Manties in a Twist (The Subs Club Book 3) (26 page)

“Oh my God!” Ricky was off on a whole thing about this new animation program he had. I couldn’t follow any of it, but the more he talked, the more awesome I felt. Because we
weren’t
here to talk about Bill. Bill and Hal didn’t need to be part of everything I thought or discussed. And yeah, shit had changed after Hal died, and it was still changing. I wanted to be allowed to change too. It was just like I’d told the well-dressed hare: different wasn’t bad.

I figured I should write that shit down, but I didn’t want to be rude and take out my phone, so I just listened to Ricky instead.

That night, Ryan and I discussed show attire. I wanted him to get some friggin’ breeches and riding boots, because he’d look hot. We were thinking my board shorts with the hole in the back weren’t gonna cut it for the competition, so we shopped online until we found some awesome leather pants that were made for pony play and had space in the back for the tail, and space in the front for . . .

“The Pegasus Sheath!” I said happily.

“Yep.” Ryan clicked on them. “I think we need these.”

In the corner, Collingsworth yawned.

Ryan looked over at him. Stared for a few seconds. “He has something weird in his teeth.”

“Really?” I glanced over, but Collingsworth’s mouth was closed. “What?”

“I dunno. Here, Col! C’mere, boy.”

Collingsworth got up slowly and lumbered over. Ryan checked his mouth. “I
believe
,” Ryan said, “this is a remnant of one of my socks.” He held it up.

“Uh-oh.”

Ryan looked meaningfully at Collingsworth, who glanced away.

“He’s never chewed our stuff before,” I pointed out. “He must be missing Amanda.”

I comforted Collingsworth while Ryan finished ordering the pants. Something smelled weird, like rotting fish. I sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

“Huh?”

I sniffed again, closer to Collingsworth. “He smells gross.”

Ryan leaned over and sniffed, then focused on the screen again. “That’s probably his anal glands.”

“His what?”

“Anal glands.”

I rubbed Collingsworth’s head, staring up at Ryan. “What’s that?”

“You know. Dogs’ anal glands sometimes get full, and then they have to go to the vet or the groomer’s and get the . . . stuff squeezed out.”

“What stuff?” I was alarmed. “Poop?”

“No, it’s not poop. It’s just, like . . . I don’t know, butt juice.”

I stopped petting Collingsworth, who turned his giant head to stare mournfully at me. “What’s it made of?”

“Uhhh.” Ryan didn’t look away from the screen. “I don’t know.”

“How does the vet get it out?”

“I told you. They reach in there and squeeze the sac thingie.”

“Reach in there?”

Ryan glanced at me. “Why are you so upset? I reach in your butt all the time.”

“Yeah, to do good things.”

Collingsworth moved closer to me.

I was still trying to process all this. “What happens if you don’t squeeze the butt sac?”

“Then I guess it’s probably kind of uncomfortable for the dog. And it leaks a little.”

I slowly scooted away from Collingsworth and turned my attention back to the computer, but I did not stop being perplexed by anal glands.

“What else?” Ryan asked. “I think we’ve got just about everything we could need.”

I got the brilliant idea to order some of those black fuzzy boots to imitate the feathering Friesians have on their ankles.

“We’re headed for the poorhouse,” Ryan said as he clicked Submit Order.

“Totally worth it, though.”

After that, I played him the recordings of “Snow Wanderer,” and he gave me some advice on the lyrics. Then we tried to do a scene with the military costumes we’d gotten at the party store recently. We were supposed to be soldiers who took cover together during enemy fire, but we had a little trouble getting our visions to align.

I made the sound of a grenade exploding, and Ryan collapsed on the living room floor.

“Oh, help. Yeah, oh my
God
, Kamen, my leg.”

I looked at his leg, imagining it mangled and covered in blood. “Oh, Jesus!”

“It’s gone!”

“No, it’s still there,” I whispered.

He raised his head. “It was blown off by the grenade.”

“No, but I want you to lose it later to gangrene, so can you just—”

“It’s
my
leg.”

“I knowwww,” I whined. “But can it please stay attached? Just for now?”

“Fine.”

We took it back a few lines. “Oh, Jesus!” I yelled.

“I’ve got a butt-load of shrapnel in my flesh.”

I stared at him. “A butt-load? Really?”

“Well, what’d they call it back in world war times? Fuck-ton?”

“I don’t know. Just say you were hit by shrapnel.”

“Okay, but after this, can we not interrupt anymore?”

“Fine.”

He tipped his head back and moaned. “I’ve been strafed!”

“You weren’t strafed, dude. That was a grenade.”

“Oh my God, just
go
with it, Kamen.”

“Don’t worry! You’re gonna be fine. I’ll take you to the hospital tent.” I started to pick him up.

“Owww, my leg!”

He was a good goddamn actor, because I got startled and dropped him. He moaned again, frealz this time. Collingsworth ambled over and licked him. I pushed Collingsworth away, because I really didn’t want to smell butt juice while I was trying to save a life.

“Look . . .” I leaned down and kissed Ryan, then gazed into his little brown fuckin’ bunny eyes. “It’s gonna hurt when I lift you, but then we’ll get you fixed up.”

He looked up at me. Lolled his head around a little. “I see the most . . .
beautiful
light . . .”

He closed his eyes all dramatic.

I tapped him. “But don’t die yet, because we haven’t even fucked.”

“I know, I’m just passing out.”

“Okay, now can we fast-forward to three weeks later and your leg is gone and, like, you’re afraid you’ll never be able to have sex again, but then I have sex with you in the hospital?”

“Okay.”

We made it through the role-play, but it was a little hairy. Afterward we had a couple of beers, and then suddenly it was 3 a.m.

“Oh fuck.” Ryan moaned. “I have to get up in three hours. Maybe I should be sick again tomorrow.”

“Dude, I wouldn’t stop you.”

“I can’t believe it’s 3 a.m.”

I sang a little Matchbox Twenty wearing just my military jacket and no pants, which led to some serious nineties nostalgia. Which led to us checking the internet to see if Matchbox Twenty was on tour. We discovered the band no longer played together, but that Rob Thomas toured on his own.
And
on the twenty-second he was playing a venue only two and a half hours from us, which, in our sleep-deprived and slightly drunk state, seemed like a sign from the universe. So we ordered tickets.

“We’re getting bad at adulting,” Ryan mumbled when we finally got into bed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re, like, out of control with our spending. And we’re being pulled in a lot of different directions.”

“Different directions?”

He just laughed. A few seconds later, though, he said, “Would you seriously consider moving? When our lease is up?”

My stomach felt funny. I’d really been hoping we’d never have to have this conversation. “Maybe. I guess we should wait and see?”

“Yeah.” He fidgeted. “I just keep thinking I want to be doing something different than I am. But I’m not sure what. I think it’d be cool if we just set off to, like, find ourselves.”

I lay there for a while, thinking about that.

“Moving’s gonna cost a lot of money,” I said finally.

He didn’t answer. Possibly he was asleep. From the floor near the bed, Collingsworth’s tags jingled as he scratched his ear.

“Do humans have butt juice?” I asked, poking Ryan.

“Mmrrpphh?”

“Do humans have anal glands and butt juice?”

He sighed. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t . . . Probably not. Not like dogs do.”

“Can you Google it?”

“You have a phone.”

“Yours is closer. Please?”

He sighed again. “Go to sleep.”

I lay there a little bit longer. Then I leaned over to the nightstand and grabbed my phone. Miles would know. Miles knew everything.

I texted him.
Do humans have butt juice like dogs do?

He texted back a few minutes later:
It’s 4 in the morning.

I know. But you’re awake.

Zac had a nightmare.

Aww. :(

I waited a few seconds, then tried again:
Do humans have butt juice?

What are you talking about?

Like when dogs need their anal glands squeezed.

He didn’t reply for a while. Then I got:
Humans have glands located along the walls of the anal canal. They secrete scent fluid into the canal through pathways that open into the anal crypts, and while obstruction is rare, it is possible.

Hahahahahahahahaahhahaah ANAL CRYPTS! :-D :-D

Please go to bed.

I felt kinda lonely and didn’t want to go to sleep.
New Indiana Jones movie. Anal Crypt of Doom.

Please.

Secretions of the Lost Glands.

I will pay you.

I don’t need mine squeezed, right?

No.

Ok. Love you.

Love you too.

I put down my phone and lay there another moment. Then I rolled onto my side and gently tapped Ryan’s shoulder. “Hey, Ry?” I patted him a little harder. “Ry?”

“Mmmmmnnnn.” He pulled the pillow over his head.

“We have anal crypts.”

He didn’t answer.

“I just thought you should know. We all have secrets in our butts. Like Egyptian tombs.”

He didn’t answer. That was fine. I’d make sure to tell him again over breakfast.

There were a couple of days where we didn’t have time for much pony stuff because of work. I wore the garter belt to work one of those days and had fun texting Ryan pics from the bathroom. Ryan dug out his Slash wig from our storage room, so I finally had a mane. And I texted Dave to ask if we could have all the craft junk that was left over from us trying to decorate the duplex for Christmas last year. I wanted to do some crafting with my bridle and harness.

Friday my friend Alex at the Hymland media center called to say their eleven-o’clock recording studio appointment had canceled. So I ended up taking my guitar out to Hymland and spending two hours in the recording booth. I only got a couple of solid takes, but I could work with that. Alex let me stay on afterward to use the center’s editing software. I didn’t get anywhere near finished before I had to head to work, but Alex said I could come back anytime to edit.

That evening, Ryan and I were practicing long reining through the apartment—weaving around the furniture, halting, backing up. It was going well until we heard a low rumble from Collingsworth, who was staring at the front hall.

Dave stood beside the well-dressed hare, his mouth open, a plastic box in his arms.

I shook my mane out of my eyes. “Daaaffff!”

Dave’s mouth worked, but no sound came out for a few seconds. “I, uh . . . I just wanted to drop off the Christmas stuff. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”

Ryan stepped beside me, reins in hand. “We thought you’d text if you were planning to come over. Or at least knock.”

“I did text. The door was unlocked, so . . .” He glanced at my tail, then back up at me. “Believe me, I will knock every time I come over from now until the end of time.”

I tried to reach for my bridle to take the bit out, but my hands—hooves—were cuffed behind my back. I made a frustrated noise, and Ryan reached up to unclip the bit.

“Dude.” I wiped my mouth on my shoulder. “We’re practicing for a thing. I was gonna tell you before, but—”

“No.” Dave shook his head, looking pained. “I knew you had to be into something weird. I just never thought . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I never thought any friend of mine would be a goddamn furry.”