Prickly Business (13 page)

“Why did you call?” Avery asked, dropping his keys on the kitchen counter. Combined with Dylan pulling away from his touch that day, the dismissal had seemed pretty damned final.

“I was wondering how the job is going. You having any problems?”

Avery tensed. “Why do you assume there’d be problems? I’m not totally incompetent, you know. No matter what impression I might’ve given you so far.”

Dylan’s sigh rang out over the line. “Do you have to be so defensive? I didn’t mean it like that.”

Avery sighed. Maybe he wouldn’t be so quick to snap if Dylan stopped giving him mixed signals. How could he help being edgy? “It’s going fine. Like I said before, I’m enjoying it. And none of the wolves have tried to kill me yet, so that should tell you something.”

Dylan barked out a sharp, surprised laugh. “That’s good news.”

“Yeah.” Avery toyed with his keys. He wanted to say something clever, but nothing came to mind. “Is that really the only reason you called?” he asked instead.

Dylan’s responding—long, awkward,
excruciating
—silence made Avery want to slap himself.

“Never mind. I just walked in, so—”

“Have dinner with me.”

Avery broke off, blinking stupidly. “What?”

“Have dinner with me,” Dylan repeated, sounding as puzzled as Avery felt. “Friday.”

“Yes!” The word burst from Avery’s throat without any approval from his brain. Not that he would’ve refused regardless. “I mean, yeah,” he added in a calmer tone. He waved an airy hand, though Dylan wasn’t there to see it. “That’d be cool.”

“Pick you up at seven?”

“Yep. Yeah. Seven is good.”

“Great.” Dylan hesitated, as if he wanted to add more, then abruptly said, “Bye, Avery.”

“Bye.”

The call disconnected, and Avery set down his phone with meticulous care.

Had that really just happened? Did he have a date with Dylan? With his mate? Or maybe it wasn’t a date. Maybe this was a casual thing. Friends. Maybe Dylan wanted Avery to pay, as a thank you for lending him the money.

Did it matter? He’d be spending time with Dylan, something both his body and his animal craved. He could figure out the rest of it later.

Smiling, Avery went to put a record on.

A
S
D
YLAN
turned onto 14th Avenue, he looked up at the gray clouds lit by the fading light of sunset where they hovered ominously over the city. It would be his luck if the sky decided to open up and pour on him. The drizzle soaking through his jeans was bad enough. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten caught on his bike in a storm. He should have gone with practical and pulled his Firebird out of the garage, but Dylan couldn’t deny wanting Avery wrapped around him again, his tight body pressed to Dylan’s.

A downpour would be worth it. After weeks of no physical contact, Dylan’s wolf craved it.

Weeks.

Convinced they were both better off, Dylan had tried and failed to keep his distance. The need to check in with Avery had become too much to ignore.

When his bad mood weighed down the shop, everyone suffered. The final straw had come in the form of him ripping Sawyer a new one for knocking a can off his workstation—making too much noise, he remembered saying. Lucas had dragged him back to the office, shoved him down in the chair, and stuck a phone in his face.

“Call him, goddammit.”

“I don’t even have his phone number.”

“Like you don’t know how to get it.” Lucas had narrowed his eyes and pointed at him. “Do it or I will. You’re being a dick, and I’m ready to kick your ass for it.”

Dylan had started to argue, to tell Lucas that he was the boss and if he wanted to be a dick he’d be a dick, but Lucas cut him off with another glare.

“Fucking call him,” Lucas had growled before he turned around and slammed out of the office.

Calling Jaden had been on his list of top five most humiliating experiences. Asking Jaden for Avery’s phone number—top three. The little shit would hardly stop laughing long enough to recite the information. He’d had to text it to Dylan, but before they’d disconnected, Jaden had gone serious.

“Don’t hurt him, Dylan.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just want to check on him.”

Dylan had felt Jaden’s sigh as if he were sitting right next to him. “Sure you do, but see, he’s my friend, and no matter how much of an asshole you think he is, you don’t know him. I do. He’s a good guy—a really good guy. And if you hurt him, I’ll be the one that’ll have to pick up the pieces and…. Just don’t do it. He’s had it bad enough lately, okay?”

Dylan got it. Avery had been through a lot over the past few weeks, which was why Dylan needed to call him, apparently.

“Yeah, okay,” Dylan answered calmly. “How is—”

“Ask him yourself,” Jaden said with a smile in his voice before he hung up.

God, Avery’s bratty tendencies seemed to rub off on those nearest to him. Dylan smiled at the memory. Alpha Odell’s son was all right. More than all right in Dylan’s book, especially if he looked out for Avery the way Dylan suspected he did.

Rolling to a stop in front of Avery’s building, Dylan waited to see if Avery would come rushing out the front door all excited smiles and bounces or shy glances and shuffling feet. They hadn’t exactly planned a pickup, outside of what time Dylan would be there.

Dylan checked his watch. He was seventeen minutes early and thought about waiting outside, but the drizzle worked his nerves.

A couple of steps away from his bike, he stopped in his tracks. Had he really asked Avery on a date? When he’d finally dialed Avery, Dylan told himself it was only to check on him and to hear his voice, because yes, Dylan could admit the sound of Avery’s voice soothed his unsettled wolf.

And then Avery was trying to get off the phone, and before Dylan knew what was happening, he’d blurted the words—an invitation to dinner. Not a question. More like a demand. He’d demanded Avery have dinner with him.

Dylan rubbed his forehead, otherwise unmoving. Did Avery think he
had
to come to dinner with him? Was he coming out of obligation? Should Dylan cancel?

He wanted to see his mate—more than he wanted to breathe his next breath, and he didn’t know when that had changed—but he didn’t want to force Avery into it.

Maybe calling Avery and feigning something like a flat would work. Dylan glanced up at the top floor loft and caught sight of Avery, pulling a T-shirt over his bare chest, his hair floppy and wet, and his jeans hanging low on his hips.

Fuck.

Dylan wanted to devour him. Fuck dating. Fuck dinner.

Avery beamed, a bright, happy grin—unexpectedly—and waved him up. Dylan threw back a wave and sighed, then walked toward the building’s front door to buzz for entry. Not like he could get away with the flat excuse now.

Avery was waiting at the door when Dylan stepped off the elevator. “Come on in.” The giddiness hadn’t left his face, and Dylan didn’t know what to make of it, but he definitely liked a happy, open Avery. “You’re early. I’m still getting ready.” He gave Dylan a goofy look and gestured to his hair.

Dylan nodded. “Yeah.” Avery’s naked chest was etched behind his lids when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t helping his verbal skills. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Avery answered brightly, then motioned to the kitchen area. “Make yourself at home. There’s beer in the fridge.” Then he turned and headed to the wall opposite the kitchen. Avery slid a panel to the side and stepped into what Dylan assumed was his bedroom.

Dylan forced himself not to follow. The wolf inside him huffed, and Dylan echoed the sentiment. Turned out Dylan was okay with admitting he wanted Avery. He still wasn’t keen on the whole mating thing, but dating wasn’t mating.

Avery’s loft wasn’t huge, but it fit him. It was warm and inviting in a way Dylan hadn’t expected. Minimalistic, sure. But that spoke toward Avery’s style.

The walls—two raw concrete and two painted white—held no paintings or decorations, other than the flat screen plasma on the far end of the long room. Dylan didn’t see that getting much action. The ceilings were white as well, with exposed pipes of varying sizes trailing the length of the loft. The counter jutted from the wall and curved around to create a separate kitchen area, complete with a small round table near the window.

Furnishings were… minimal. Other than a desk that sat in front of one of the many windows, a gray leather sofa and a cedar coffee table faced the television. Dylan smirked at the plant in the center of the table. He wondered if Avery babied it, named it. Floor to ceiling on the wall opposite the window were loads of vinyl records.

Interesting.

Avery had surprises waiting every time Dylan turned around. There were layers Dylan wanted to peel back to discover the treasures underneath.

Dylan thumbed through a shelf—The Strokes, Metronomy, Interpol, Franz Ferdinand, Thelonious Monk. He quirked an eyebrow. Definite layers.

“You ready?” Avery asked from behind him, and Dylan turned to find him waiting by the couch. He’d slipped a dark green sweater over his T-shirt. The way it brought out his eyes had Dylan forgetting their plans.

“Yeah, sure.” Dylan cleared his throat, uncomfortable with being this unbalanced.

Avery tipped his head toward the shelf. “Now you know my weakness.”

Dylan glanced back at the records and to Avery. “Oh?” He found his footing again, teasing Avery was easy. He motioned over his shoulder. “Music on plastic is your weakness?”

“They’re classics,” Avery gasped, affronted.

“Maroon 5 is a classic?”

“You just don’t appreciate the intimate experience of playing a vinyl record.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow but kept his mouth closed.

Avery rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” He sighed. “Are we going or not?”

Dylan had the feeling he’d offended or embarrassed Avery, and he needed to fix it before they left. If he was going to do this date thing, he was going to do it right.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.” Dylan took Avery’s hand and pulled him to stand beside him, facing the record shelf. Hundreds of records stared back at them. Dylan wondered absently how long he’d been collecting, so he asked.

“Since I was a kid.” Avery shrugged, his gaze running over the music covers. “My Gran used to listen to Miles Davis and John Coltrane. My family’s not close, and Gran wasn’t perfect, but the records—they were sort of our thing. When my parents would travel, they’d leave us with Gran and Gramps, and she’d play those records. It’s the only thing I have left of her.”

Avery brushed the spine of a Miles Davis album, a sad look on his face, wistful. Dylan reached up and smoothed his fingers up the back of Avery’s neck, his grip remaining there after the shiver passed. And just when he thought to change the subject, something caught his eye.

“Is that ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’?” he asked, leaning in for a closer look.

Avery groaned. “C’mon, big guy. Time to take me to dinner.”

“Oh no you don’t, brat.” Dylan smiled when Avery’s eyes widened. “What’s with Charlie Brown?”

Avery turned his head and mumbled something Dylan didn’t understand.

“What was that?” he asked.

Avery exhaled hard. “I said, it’s my favorite Christmas movie, ass.” Then he turned and walked to the door.

Layers.

“And don’t call me brat,” Avery called, snatching a jacket off the coat hook on the wall—a leather jacket that looked suspiciously like the one Dylan had lent him the last time they rode together.

With a grin that didn’t seem to be going away, Dylan followed Avery out of the apartment. Warmth in the pit of his stomach proved Dylan liked the idea of Avery wearing his things.

“C
RISPY
W
AFFLE
?”
Avery asked, his steps stuttering as they approached the small diner.

Dylan didn’t miss the incredulity in his voice, but where once he would have usually sneered at the words, he simply smiled and slid his hand to the small of Avery’s back.

“C’mon, brat.” Bending close, he spoke directly in Avery’s ear. “Don’t you like living on the edge?”

Avery snorted and mumbled, “The edge of what? Salmonella?”

“Quit being a snob. They serve great breakfast here.”

“It’s seven thirty at night.”

Dylan shrugged. “I like breakfast for dinner.” He grinned down at Avery and held open the door for him. “It’s my thing.”

“Your thing is breakfast?” Avery stepped into the diner, but looked back at Dylan. “For dinner?”

“It is what it is.” Dylan nudged him along and stepped in behind him.

Assaulted by smells of grease and butter, frying and grilled foods, Dylan inhaled, then stepped around Avery’s still form, grabbing his hand to drag him to the only open booth he saw. Avery’s reaction—frozen, wide-eyed shock—at the sight of the faux patent leather booths had Dylan choking on a laugh. Avery’s mouth worked open and shut wordlessly.

“Sit,” Dylan commanded.

Giving Dylan a helpless look, Avery obeyed. It was all Dylan could do not to burst into laughter.

“You’ll like it.” Dylan slid into the booth and reached across the Formica tabletop to grasp Avery’s hand. “I chose it especially for you.” He smiled, then threw in, “Well, except for the fact that I love the Southwestern omelets here.”

A more confident grin graced Avery’s face. It lit his hazel depths, making them almost liquid. “Oh yeah?” Avery tossed out there. “For me. Just what made you think a place like Crispy Waffle was a good match for me?”

If he hadn’t been smiling while he asked the question, Dylan might have thought Avery was reverting to Mr. Stuck Up, but the smile negated any snobbery. And Dylan had the distinct impression Avery was teasing him. He liked it.

“They have a vegan menu,” Dylan said, plainly.

“But I’m not—”

“No, you’re not, but you tend to lean that way when you choose your meals, right?” Dylan shifted in his seat, released Avery’s hand, and picked up a menu.