or we can stop at the convenience store for a couple of cans of dog food.”
“You’re sure this is okay?” Dylan asked, looking at Cam again, whose brain had been totally fried from the simple act of touching the other man.
“No problem at all,” he lied, and then he turned to lead his two strays home.
