by Amy Lane
Damien blew out a breath of his own. He and Glen had been forced into more than one emergency landing—even one or two that could be considered crashes, although Glen had always maintained that if it didn’t get him sent Stateside, it wasn’t a crash and they didn’t need to tell his mom.
But this….
Damien kept his hands locked on the wheel, but his mind wandered back.
“The winds were brutal,” he said thoughtfully. “We knew that.” Tevyn’s grandmother had been dying, and Damien’s job had been to fly them from a snowboarding event near Donner Pass back down to San Francisco. Tev and Mallory had still told him to use his good judgment—they’d trusted him to know when to call it—and he’d thought he’d been okay.
“Thirty knots, which is pretty bad, but the rule of thumb is to call it at forty. I’d looked at the weather charts—said it got to about thirty-five but should have still been clear. And then, right when we were naked, no place to land, this big, wild gust of wind slammed into me at forty-five knots. I’d just swung around to take us back—I didn’t like the way the trees were moving, didn’t like the feel of the bird, and… bam! It was like the hand of God, picking us up and slamming us against the snow.”
His voice shook, and he had to blink hard and fast to keep his vision in front of him.
You have to land this plane, dumbass. Why the fuck would you open that wound and bleed out when you still have to land the goddamned plane?
“I would have been scared,” Preston said, and Damien risked a glance at him.
He was staring at Damien’s profile hungrily, like hearing this story fed his soul—and he waited until the last moment to skitter his eyes toward Damien’s right ear. How had Damien missed how much Preston had needed this moment, this explanation, this contact?
“I wasn’t,” Damien said, which was the truth but surprising at the same time. “I was shocked. And then I was in—” He shuddered. “—so much pain. Mal and Tevyn had to give me a field dressing in the snow so I wouldn’t bleed out. Tevyn almost died getting the first aid kit and his go-bag from the chopper—it was about to go over the cliff. If he hadn’t done that, we all would have been dead.”
“Tevyn left first,” Preston said, which was true. Tevyn had stayed long enough to see Damien out of his second surgery, but he’d been on a plane soon after.
“His grandmother was dying,” Damien reminded him. “He had to say goodbye.”
“Mallory left the day after.” This seemed to be a grudge.
“He made sure I was stable after the third surgery.” Damien remembered that. He’d opened his eyes and Mallory had been there, kind and worried. He and Mal had been friends, both of them nursing their hopeless crushes on younger men. Watching Mallory and Tevyn discover that their love for each other was real and wonderful—and not painful at all, in spite of what Preston thought—had been one of the things that had kept Damien alive on that mountaintop when every breath had been pain.
“He shouldn’t have left!”
Ah, Preston. Loyal—fiercely, fiercely loyal. Even this past year when Damien had done everything but wear a T-shirt that read “GTFO!” he should have known that Preston wouldn’t desert him.
“He and Tevyn stayed with me on the mountain,” Damien explained. “They got me down, to help. Don’t you understand? They thought it was okay because they were leaving me with you.” How was I supposed to know you really didn’t want me?
“But you didn’t want us,” Preston said bitterly. “Or you didn’t want me.”
Damien took a deep breath, and Preston grunted.
“That’s a lying breath,” Preston told him, and Damien’s temper pricked.
“Oh, how would you know! I’ve never lied to you!”
“You’re about to lie right now! You’re about to say you do want me and Glen for family, but that’s not true, because if it was true, how come you don’t talk to us, and how come we’re not having sex?”
“Because why would you want to have sex with a coward who can barely walk!”
Damien really wished he could see Preston’s face at that moment, because the series of expressions that crossed it in profile was both fascinating and frightening.
Finally, Preston asked, “Are you talking about you?”
Damien shook his head and sank into his shoulders, and his face compressed into the scowl that seemed to define him since he’d realized his leg would always hurt, would never be 100 percent, and he’d never again be the guy Preston had followed with hero worship in his eyes.
“You know anyone else who’s afraid to fly? Who can’t seem to push past the pincushion in his leg?”
“You walk fine,” Preston snapped. “I’m sorry it hurts. Maybe if you let me rub it, it wouldn’t hurt so much!”
“It’s hideous,” Damien muttered. Scar tissue twisted across the leg from midcalf practically to his hip. His femur had popped through his skin—Tevyn had needed to reset it on the mountainside or Damien would have bled out. But the result had been imperfect healing and an infection that had raged long after they’d gotten Damien back to civilization. “Why would you even want to touch it?”
“Because it’s your skin!”
Preston’s holler rebounded through Damien’s skull. “Jesus, Preston—”
“Don’t tell me to use my inside voice!” Preston yelled. “I’m tired of inside voice! You were hurt—I can help. Don’t be stubborn!”
“Why do you even want to have sex with a man you feel sorry for?” Damien yelled back. He wasn’t going to hold back if Preston wasn’t. “Jesus, Preston, do you think I want us to start a grown-up relationship when it’s all ‘Oh, poor Damien, he hasn’t been the same since the accident.’ I wanted to be perfect before I tried to kiss my best friend’s little brother. Did that ever occur to you?”
“You were never perfect,” Preston told him crossly. “You and Glen and all those fuckin’ words. I used to ask Glen, ‘Why do you guys have to talk so much?’ and Glen would say, ‘We like making each other laugh,’ so that was fine. If it made you happy, I could deal with all the words, but you were not perfect before the crash. That is a lie.”
“Well, why would you want to kiss me if there were too many goddamned words?” Damien asked. Great—wasn’t perfect before the crash, sure wasn’t perfect after it. Why were they having this conversation again?
“Because you’re Damien,” Preston muttered, crossing his arms and staring out the window on his side of the plane.
Clouds and sky—Damien’s favorite view, actually—but he could see how it would get boring. “There’s got to be more to it than that,” Damien said, scanning the sky for something, anything, to guide him through this particular moment in time.
“Why?” Preston asked. “Isn’t it enough that I want to kiss you?”
Damien opened his mouth, struggling for the words Preston had accused him of having too many of. Nobody was more surprised than he was when Preston came up with some first.
“Don’t you want to kiss me?” Preston asked, and the plaintive note in his voice undid Damien.
“So much,” Damien said gruffly. “So much. Since your grandmother’s funeral, remember?”
“I remember,” Preston said, hurt saturating the moment. “Your eyes were the color of a dark sun.”
“Yours were the color of a cloudless sky.”
Preston’s hand on his knee was warm and knowing, and in spite of himself, Damien was drawn back to that day and how much he’d wanted to comfort Preston, and how, for the first time, he wasn’t sure whether Preston would welcome his hug.
Five years ago
DAMIEN had to hand it to Preston’s grandmother. She hadn’t kicked it quietly, or in bed. She’d gone off on a long training weekend with her dog-handling group and had suffered a massive myocardial infarction two hours from the nearest transportation.
It wouldn’t have mattered. She’d died quickly and with no suffering, surrounded by the snuffling, furry, kind population she’d love
d the best during her life. Everybody had agreed it hadn’t been a bad way to go.
But that didn’t mean Preston and Glen, who had been partially raised by their grandmother after their father had taken off, hadn’t mourned her with all their hearts.
The day of the wake—held at the ranch, where her fellow dog handlers could bring their comfort companions—Glen had been consoling his mother, and Damien had looked around and realized Preston had disappeared.
“You know where he is, right?”
Ozzy was five feet seven inches of stocky goodwill. He had a broad face that still bore the scars of a vicious bout of adolescent acne, and a smile that would illumine the heavens. His girlfriend, Belinda, was a curvy blond goddess who looked at Ozzy like he held the sun and the moon and the stars in his broad, capable hands, and Damien reflected—not for the first time—that Preston’s long-ago desire to kiss his best friend came from all the good things in Preston’s soul.
“Yeah, I know.” Damien grimaced. “How’s he doing?”
Ozzy shrugged. “Asked me and Belinda to move in almost before the funeral was finalized. But then, he’s wanted that for a long time, and Lavinia was….” Ozzy trailed off. Lavinia had been a good woman, but in her own way, she was as stubborn as Preston.
“She didn’t like most people,” Damien said diplomatically. Damien had arrived under Glen’s umbrella, and Glen, glib, charming, irritating as fuck Glen, had managed it somehow.
“Nope. But Preston needs the help.” Ozzy smiled conspiratorially. “He’s already got business contacts at the police station for helping to train their police dogs, and he’s working on his certification to train service dogs for children with autism.” He tapped his forehead. “Our boy is forward thinking. And seriously, Bel and I can’t imagine a better life than spending all day with dogs.”
Damien had laughed, because he got to live his dream too, and fly all over creation, which was all he’d ever wanted to do. Preston surrounded himself with good people. That made Damien happy.
“I’ll go find him,” he said. “Make sure he’s okay.”
“Here.” Ozzy reached into his good Sunday suit and pulled out a handful of dog treats. “Patsy’s got her hands full with that litter. She could always use a little more fat.”
Damien took the treats and tucked them into the pocket of his Sunday best, then slipped out of the somber room of desperately uncomfortable dog handlers who would rather be mourning with their best friends.
The dogs spent a lot of time running around, but giant dog packs were dangerous unchecked. Preston kept most of the dogs kenneled when they weren’t being worked, and between him, Ozzy, and Belinda, every dog got plenty of time out of the kennels with lots of exercise. The little ones had three different kennels between them, with a small crate for each small dog—every dog had a safe space.
That was Preston’s rule.
Glen had told him once that Preston had spent a lot of his childhood voluntarily in the closet because it made him feel safer. Their father yelled a lot, not necessarily at the boys but in general, and Preston would simply… sit in the closet and pet the family dog. When they’d gone to live with their grandmother, when Preston was six, sitting in one of the kennels with the dog that seemed to need the most attention was Preston’s best thing.
Patsy, a Heinz-57 pit bull mix, had just given birth to seven puppies. The biggest, a moose-baby with enormously broad feet and a head like a beach ball made of brick, liked to sit still and watch all the other puppies crawl over one another and be cute. Glen had called the dog “Preacher” because he looked like he was giving words of wisdom to the masses, and Preston had already made plans to keep this one for himself when the others were weaned.
Damien had no doubt whatsoever where he’d find Preston.
Because Patsy had a growing family, the kennel was mostly a big wooden box with an open side, surrounded by chain-link fence. Preston and company spent a good two hours a day picking up dog crap, so the dirt floor to the box was only that—dirt—and Patsy and her babies had a giant burlap pillow to keep warm and comfy on.
The box was barely big enough to house Patsy, her nursing family, and one grown man sitting cross-legged in the back corner.
After Damien joined Preston, it housed two of them.
It was raining that day, which didn’t happen that often in Napa, and it seemed the weather mourned the old woman who had loved living so much of her life out in it. Damien was grateful for the clean dry straw in the box and the shelter from the rain.
They sat side by side for a few moments until Preacher finished eating and crawled into Preston’s lap. Preston grunted and spent some time running his hands over the broad head and the silkiness of the triangular ears and the precious little toe-beans of the paws. Preacher dragged his long tongue over any exposed part of Preston he could find.
Damien was surprised when Preston broke the silence.
“Gran hated rain.”
“She did indeed.”
“She was so excited about that trip. Twenty-four hours to find their target and come back—she’d been practicing all year.”
“I know. Handling the dogs was her best thing besides you and your brother.” The relationship between Preston’s grandmother and Preston’s mother had always been strained. Damien got the feeling that the older woman had been a lot like Preston—nuance and expression were not always her forte—but that hadn’t stopped her from giving the boys everything in her power to have a happy childhood.
Who could wish for a better childhood than one surrounded by dogs?
“She was so good at being quiet,” Preston said mournfully. “Nobody else will be that kind of quiet.”
It was on the tip of Damien’s tongue to say he could be, but he stopped himself because Preston didn’t like lying.
“No, but you will have other kinds of quiet in your life,” Damien said. “And some noise too. Me and Glen will bring the noise, Ozzy and Belinda will bring the kindness, and you will find a nice guy to bring the quiet.”
Preston’s rolled eyes could have meant several things, but his words were quite succinct. “God, you’re dumb.”
Damien recoiled in hurt. “Right. Sorry—I’ll leave now.” He put his hands down to crawl out of the crate, but Preston’s hand on his wrist stopped him.
“I don’t want you to go!”
“But you just said I was dumb! Seriously, Preston, it’s okay if you want to be alone. I mean, I thought you might need comforting, but not everybody does. If you want me to leave, I’ll—”
“That’s not why you’re dumb. Of course I want you with me. I always want you with me.”
Damien rocked backward and into his sitting position again. “Okay,” he said. “I give. Why am I dumb?”
“Because I don’t want another guy to bring the quiet! I don’t care about quiet with guys.”
“Then what do you want?” The question was sincere, but the crate was close and warm, and Preston smelled like warm, slightly sweating man, a little bit of aftershave, and dogs.
He smelled like comfort, and while he kept his eyes on Preacher, he kept flickering his gaze to Damien’s face and back, and Damien was wondering what he was looking for.
“I want you,” Preston said, and Damien blinked because that could mean several things.
Damien thought he knew what it meant. “I’m going to put my arm around your shoulder, buddy. Don’t startle.”
Preston leaned into him, and Damien closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to pretend that this was any more intimate than Preston thought it was—but dammit, wanting Preston right there next to him so badly. He’d loved Lavinia too. She’d welcomed him to the ranch twice a year, no questions, no explanations. Just like Preston, she was kind to creatures who needed it but didn’t really have a place for any person who didn’t take the time to understand her.
Preston turned toward him, and for a moment their eyes met. “I want to kiss you now,” Preston said. “Do you consent?�
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Damien recoiled, dropping his arm. “No!” His body screamed Yes! But he was trying to be a good guy.
Preston pulled back, thumping against their little shelter with a muttered oath. “I thought you liked me!”
“I do!”
“Why are you sitting here with your arm around me if you don’t like me in the kissing way!”
“I’m trying to comfort you!” Damien snapped. “I needed comfort. I was trying to… I don’t know, comfort us both!”
“So was I!” Preston yelled. Patsy gave a growl, because no dog likes that much emotion near her babies, and Preston lowered his voice. “I think sex would make me very happy right now!”
Damien gave a strangled laugh. “Sex makes everybody happy right now,” he said. “But it doesn’t necessarily make people happy later. I… I like you, Preston. I want to keep being with you as Glen’s brother. Sex might mess that up.”
Preston glared at him, eyes red-rimmed, forehead creased. “Would you want to be with me if I wasn’t Glen’s brother?” he asked suspiciously.
“Why, are you thinking of killing Glen in his sleep?” The snark snuck out, and for a moment Damien held his breath, hoping Preston would see the joke.
Well, yes and no.
“I know you said that to be funny, but I don’t get it,” Preston told him unhappily. “Is that why you won’t kiss me? Because I don’t get your jokes?”
Damien’s heart broke a little. “You are handsome,” he said, smiling faintly, because it was an understatement. Preston was beautiful. “And you are kind. And….” His body tingled from being there. “My body wants you.”
“But your mind doesn’t? Or your heart? Or whatever it is people say wants somebody but doesn’t?”
“No,” Damien told him crossly. “All those things want you. But don’t you get it? Your grandmother just died, and I’m one of the solid people in your life. Lovers don’t always stay, Preston. Do you really want to risk that between us?” He thought of his parents in Hawaii, his mother desperately trying to make peace between him and his father, his father bitter and taciturn because Damien threw away what he’d thought of as a promising future in business.
