As the female and her brother rounded by the barn, Syn was content to watch and spin fantasies that wouldnae e’er occur. Verily, he imagined he was the one being chased by her, and he would be sure to allow himself to be caught. In his mind, he went forth into the future, after his own transition. He saw himself tall and strong, capable of defending her and keeping her safe, his brawn the guarantee against this cruel world that naught would hurt her—
The snap of a stick made him jump.
“Whate’er you do here, son of mine,” came a growl behind him.
The sound of knocking returned Syn to the present, although the reorientation was neither immediate nor dispositive. Part of him was back in those trees, at the edge of that flowered meadow, and he was grateful for whoever had interrupted his memory-lane’ing. He resented the revisit of his history. There were so many reasons not to dwell on any part of his past, but especially that particular night. Maybe if things had gone differently back then, he would be different now.
Then again, maybe he’d been cursed at birth, everything that happened then and since, predetermined and inevitable.
“I’m coming,” he muttered as the knocking started up again and he got over his intermission gratitude.
Whoever was on the other side better have a good fucking reason to disturb all his totally-not-sleeping.
He was even less interested in other people than usual today.
Butch finished off the last inch of Lagavulin in his glass, and just as he righted his head from the toss back, the door he was rapping on ripped opened. On the far side, Syn was obviously not a morning person, his glare right out of the Hulk’s playbook, his big-ass naked body the kind of thing that could do serious damage to anyone with an alarm clock. Cheerful greeting. Piece of toast.
The Bastard had a case of the cranky-wankies.
“Well, well, well,” Butch said. “If it isn’t sunshine personified.”
“What do you want?”
“Right now? Ray-Bans to shield me from the glare of your happiness.”
Balthazar stepped up, putting his solid wall of a body between the two of them. “Let’s relax, cousin.”
Leaving the blood relations to sort out the welcome wagon issues, Butch barged his way into the completely bare set of rooms. Syn lived like a monk, which was his call, but come on. Like you wouldn’t take advantage of a pillow top mattress when they were available to you? But no, we gotta be Old Country hard-ass on the floor.
“So,” he said as he strolled around, the remaining pain in his groin from his case of Chrysler-itis something that was briefly eclipsed by the job he’d come to do. “You wanna put some pants on or are you okay airing your junk out like that?”
Balthazar was the one who closed the three of them in together, and the Bastard stayed right by the door, as if he knew there was a chance his cousin could vote with his feet.
Syn put his hands on his hips. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
Butch laughed. “You have no idea what my roommate’s into. So no, I’m good. But you, my friend, are causing some problems for yourself. And not just in a draft-on-your-shaft kinda way.”
“How so.”
“I think you know.” Butch took the hard copy of the Caldwell Courier Journal out from under his arm. “You read the paper this morning?”
“Cover to cover. And did the crossword.”
“Did you.” Butch looked for a place to put his glass down and ended up setting it on the floor. Then he flipped the front page open and faced it toward the guy. “Curious, did you think something like this wouldn’t get noticed?”
Syn’s eyes didn’t dip down to the black-and-white crime scene photograph that took up most of the top half of the fold. And given that the Bastard didn’t have a computer, and wasn’t on Fritz’s paper-boy delivery list, it was impossible to believe he’d read anything—and to hell with the crossword bullshit.
“No comment?” Butch murmured as he jogged the pages. “’Cuz I’m afraid that’s not going to be good enough.”
Syn’s shrug was not a surprise. Neither was his dead calm affect or the hostile light in his eyes. The Bastard was like a torch of aggression as he stood there, all banked natural disaster—and for a split second, Butch kind of wanted the guy to do something spectacularly stupid. A good fistfight might actually burn off some of his own