the guitar down gently against the wall. Its strings hummed when his fingers slid over them one final time, a faint goodbye until they were reunited. He limped as he made his way back to the bed, his knee stiff and unresponsive. Kane caught him before he stumbled over his own feet, and Miki blistered the air with a hot curse. “Damn it.”
“Why don’t you get back into bed?” Kane kissed the top of Miki’s head. “I’ll close the door.”
“And hell, now you’re really awake.” Miki practically launched himself at the mattress, burrowing down into the cooled-off sheets. “Hell, these are cold too. What’s the use of a boyfriend if he doesn’t keep the sheets warm?”
“Is that what I am, then? A boyfriend?” He said it teasingly, but as Kane closed the door, he found himself waiting for Miki’s answer. The anticipation was sharp, a razor poised over his heart, waiting to plunge into him.
“Yeah? Shit, I don’t know. What do guys call each other?” With the door closed, Kane turned to watch Miki tugging and fighting with the bed linens. There was no momentous moment dangling in front of them for the singer. No, he was more concerned with staving off the cold than breaking Kane’s heart. “Didn’t we talk about this already?”
“Not really, no. Some. A bit,” Kane admitted softly as he approached the bed. “But not in so many words.”
“So that’s a no-yes-maybe?” Miki yawned and yelped when Dude jumped up onto the bed. “Dog, watch the nose. That fucking thing is colder than… hell, whatever cold thing I can’t think of right now. And yeah, pretty sure we’d said something or—hell. Look, K, you and I both know I suck at this. Can’t we just cut through all the bullshit emo-feelings thing and just call it so I can go back to sleep? Do I use boyfriend or not?”
“Yeah,” Kane replied, getting onto his hands and knees to crawl over Miki’s slender body. “Boyfriend it is, then, Mick. But let’s not go back to sleep just yet. From the way you shiver under me, feels like you could use some more warming up. Here, let your boyfriend be helping you with that.”
Eight
I’D BEEN on the fence—a good phrase borrowed from the cats—about Kane’s dam. She was excitable, much like a Jack Russell I knew, and like that particular terrier, her bite was far worse than her bark. And by all that is smelly and ripe, they both could bark.
Any fence sitting I was on was over. She’d somehow taken offense to my morning frolic and trapped me into yet another cold, bright room that stunk of flowers, cleansers, and fresh linens. These weren’t the linens on a soft, fluffy bed. No, these were thirsty, raspy things that, while fragrant, signaled only one thing to a dog.
A human was going to scrub off every damned calling card, scent, and trace of a dog’s existence from his fur and skin.
So no, I wasn’t too thrilled about Kane’s dam.
Especially since she’d lured me in with bacon, then shut the door behind me.
A dog is used to betrayal. It happens every day. People leave—sometimes forever. People die before we’re ready for them to go. And sometimes they do mean things like pretend to throw a toy to be fetched only to hold on to it and laugh while we go looking for it.
Kane’s younger brother—one of them—did that when I’d first gone out to the yard, and Miki tore into him like one of the snooty cats roosting in the living room like some regal chicken. My Miki does not like to be fooled, and he suffers none of them gladly. Ergo—good word that as well, sea lion origin—Miki will not let anyone fool me.
So he’d probably be on my side if he knew Kane’s mother tempted me with fried pig and then, after feeding me the slice, plopped me into a tub to hose my wanderings off of me.
To borrow a curse from the humans—bitch.
Still, I suffered it gladly. Well grumpily, but I said nothing, bit no one, and she’d just gotten enough lather on me for people to wonder if I was some damned poodle when the door opened quickly and yet another Donal-Monster-Son came in.
I was losing track of who was whom. They all looked alike and, for the most part, sounded the same, but they smelled differently. I gave Brigid a dirty look from under my veil of suds—that is if I could smell him through