Wolf's Clothing, page 17
He could map the man in his mind whenever he closed his eyes.
Another message popped up.
T called for pick up. Leaving at noon.
Christophe’s knees gave way, and he sat with a thump on one of the benches lining the deck. Thank God. Now he had incentive to get his shift over with as soon as possible, so he could spend as much time with Trent as he could.
Without the bloody wolf interfering.
After hauling ass downstairs, Trent huddled under the hotel’s front awning, suffering from a sudden attack of beggar’s remorse. Fitting. Because in his ratty clothes, with luggage bulging as if he’d swiped all his towels and bedding, he looked like an actual beggar too. The bell captain stationed at the door obviously thought so—he’d been giving Trent the side-eye for the last fifteen minutes.
Fucking terrific. After his big talk about self-sufficiency, here he was again, depending on the kindness of strangers. If he wanted to prove he wasn’t broken, he’d picked the wrong way to do it.
Shame curdled his belly, and he nearly bolted for the street as the sleek black town car pulled up. But he didn’t have much choice, so he sighed and shouldered the duffel as François got out.
The bell captain shooed Trent aside, clearing his own path to the car. “Don’t block the doors for the paying guests.” He hustled to the curb as François popped the trunk.
François walked past him and touched the brim of his cap at Trent. “Bonjour, Monsieur Pielmeyer.”
“Uh . . . hi.”
The bellman approached, but François held up a gloved hand. “Allow me.”
François collected Trent’s duffel and stowed it in the trunk as if it were a matched set of Louis Vuitton. Then he inclined his head at the scowling bell captain, smiled, and whoa. The string of French profanity that François unloaded would have earned him major points with the guys in Trent’s prep school French classes. The oblivious bell captain smiled back.
Well, boy howdy. There’s more to François than a chauffeur’s uniform.
For some reason, that little glimpse of kick-ass humanity spiked Trent’s regret. François was a real person. Christophe was a real person. Neither one of them deserved being imposed on because Trent’s father was a dickhead.
Guess that makes you Son of Dickhead, because you’re gonna do it anyway.
But he pulled his hood forward and slid into the backseat when François held the door, pretending he hadn’t understood a word. Nothing like a language barrier to make it easier to hide.
Safe behind the privacy shield while François navigated out of Portland, Trent huddled in the corner of the seat, poking at his phone. At least his father hadn’t stopped his cell service, although he hadn’t left Trent any messages either.
It’s not like Trent had to get in tune with the infinite to figure out that the old man was pissed: Spirit, I sense you are angry. Stop one credit card for yes, evict your son from the hotel for a hell yes.
But a few extra deets would help. Not like he could come home without any freaking way to pay for the plane ticket. Maybe this was a kick-the-gay-kid-out-of-your-life move. With Trent on the other side of the country, the country-club set would never know.
Unless his father intended to turn this into a PR win: We gave him everything, but he ran anyway. More affecting TV footage. Cue the sobbing violin soundtrack.
Jesus, he’d probably played right into dear ol’ Dad’s avaricious hands.
About half an hour later, François voice spoke through the intercom, startling Trent out of an Angry Birds game.
“Lunch, Monsieur Pielmeyer?”
Trent peered through the tinted glass. They’d stopped at a strip mall, in front of a mom-and-pop diner with a Walgreens on one side and a RadioShack on the other. Trent’s stomach rumbled. God, yes. But hello nearly empty wallet.
“No. I’m good.”
“Vous misunderstand. Monsieur Clavret treats.”
Great. Son of Dickhead strikes again. “Sure. Thanks. But you have to join me.”
“Très bien.”
During lunch, Trent regretted his decision to hide his nearly fluent French from François. If he came out with Surprise! I can understand you perfectly!, he’d seem like an asshole. But the pretense made conversation awkward. Poor François had to work way too hard.
Then Trent remembered the translation app he’d randomly downloaded yesterday when he’d been making a serious effort to get to know his phone. For the rest of the meal, the two of them used it to triangulate their conversation. Although considering some of the peculiar French-to-English syntax, the thing needed a serious upgrade.
It was kind of like the old Monty Python skit about the bogus Hungarian phrase book. While François paid the bill, Trent waited by the door and typed in My hovercraft is full of eels to see what the app would make of it.
When he showed the translation to François, he laughed so much his hat nearly fell off. Score.
Trent grinned and pointed at the front passenger seat. “I call shotgun!”
Christophe took his time unpacking, grateful that the resort didn’t stint on drawer space or hangers. Had he overpacked? Of course he had. He always did. As he hung his shirts, his suit for the wedding, and his half-dozen other jackets, he smiled, remembering Trent’s annoyance at how long it had taken him to undress. Ah, cher, haven’t you heard? Clothes make the man—and for me, that is literally the case.
When he finished arranging the last of his socks in the drawer, he wandered into the main room and saw that he’d missed several more messages from François.
Stalling, as requested. Lunch. Store.
And then Lube, accompanied by an evil grin emoticon, the cheeky devil.
Christophe chuckled, astonished at the lightness of his heart. The usual dread that filled his belly whenever he faced a shift was tempered today by the anticipation of being with his lover again tonight. Nothing like a carrot to make getting beaten bloody with the stick easier to bear. He laughed, imagining what Trent’s response would have been to that particular thought. No doubt he would have made a rude joke. Trent’s carefree lack of deference was one of his most appealing qualities.
If he were to tell Trent the truth, would that change? Time enough to test that later, after we’ve had the chance to cement what we have. He could afford no complications tonight, so after he returned to himself and was as human as he ever was, he’d do everything—short of telling the whole truth—to convince Trent they belonged together.
He sat at the desk to write a note for Trent—apologies for not being there when he arrived, carte blanche to the hotel’s amenities and entertainment options.
Entertainment.
A jolt of heat rocked his balls, and his cock rose as he wrote a few instructions that he hoped Trent would follow. Jesu, that would get Christophe through this evening with better grace than usual, although he definitely wouldn’t be tarrying in the forest.
A brief knock fell on the door and Anton walked in, checking his watch. “I apologize for the delay. I had to sort out an issue for the company.”
“The Portuguese deal again?”
“Something like that. Ready?”
“Just now.”
Anton glanced around the room, his lips pursed. “I hoped perhaps your room might be less . . . rustic than mine.”
“Really? I find it rather charming.”
“Ah well. Log cabins have never been my preference.”
“No,” Christophe teased as he slipped his jacket on, “you prefer St. Moritz and Monaco.”
Anton shrugged. “You can’t blame me. What is wealth for, if you can’t enjoy it?”
Christophe gestured for Anton to precede him outside and pocketed his key. “Perhaps for doing a bit of good?”
“Always the crusader, Christo. Are you ready to go? The sooner we leave, the sooner you’ll be able to relax.”
Christophe grinned. “Lead on. I can’t wait.”
“Is that so?” Anton’s eyebrows rose. “That’s . . . certainly a new attitude for you. Come. I parked the car on a service road.”
“Trust you to find the most expedient way to get the job done.”
“I have a lot of practice,” Anton said dryly.
“That must be why you’re so good at it.” Christophe draped an arm across Anton’s shoulders and gave him a half hug.
“Ah, give over, Christo, do.” Anton batted him away.
Christophe laughed and climbed into the passenger seat. “If you insist on being so helpful, you must learn to take thanks for it and accept the honors that you’re due.”
Anton backed the car down the unpaved road. “That’s usually not a problem with Papa.”
Christophe’s elation dimmed a little. “You must give Papa time.”
“He’s had my whole life.”
“I mean after I tell him of my decision. Then he’ll be forced to recognize what you’ve done for him, for the company, and you’ll be rewarded as you deserve.”
“That will be a landmark day for certain.”
“It will. For each of us. A new era for Clavret et Cie. A new future for your children.”
“Mmmhph.”
Christophe let it be. No doubt their father would take some convincing, but Anton’s record was exemplary. Papa would be a fool not to give him in title what he’d been doing in practice for years. He gazed out the window at the passing forest. “How far?”
“Several miles. We can’t drive all the way to the spot I’ve got in mind. But we should be there within half an hour.”
“A hike, eh? I should have worn different shoes.”
Anton glanced down at Christophe’s Italian loafers. “I’m surprised you didn’t wear your boots.”
“They needed to be cleaned, and I didn’t have time. Foolish of me not to realize we wouldn’t simply be able to drive up to the wilderness and park, eh?”
“Well, it’s not like you can’t afford new shoes.”
“Yes, but these are my favorites.”
“I’m sure they’ll be as much use to you afterward as they are now.” He pulled the car over. “We walk from here.”
Christophe followed Anton up a steep path, winding through the trees, skirting a small clearing that was scattered with boulders as if a giant child had tired of his blocks and flung them to the ground. The path was damp but not muddy, and the going not difficult, although Christophe’s smooth-soled shoes slipped on the steeper areas. At the foot of a rocky outcropping, Anton stopped.
“Up there. There’s a cave where you can undress and shift.”
Christophe eyed the nearly vertical hillside with its thickets of blackberry brambles. “Mother of God, Anton. How did you find this place?”
“Do you imagine that I’d have difficulty locating a simple cave? I handle the logistics for our entire firm. Besides, you can find anything on the internet these days.”
“Ah. Of course. But you are truly challenging me today. I think I’d have an easier time scaling this mountain in bare feet than with these shoes.”
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s a little incline. On the other side, it’s an easier ascent, almost like a staircase.”
“A staircase with a thorn hedge.”
Anton glared at him. “Do you want to scout out a different location?”
“No. Forgive me.” He picked his way up the hill, the brambles catching at his clothing. When he reached the ledge, however, he conceded that Anton had chosen perfectly. The spot had a greater than one-hundred-eighty-degree view, since this hillock broke the tree line for over a hundred yards. The vista spread across a gully into the forest, the mountain rearing behind it, and on the other side, a wide swath of pasture beyond the trees. “What’s that? It looks man-maintained.”
“More like sheep-maintained. It’s a ranch.”
Christophe shot a glance at Anton. “So near? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Why, do you have a taste for mutton?”
“Not for the sheep, you arse. I would never kill domestic livestock. But Oregon ranchers aren’t proscribed from shooting wolves who they suspect of predation, now that wolves aren’t on the endangered list in the state anymore.”
“As long as you stay within the bounds of the forest, you’ll be fine. Go south and west, not north and east.”
“Understood.” He hoped his wolf would remember. I’ll make it remember. For such a short time, surely the mind of the man could retain ascendency over the mind of the wolf.
He ducked into the cave at the back of the ledge. It was shallow, its mouth wide so light filtered in from outside. Anton had clearly been here earlier, because he’d already laid a tarp out for Christophe’s clothes.
As he took off his jacket, he marveled anew at his brother’s efficiency. He’s wasted as logistics officer. He should be CEO. Though even CEO was a poor match, nothing but negotiations and meetings. Anton knew how to get things done. Chief operating officer. That was a better fit. Christophe must remember to mention that to his father when they had their little . . . chat.
He finished undressing, folding his clothes neatly atop the tarp. As he removed his watch, he smiled, thinking again of Trent and his likely reaction to the pristine pile. Perhaps he should have flung his clothes about instead. But that would make returning to human difficult. The more articles of clothing he could make contact with, the more readily he’d be able to launch the transition. Not to mention Anton would probably feel compelled to straighten up after him. My brother has spent too much of his life cleaning up for me. That stops soon. After the wedding. After the weekend with Trent. Then I’ll get it sorted.
He drew off his signet ring—traditionally the last item removed before a shift—and held it in his palm for a moment. What had his long-ago ancestor done to bring this curse down on himself and his family? Perhaps he’d chosen it freely. They’d never know for certain. Their stories, their legends, didn’t contain any of the why, only the what and the how, along with the cautionary tales of marital infidelity and betrayal.
He placed the ring on the top of the pile, more convinced than ever that he was making the right decision to end their line with him.
Once the ring was off his hand, he moved away from the tarp and hunkered down, head bowed. He breathed deeply, letting the scents of the woods, the sounds of the myriad lives that teemed beneath the notice of humans fill his senses.
This was always the point he hated the most: when he had nothing between himself and the transition, no reason for control other than his soul-deep hatred of what he was. Knowing what awaited, he had to force himself to let go of his human sensibilities, to allow the wolf dominance for long enough to transform.
Tonight, however, he wanted the change to take him quickly, the sooner to get it behind him. He tensed, though, anticipating the pain to come.
Let it go. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it’s humiliating to be reduced from man to beast. But tonight you have a reason to get it done.
As soon as he thought about that reason—Trent, naked and willing—the burn in his fingertips and spine welled and spiked. This time, he didn’t fight it, huddling on hands and knees, panting through the agony as his spine reformed. His scream morphed into a yelp as his larynx warped, his jaw distending and narrowing, teeth popping out of his gums where none had been. He whined helplessly as the bones in his hands contorted into paws, as his ears lengthened and reoriented, at the million flares of pain as fur burst through his skin. Then his tail sprouted, and he howled until his breath gave out.
When it was finally over, he lay on his side in the dirt, whimpers vibrating his throat. As the pain receded, it was replaced by unease. Something is not right. His hackles rose and he rolled to his paws, sniffing the air. Mice. Raccoons. Voles. He paced to the mouth of the cave.
Rabbit. Deer. Wait. Was that . . . wolf?
A growl rumbled in his chest, and he lifted his nose, casting for the scent, but it was faint, like a memory.
“Christo.”
He whirled, crouching. Man. Brother. Safe. He circled Anton, sniffing at his trousers. Was the wolf memory here? He started to lift his leg, to mark his territory so the other wolf wouldn’t dare to—
Anton clapped his hands. “Oi. Don’t even think of it.”
Christophe huffed, but the maddening scent lingered. He growled again and shoved his nose against Anton’s leg.
“Shite, Christo. What’s the— Oh. You’re scenting Melion, aren’t you? I wore these pants yesterday, in the meeting with him and the Merricks.”
Christophe bared his teeth. His wolf hated Etienne’s wolf as much as Christophe hated the man.
“Go. Run. I’ll take care of your clothing.”
Christophe shook himself. Yes, he needed to get this over with, but had he remembered to tell Anton he wanted to be back at the resort by nine? He must have. Anton never forgot to verify such details.
Christophe turned and leaped down the hill in two bounds. For some things, the wolf is far more suited than the man. He raced off into the trees.
Trent was proud that he hadn’t freaked the fuck out when François pulled into the parking lot of the resort. Bad enough that the trees had loomed on either side of the road for the last gajillion miles, but seriously—this parking lot? It was only one car deep, just a narrow strip of gravel keeping the trees at bay. Trent had seen a special on TV once about how quickly nature would take over again if humans suddenly vanished from the planet. This parking lot would be the first to go.
François stopped the car in front of the lodge doors. “Monsieur Clavret has left for you a key.”
“Cool. I can handle it from here. Thanks a lot, François, for the lunch and the company and, you know, picking me up off the street.”
“The pleasure was mine.” He popped the trunk and trotted to the rear of the car.
Trent grabbed his backpack and followed. A bellman approached from the lodge doors, and François handed him Trent’s overstuffed duffel. Then he removed a garment bag and handed it over too.
