Prickly Business (12 page)

“It’s not much.” Avery trained a smile on him that lit up from the inside out, and Dylan smiled back. “I like it, though. It’s work.” Pride echoed in his voice. “Real work. There are members of the pack who, for some reason or another, can’t get out on their own or cook for themselves. I do that for them.”

“You cook?” Dylan interrupted.

The redness in his cheeks melted something in Dylan. “No. I don’t cook. Ever. I just pick up the food from the company’s kitchen and deliver it.”

Dylan knew, of course. He was proud of Avery, if a bit skeptical. What would it be like to depend on a vain, self-centered narcissist? As quickly as he thought it, Dylan almost apologized out loud. It wasn’t fair to Avery.

As far as Dylan could see, and as much as he’d been told, Avery had made every effort to prove himself and to become something more than a self-centered little shit. A few times over the past few weeks, Dylan had thought maybe he had been wrong about Avery for the last couple of years. Maybe he’d been punishing them both for his own poor perceptions. Maybe Avery was one of those guys who gave a bad first impression… and second, and third, and fourth….

No. He hadn’t been wrong. Dylan remembered in detail Jaden’s twenty-first birthday party and the sneer on Avery’s face when he’d realized his mate was less than he expected. Avery had been clear back then. But that was years ago, and as much as Dylan would like to hold a grudge, it was becoming harder and harder, especially with Avery so close.

Now, Dylan wasn’t so sure. Avery had been so certain back then that he didn’t want Dylan, but the Avery from their first meeting was not the same man who sat in front of him now. And to be honest, Dylan had a feeling the members of his pack were fortunate to have his mate seeing to their needs. He was proud of Avery for it. Even if he wasn’t ready to voice it yet.

“So, anyway”—Avery shrugged, and Dylan realized he’d missed most of what Avery had to say—“I don’t have to cook for them. Thank God. Don’t wanna start off by giving anyone food poisoning. And it’s not like frozen burritos will do for war heroes, you know?”

The rambling was cute.

“So you like it?”

Avery nodded and hair flopped in his eyes. “I do. It’s… rewarding.”

He said it like the word meant “a new experience,” like a sweet taste on his lips. And maybe it was. Dylan hoped it was only the first of many rewards for Avery.

“Good.”

Smiling, Avery nodded again, his eyes never leaving Dylan’s. The moment stretched out in silence, oddly comfortable yet unsettling. For a moment, Dylan worried Avery would bring up the money he’d loaned him—a subject Dylan wanted to avoid like the plague if possible. Why else would Avery show up like this? He didn’t want Avery worrying about paying it back. Hell, Dylan didn’t want it back. And just the thought of having that conversation with the stubborn man in front of him was enough to have Dylan on edge.

Dylan looked away first, down at the blotter in front of him, then coughed to clear the silence. “So. Is that all you wanted?”

He glanced up in time to see disappointment marring Avery’s eyes again, but he blinked it away rapidly. “Uh, yes.” He stood and held out his hand, very businesslike. “Thank you.”

Dylan stood as well and accepted the proffered hand, his grip firm and businesslike. Dylan regretted his words and, even more, he regretted Avery’s reaction. “Avery,” he began, but before he could say more, Avery walked to the door.

“Really, Dylan. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

His words were sad and soft, and Dylan wanted to go to him and fix it but wasn’t sure how without making everything worse. With his shoulders slumped, Avery walked away. A swirling ache of emptiness bloomed in Dylan’s chest—one that rubbing his hand over would not ease.

“M
R
. A
CKER
?”
Avery rapped on the half-closed door with his knuckles. “Mr. Acker, are you home? It’s me, Avery Babineaux.”

No reply. Avery pushed the door open all the way and peered into the foyer from his position on the front stoop. He’d been making deliveries to the Acker house for over a month, and he couldn’t remember a time when he’d found the door unlocked. A knot of tension tightened in his gut. What if something had happened to the old wolf?

Cautiously Avery stepped inside and lifted his head, testing the air. He didn’t smell the cloying—and unmistakable—odor of death or the coppery tang of blood, but Mr. Acker could still be hurt somehow. For an elderly, disabled, vision-impaired wolf, the possibilities for injury were endless.

“Mr. Acker?” Avery called out again as he shut the door and moved farther into the entryway. The scent of wolf was strong in the house, too potent for Avery’s nose to discern if it was old or new. His sense of smell wasn’t as keen as certain other shifter species’. Some could approximate how long another person had been gone through scent alone. All Avery could tell was that no one else had entered the house recently aside from Mr. Acker himself.

Avery made his way to the kitchen, scoping out the other rooms as he passed. No sign of Mr. Acker. He set the food on the counter near the fridge and nervously wrung his hands. Part of him hesitated to wander through the rest of the house. It seemed too invasive, and had the situations been reversed, he wouldn’t want anyone snooping around
his
loft. At the same time, he couldn’t leave without making sure Mr. Acker was alive and well.

Over the past five weeks, he’d developed a sense of responsibility for the people he delivered meals to. Sometimes he drove them to and from appointments as well. The job meant a lot of hours spent sitting in the pack van he’d been assigned, but surprisingly, he was enjoying it more than he’d ever anticipated. It gave him a sense of purpose, which was something he hadn’t realized he’d lacked before now. The result was both unfamiliar and yet oddly gratifying.

Avery owed Alpha Odell for his generosity, for giving him a job when he had no experience to recommend him, and he definitely owed it to Mr. Acker to ensure the wolf was well before he walked out the door.

Decided, he straightened his shoulders and started down the hall he assumed led toward the bedrooms. The house wasn’t large, but of course, he didn’t find Mr. Acker until he opened the very last door in the hallway. Mr. Acker lay still in the center of the bed, a small, frail lump beneath a faded patchwork quilt. Only the top of his silver head showed.

Terror struck, stalling Avery’s heart. Sweat beaded along his hairline as his breathing sped.

Good God, is he dead?
Had Mr. Acker passed so recently the smell of death hadn’t permeated the rest of the house yet? Could Avery have saved him if he’d arrived half an hour earlier?

Avery took a slow step closer. He didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to feel guilty. Realistically, he knew he couldn’t have been here any sooner. He’d started his route at his normal time, and he hadn’t lingered anywhere longer than necessary. But the idea that Mr. Acker had died here, totally alone….

Avery gulped and rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. He made it to the edge of the bed and reached out a shaking hand to tap Mr. Acker’s shoulder.

Mr. Acker started at his touch, jerking awake with a soft cry, and the sudden movement shocked Avery so much he screamed and stumbled back to crash into the wall.

He ended up in an undignified heap on the floor with Mr. Acker peering down at him from the bed, confusion twisting his weathered features. His eye patch was askew, revealing the ugly scar from the wound that had cost him his left eye, and his silver hair was plastered down on one side but spiked crazily on the other. He looked like he’d been asleep for days.

“Avery,” he said finally, his voice thick with phlegm. “Oh, I must’ve slept longer than I thought. I had the worst headache. I took some of those pills.” He glanced around blearily. “What time is it?”

Using the wall for support, Avery dragged himself to his feet. He pressed a palm to his chest in an attempt to calm his racing heart. “It’s… it’s a little after two. Your front door was open.”

Mr. Acker blinked at him. “It was?” His brow wrinkled. “Oh, the mailman came with a package this morning. I must’ve forgotten to close it.”

Collecting himself, Avery stepped up to the bed. “Are you all right, Mr. Acker? Do you need me to drive you to the doctor?”

Mr. Acker shook his head. “No. No doctors. I get confused sometimes. It’s those pills.”

Avery wasn’t so sure. “Mr. Acker—”

Mr. Acker raised his hand. “Please, call me Otis. I keep meaning to tell you. ‘Mr. Acker’ makes me feel so… old.”

Avery hesitated. He’d been raised to respect his elders. Back home, he would never address any of them by their first name without a title preceding it. Such familiarity wasn’t considered proper in his parents’ circle. Even though he knew the practice wasn’t common outside the South, he couldn’t shake the lesson or the years of conditioning. “I’d prefer to call you Mr. Otis,” he said, “if that’s all right with you?”

Mr. Otis nodded. “That’s fine.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go see Dr. Scully? Maybe he can get you some new pills.”

“No, thank you. If you could just bring me my chair. I don’t feel like putting my prosthetic back on.” He rubbed the stump below his left knee and then pointed. Avery turned to see a wheelchair folded up in the corner between the dresser and the wall.

It took a few moments, but Avery managed to get the chair figured out. He wheeled it over to the bed and helped Mr. Otis get into it. “Do you need me to push you?”

Mr. Otis shook his head. “I’ve got it. I’m going to stop in the bathroom. Would you mind heating my lunch? I should eat before I take my afternoon pills.”

“Sure.”

Avery left him to it and went to warm up the soup that had been sent for Mr. Otis’s lunch. He set the bowl and the accompanying sandwich and apple on the kitchen table. There was a carton of milk too, which he opened and poured into a glass he found sitting in the drying rack beside the sink.

Mr. Otis wheeled himself into the room as Avery finished putting the box containing his dinner in the fridge.

“There’s meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn for later,” Avery told him. “And some grape juice and a fruit cup for dessert.”

Mr. Otis nodded his thanks. He’d fixed his eye patch, combed his hair, and washed his face while in the bathroom. He looked loads better than when he’d first gotten out of bed. Avery had feared the man was on the verge of death ten minutes ago.

“Do you need anything else before I go?” Avery asked.

For a second it appeared Mr. Otis would refuse. Then he swallowed visibly. “I wouldn’t mind if you stayed a bit longer. If you don’t have anywhere else you need to be.”

The request surprised Avery, but he did his best to hide it. None of the shifters on his route had seemed to want his company before now. Some of them treated him with outright suspicion or wariness. Most were simply polite. No one but Mr. Otis called him Avery—a few called him Mr. Babineaux; the majority didn’t call him anything—and no one else had invited any sort of familiarity by asking him to use their first name. “Of course. I’d be happy to stay for a while.”

Avery pulled out a chair and joined Mr. Otis at the table. He watched as the wolf ate slowly, methodically, taking no obvious enjoyment in his food. He looked as if he were going through the motions on automatic pilot. In fact, he did everything that way. Avery couldn’t recall an instance when Mr. Otis had smiled during the last month or so. He seemed… sad. Withdrawn. Defeated.

Avery only recognized it because lately he’d been feeling defeated himself as the weeks passed without a single callback to interview for a job that might actually allow him to repay his debt to Dylan or keep his loft after December. And especially as the days dragged by without any contact from Dylan.

“Do you have any family in the pack?” Avery asked. It was something to say, something to distract them both, since a lot of pack members tended to be related. But Mr. Otis stiffened in his chair, his bony shoulders going rigid with tension.

“Just one,” he rasped after what must’ve been a full minute.

He didn’t elaborate, and Avery let the subject drop. Mr. Otis might want his company, but he didn’t seem inclined to talk. Avery allowed the silence to settle around them again.

Mr. Otis finished his meal soon afterward. He asked Avery to get him his pills from one of the cabinets, and once he had swallowed them with his milk, he told Avery he could be on his way.

“If you’re sure.” Avery grabbed the empty delivery bag from the counter. He normally collected the totes the following day, but there was no point in leaving it when Mr. Otis’s food was already unpacked. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

Avery left the house, pulling the front door shut firmly behind him. He paused for a moment on the stoop. Should he insist on staying? Or on taking Mr. Otis to the doctor?

If he’d known Mr. Otis better, he would have. But the old wolf had told him to go, and the least Avery could do was respect his wishes. For the time being.

Tomorrow, if Mr. Otis still seemed off, Avery might have to ask Dr. Scully to make a house call.

W
HEN
HE
stepped into his loft two hours later, his cell buzzed, displaying a local but unknown number.

Avery answered with a cautious, “Hello?”

“Avery?” Dylan’s voice nearly made him drop the phone. Startled, Avery tightened his grip, saving the thing at the last second.

He had to swallow before he could reply. “Dylan? How’d you get my number?”

Dylan’s chuckle sent a flash of heat straight to his balls. “I have my ways.”

Avery groaned silently as his cock stirred. He suspected Dylan’s “ways” consisted of one Jaden Odell, but he wouldn’t hold it against his friend. It had occurred to him more than once over the last few weeks he should’ve asked for Dylan’s number. Sure, he could call him at the shop—the number was listed—but that was Dylan’s workplace. Avery didn’t think he’d appreciate receiving personal calls there, especially after how Dylan had dismissed him when Avery visited to thank him a couple of weeks back.