In times like these, he grew hyperaware of their closeness. Noah didn’t make demands, treating little gifts with the same enthusiasm most folks reserved for grand gestures. Who got so excited over a candy bar? Genuine excitement, too, not faked for show.
So many things Noah had missed out on, living isolated. The mysterious Paul might’ve done better to teach Noah how to exist in the human world rather than avoid all contact. Instead of keeping Noah safe, he’d ensured Noah never fit in, would always stand out in a crowd for awkwardness alone.
Which brought out Slade’s protective instincts. More than that, Noah appreciated him. Paid rapt attention to every word. He also looked a bit longer than normal when he thought Slade didn’t notice, making ignoring a building attraction harder.
So many times, Slade lay awake in bed, Noah only a few feet—and a few million miles—away. Every stroke to Noah’s skin, whether tattooing or as a friendly gesture, brought erotic images to mind. What if Slade used his mouth instead of his hand on Noah’s shoulder. Would Noah shiver and lean into the contact? Pull away?
No. He wouldn’t pull away. But how would Slade know if Noah really wanted him or responded out of some misguided sense of gratitude?
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” Noah quietly asked, pulling Slade from his thoughts.
No hesitation needed on Slade’s part. “An artist. I wanted to be an artist from the first time I fingerpainted in kindergarten.”
“You used to show your work in galleries?”
Slade nodded, thoughts drifting back to the first time his art teacher talked a gallery into showing his work. “Yeah. Oils on canvas.” He’d been so fucking happy, envisioning larger galleries with larger price tags on his creations. At first, drugs helped him, giving his creativity a kick in the pants.
Once opioids lured him in, the teacher stopped complimenting Slade’s paintings. Nothing mattered at the low points in his life. Not even art. He’d felt proud of himself for quitting art school. Who needed them? Not him. The drugs convinced him his work was simply far beyond the understanding of anyone at the school.
He’d created useless pieces of crap.
“Do you miss it?”
“I still paint.” The only answer Slade felt up to giving. One day, he’d have a long talk with himself, go back to his first love of painting on canvas. “What about you?”
Noah took a swig of his beer, throat bobbing as he swallowed. The movement exposed his long neck. “You’ll laugh.”
“No, I promise.” What could be funny?
“I wanted to be president.”
Not what Slade expected. “Why president?”
“Then maybe I could help all the shifters, outlaw hunting my kind. Let them come out of hiding.”
Damn. During Slade’s pitying himself, he’d never once imagined hiding, looking over his shoulder all the time, living in constant fear. Hell, when Slade walked down the sidewalk, people were afraid ofhim.
Firelight highlighted Noah’s high cheekbones, brought hints of gold to his hair. He’d never been able to move around freely, sleeping safely in bed each night, knowing nothing hunted him.
Over the past few weeks, Slade noticed Noah moaning or thrashing in his sleep. No wonder he suffered from bad dreams. For the longest moment, Slade felt the overwhelming need to hold Noah, comfort him. The image in his head offered more: pressing his lips to Noah’s, staring down at a naked werewolf.
Slade shifted to ease the pressure in his jeans, and said, “Let’s take this inside.”
He and Noah extinguished the fire, moved back into the cabin, and continued sipping beer in a room with two double beds like at the motels Slade booked if he couldn’t find two queen beds. So far, they’d not been forced to share a bed.
A queen-sized bed occupied the other room. Slade stored some of his gear there, keeping the door closed whenever possible. Noah seemed to sleep better with Slade nearby.
Yeah, that’s the only reason you keep him close.Why did the little voice in Slade’s head always sound like Chuck?
Noah remained an enigma. Though Slade kept a watch on him—for protection, nothing else—he’d not seen those denim-blue eyes straying to women or men during their forays into the human world. Human world? Since when had Slade begun thinking in those terms? Noah didn’t seem to care for either sex—or was his attraction limited to his own kind? Then again, given Noah’s experiences with humans, Slade didn’t blame him for closing himself off. Who’d want to sleep with someone who might stick a knife, or a bullet, into their back at the first opportunity?
But wait! Slade hadn’t sought anyone either, not since the morning Noah climbed into the Durango, though he’d found relief in the shower. He still received silent offers from clients through a look or touch meant to appear casual. None appealed. Besides, he couldn’t take someone back to his and Noah’s shared motel room.
Some folks probably saw the two of them as a couple. All the better to keep Noah safe.
“I’ve seen a few of your tattoo designs. So far, you’ve put small ones on me. Do you have full back pieces like yours?” Noah asked.
What? They’d been together for how long, and Slade hadn’t bored Noah to tears with his extensive portfolio? He retrieved his laptop from the bag at the foot of the bed and patted the space beside him. Too late, he realized having Noah on a bed with him might not be the best idea, not with the places his mind started to wander. Well, part of him thought the idea fantastic, but the part of him that wanted to help the guy find a home said otherwise.