Dragons Sky

by Noah Harris

  Charge didn’t miss the way the flush leached from Silver’s cheeks. Charge turned his knees inward and clenched his thighs in hopes of shielding the more delicate portions of his anatomy as the man scrambled on top of him. One of the shouters, a big bruiser of a man with a hulking brow set in a square face grabbed Silver before he could escape. Charge winced on his passenger’s behalf at the obviously biting grip the bruiser had, fingertips digging into the flesh of his shoulder through the smooth weave of Silver’s midnight blue blazer.

  More shouting emanated from within the bar and with it the smell of another cat – a cougar, judging by the delicate nuances. His eyes dashing to the side, Charge caught a glimpse of faded honey blonde hair framing a narrow, time-lined face and pale brown eyes. The bartender had his lips pressed together in a muted snarl, hiding the fangs that Charge could see outlined through the sagging skin around the old feline’s mouth. Then those light brown eyes found Charge’s pale gold and he froze.

  Cougars were notorious planners – they didn’t charge into a situation where they were not the top predator unless they had no choice. The old bartender undoubtedly had plenty of fight in him, but the older man’s instincts demanded he wait and see what Charge was going to do.

  Glancing away from the older, smaller cat, Charge expected to see a fist into Silver’s decidedly finer features. The bruiser’s friends were unquestionably waiting for the same sight, but the brute’s large fist paused in the air, it owner’s eyes narrowing on Charge where he still reclined, prone, on the biting blacktop.

  “What the fuck?” The bruiser snarled. “Another goddamn one! Fucking infestation is what this is!”

  Another one what? Charge wondered, though he suspected he already knew. Those suspicions were already kindling his barely restrained temper, when Silver’s eyes flicked his way. They were virulent blue, practically glowing under the dingy light of the parking lot’s halogens. Those blue eyes flicked away as quickly as they had focused on him, but not before Charge caught a glimpse of shame in their sad, brilliant depths.

  “God, they’re disgusting – I would have used my daddy’s shotgun on myself if I had ever realized I wanted to fuck a man,” one of the men lurking behind the bruiser muttered, malicious condemnation stamped all over his face that wasn’t covered by the frizzing, messy beard that burst in all directions.

  Charge couldn’t explain what precisely inside him snapped. All he knew was that it did – the apex predator lurking beneath the surface was awake.

  So that is what self-loathing feels like when its taken to a whole new low… Jon might be used to the homophobia that riddled states like Texas, but there was no reason for someone else to be subjected to Able’s bullshit because of him.

  Finally fed-up, Jon’s temper overrode his natural flight-or-fight responses. However, before he could violently shock the disgusted look on Charles Able’s face Able was wrenched away and flung into one of his cronies standing behind him. Shocked, Jon turned and found the poor man he had landed on, up and launching himself at another of Able’s friends.

  Jon considered stepping into the fray, but a gnarled pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him forcefully away from the building fight. Jon looked down into the angry eyes of the bartender.

  “You let that young one handle them. No sense getting in his way – he’ll do better if he doesn’t have to worry he might clock you instead of one of them.”

  “There are six of them,” Jon argued. “I played ball with the aggressor, and let me tell you he’s a ruthless bastard.”

  “Won’t matter,” the bartender returned. “That one is faster, stronger, and meaner than any or all of them put together.”

  Disbelieving, Jon turned and followed the bartender’s gaze. He was shocked to see the old man was more than a little right. The only marks on the obviously younger man were the ones he got when Jon fell on him and forced him into the pavement. He felled his opponents with an exceptional precision that spoke not just of skill but of experience. Jon felt his eyes widen as the young man bodily lifted and threw Able into the side of the bar.

  “What’s the matter, honey,” the young man’s voice drifted over the crumpled bodies of Able and his friends – it was smooth and deep, the slow, lazy tones whispered of the west coast, but did nothing to hide the fury dripping from every syllable. “You know, I think I know what your problem is – you couldn’t handle a man if you tried.”

  It had been a long time since the big cat he shared his genetics with had managed to sink it’s claws so deeply into Charge’s temper. Beneath the will of the jaguar, Charge had been happy to see Silver find his spine and be prepared to try to take a piece out of assailants. Still, Charge hadn’t seen any reason to risk those stunning blue eyes swelling shut from a well-aimed hit. Thankfully the cougar had pulled Silver from the periphery of the fight.

  Aggravated and riled up, Charge turned and stalked over to the duffle he had dropped when Silver had fallen on him – he was glad that he had tucked his phone in the zippered outer pocket as it would have likely gotten broken in the fight. A siren in the distance had Charge cocking his head; the old bartender mirrored the action. The cougar gave a subtle tilt of his chin and Charge nodded as he read the message.

  Get moving – I’ll clean this up.

  As he shrugged into the jacket he had dropped along with the duffle, Charge heard the cougar murmur to Silver. “You should go home, no doubt someone has called the police, and I see no reason for you to get that blemish on your record. ‘Specially seeing as you work at that high-kick firm.” The old cat chuckled at Silver’s widened blue eyes. “I’ve see your card when you pull out the plastic at the end of the night. I been in Houston long enough to know that name. Now get a move on. I’ll deal with these idiots.”

  “Thank you,” Silver said softly.

  “No worries. And remember you’re always welcome at the bar, even if other patrons disagree.”

  “I appreciate that, but I think I’ll lay low for a while.”

  As he began crossing the parking lot, Charge heard the cougar’s near-silent footsteps fade as he went back into the bar, the door swinging shut behind him. As he stalked over the pavement, Charge heard an awkward cough as Silver tried to subtly clear his throat.

  “Umm – excuse me?”

  Already at the cracked and decrepit sidewalk, Charge turned and finally took a look at Silver in the muddy light. Unfortunately, the man wouldn’t just stand there and let him look enough to form an impression. No, Silver had to fidget.

  “Thank you,” he finally managed to get out.

  “No problem,” Charge called back, turning away once more.

  “Wait!” Silver shouted. He was blushing again when Charge faced him and lifted a brow in inquiry. “Umm – you’re walking? Is there somewhere I can drop you off? This really isn’t the best neighborhood, this late in the evening.”

  Seriously? You just watched me beat the shit out of several big guys and you are worried about the neighborhood?

  “Not going anywhere in particular.”

  “I don’t understand? You sure don’t look like your homeless.” Silver commented.

  Charge couldn’t hold back the cynical crack of laughter. And yet that is exactly what I am…

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Homelessness has all faces, Tex,” Charge finally answered.

  “You really have nowhere to go?”

  “Was heading to Florida, but my car died a couple miles back. Now, I’m going to get moving before the cops get here. Just cuz I have no place to go sure as shit does not mean I am inclined to accept the hospitality of the State of Texas,” Charge smirked at Silver as he walked backwards.

  “If you really have nowhere to stay, let me put you up – I have plenty of room. It’s probably too much for one person, really…”

  “Hah! And what is that going to cost me?” He meant for the quip to be teasing, but when Silver visibly flinched, Charge stopped walking.

  “N-not
hing. I just wanted to say thank you.”

  “And to think I thought Texas Hospitality was a load of crap,” Charge tossed the comment out in hopes of alleviating whatever discomfort his last had caused.

  Look at that – blue lightning. At the taunt, Silver’s sad eyes were suddenly filled with a force of temper, they flashed aggressively. Their sudden passion made Charge smile.

  “Sure, Tex. I’ll take you up on that.” Sleeping in a tree is well and good, when I can do it while shifted, but as a human it is just uncomfortable. And who am I fooling – I am intrigued. Silver is a bundle of contradictions.

  “Jon – I’m Jon Forrest.”

  Jon knew the introduction was awkward – but he wasn’t particularly good at introducing himself in a personal setting, business was different. He watched as the younger man walked with an enviable loose-limbed grace back from the broken sidewalk, a smirk tilting firm, slashing lips. Jon tried to keep his focus clinical, but, for the first time in years, there was a budding appreciation of an entirely different sort building within his consciousness.

  “Charge,” Jon’s rescuer introduced himself. “Charge Sorrenson.”

  “Charge?” Jon asked incredulously.

  “If you want to be particular, its Rowland, but there’s no guarantee I’ll answer. I can almost assure you I won’t,” Charge retorted.

  Jon caught an almost imperceptible flicker of Charge’s eyes, at the same moment, the shrill call of sirens reached his ears. He looked Charge and found the younger man considering him with a cocked brow. One sleekly angled, dark slash arched in silent humor – it was a formidable weapon of silent communication.

  I wonder if that would work in peer meetings at work, Jon silently wondered as he murmured, “We should go.”

  “Which one’s you?” Charge asked gesturing to the array of pick-ups and SUVs filling the parking lot. “Please tell me it isn’t that one?” he asked, pointing at a beat-up minivan, the paint fading and chipping.

  “No,” Jon retorted, his first genuine smile of the day – if not the week – lighting his face. “That one.”

  Jon watched as Charge followed the direction of his outstretched hand. Finally the younger man’s pale gaze came to land on the two-door sedan parked in the far corner of the parking lot, tucked beneath the low branches of a tree against the plank fence cordoning off the bar’s parking from the vacant lot next door. If one could call the dusty gun-metal gray planes and angles of the 1970 Challenger a sedan. Subtle dark chrome piping rimmed the wheel wells over the back on back tires and rims; a slashing stripe of red streaked the upper edge of the body. The satin finish glowed softly under the halogen lights while the windows shined brightly.

  The car was a beast that Jon was proud of. He hadn’t just bought it. No, when he had put down a thousand dollars for the paint-stripped, not quite complete frame, he had had a vision. Three years of finding parts, mechanical and structural, learning to wire and upholster, fine-tuning painting skills, and an infinite amount of patience had realized the vision that he now drove daily. He had taken his pride and joy to more than a few car shows, been offered surprising sums, and been treated to more-than-surprised, slack-jawed expressions when the fanatics learned he had put easily 200,000 miles on the Challenger in years he had been tooling the beast around after college. He loved the car. Cars were meant to be driven – so he drove it.

  “That?” Charge began, he then shook his head and fully faced Jon, “That is your car?”

  Jon couldn’t hold back the laugh as he considered the bright eyes he now saw were the palest shade of brown he had ever seen in the eyes of a human. “Yes, that is my car. And I thought you wanted to get going?”

  Jon walked around to the driver’s side door and slid onto the pleated leather seat. By the time Charge sat on the passenger seat, buckled in, with his duffle on his lap, Jon had the engine purring. Relishing the tuned mechanical hum as he did every time he turned the key, Jon backed out of the parking space, turned the car and had the tires on the road in a matter of seconds. He drove away from the bar, slow and easy, as a couple of cop cars passed him and finally whipped into the bar’s parking lot.

  “Doesn’t say much for Houston Police’s response time,” Charge murmured.

  “Not in this neighborhood,” Jon agreed. He glanced over at Charge and considered the younger man’s profile.

  Black hair, ribboned through with amber and blonde was brushed back and away from the man’s face to sit in thick waves. Dark sideburns stretched to frame a face of compelling features. It was obvious that Charge hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, the growing scruff was dark and evenly trimmed a square jaw, but didn’t disguise the dimple in his chin. Dark, straight heavy brows slashed over those compellingly pale eyes. Without those gold eyes staring at him, Jon could better see that they were deep set over hewn cheekbones and were fringed with thick lashes. Charge’s skin was that of an extra creamy latte, smooth and taunt as it stretched over his face and neck before disappearing beneath the v of his partially unbuttoned shirt. All in all, the younger man was rather exotic for his last name.

  “You don’t look much like a ‘Sorrenson.’ You strike me more as a Latino than a Dane.”

  “Surprisingly you’re one of the first to question that,” Charge laughed, a sardonic smirk twisting his straight lips. “I’ll trade you, you tell me what the fuck started that fight and I’ll tell you why my name fits – but doesn’t”

  Jon lazily shifted into neutral as he coasted up to a stoplight. “I went to high school with the distinctly antagonistic one. He and I played football together. When he found out that I was attracted to the trainer – the male trainer – he made life very difficult.”

  “Well at least you have moved on – those first relationships almost never work out. I imagine it’s hard to be gay in this part of the country to begin with. Especially for an athlete.”

  Jon didn’t comment, he merely shifted the car back into first when the light turned green and kept heading for the diverse, pricey neighborhoods that littered the Montrose area. After a couple of minutes he sensed those gold eyes focused on him. Jon glanced over and, in hopes of evading any perceptive insight those eyes might have deduced, focused his attention back on the road.

  “You have got to be kidding me…You have had another relationship right?” Charge demanded.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon managed to toss back with a degree of calm. “It was a moment of youthful curiosity.”

  III

  Charge stared at the other man, his eyes narrowed as he detected the subtle bob of Jon’s Adam's apple.

  Good God! Has he bottled everything up? Never acted on…. Oh! That is depressing…

  “So, what kind of woman do you prefer?” Charge asked, his tone noncommittal. “Tits, legs, or ass?”

  “What?” Jon almost squawked.

  Wow…I don’t think I have ever met someone so desperately clinging to the closet, Charge reflected.

  “Umm – it just depends on the woman…I suppose…Umm, here we are!”

  Charge continued to stare at Jon for a full minute before, shaking his head in pity, he turned forward. He couldn’t tell what color the house was in the dark, but it was a quaint cottage-style home with a raised front porch running the length of the front of façade. Three large pairs of windows look out on the front yard beneath the awning of the patio. The edge of the double-peaked roof was embellished here and there and at each corner with decorative exposed struts and touches of latticework. The front yard was exceptionally landscaped and manicured, a massive live oak hulked and sprawled and various shrubs and beds had been installed over its roots.

  Jon pulled the car into the driveway and hit first one button then another. A solid wood panel gate swung inward from where it abutted the house revealing a two-story building containing the garage and attached to the house through a covered, screened patio. One of the three bay doors lifted.

  Charge didn’t bother noticing the re
st of the paved space between the house and garage, his attention was entirely focused on the lit interior of the garage. Charge’s breath whistled between his teeth as he took in the glory of Jon’s garage. Massive chests of meticulously ordered tools lined one wall.

  He has a professional lift. No! two of them! Charge couldn’t help ogling the cars any more than he could the tools. Is that a ’41 Ford Half-ton? A 1950’s Hudson Commodore – I think I might cry. Jon also had the ever desirable 911, but as Charge stepped out of the Challenger and turned in a stunned circle, he was faced with the car of his dreams.

  Ever since he had seen one cruising the Las Vegas strip as a 10-year-old, Charge had dreamed of owning a glorious 1950’s corvette. Jon’s was everything Charge could have ever hoped to see in an example of classic American engineering. The sleek two-toned body arched over the hood and seemed to stretch like a lazy cat toward its blunted, arching rear.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” Charge purred in the otherwise silent garage. The stunning vehicle seemed to answer with a chuckle before Charge realized he wasn’t alone. Turning back to his host, Charge could feel the tops of his cheeks heating as he faced Jon’s brilliant, laughing blue eyes.

  As distracted as Charge been by the car, he found himself equally so by the picture Jon made, leaning against the hood of the Challenger. His long, denim-clad legs were stretched out in front of him; his cocked hip resting on the edge of the Challenger’s flat hood. The way his body twisted to face Charge thrust his chest forward, stretching the fabric of his thin t-shirt across his pecks and shoulders. The man had the body of an Anglo sprinter; he was well, but sleekly muscled. Charge could feel himself smirking as he noticed the western boots on Jon’s feet, but the expression froze when he finally looked past the brilliant blue eyes and the striking silver streak highlighting Jon’s hair to the charmingly all-American oval face.