Wolf's Clothing, page 12
“Of course. François opens it from courtesy, but he will not be outraged if you take matters into your own hands.”
“Right, then. Let’s see what kind of joint you think is worthy of our valuable patronage.”
He jumped out of the car and . . . immediately wanted to jump back in, as his stomach took a quick ride to his feet. They weren’t in the city anymore. They were parked in the tiny lot of a diner at a crossroads, woods marching along the edge of the streets on three sides, a sign for a gated community on the fourth.
Trent fought the urge to run, far and fast. “You didn’t tell me we were going into the fucking forest. I don’t—”
Christophe caught him by the shoulders. “Cher, forgive me. I didn’t realize you had such a strong preference for the city.”
Breathe, damn it. Fake it till you make it. He forced a laugh. “If you’re that ashamed to be seen with me that you have to take me to a dive in the middle of nowhere—”
“I am proud to be seen with you anywhere, and we are hardly in the middle of nowhere. Downtown Portland is but a few minutes away. This place,” he gestured to the sign, “I have long wanted to try it.”
“Seriously? The Skyline Restaurant?”
Christophe smoothed Trent’s hair back from his forehead. “I will tell you a secret. I am passionately fond of hamburgers. But I prefer them rare. These days, few restaurants will consent to prepare them as I like. This place will.”
“Fancy restaurants in Europe won’t fix you a burger the way you want? If you wave money at them, I’m sure they’d overcome their scruples.”
“I think perhaps you are a snob.” Christophe smiled at him, showing his canines. “You can find perfectly wonderful meals at places far less ostentatious. Besides, James Beard himself commended the burgers in this place.”
“He did, huh?”
“However, if you’d prefer someplace more—”
“No. You want to go here.” And once we’re inside, I won’t feel like the trees are creeping up on me. “Let’s see if James Beard knew what the fuck he was talking about.”
When Christophe’s wolf was this close to the surface, his craving for raw meat intensified. Satisfying that craving was another way for him to appease the wolf, coax it into remaining quiescent. As he’d hoped, after an exceptional burger prepared exactly as he liked it, Christophe felt much less on edge.
During their dinner, Trent seemed to regain the confidence he’d lost for some reason in the parking lot. Another mystery, my troubled young man. He’d enthusiastically consumed his own meal and now, once again in the car, he collapsed against Christophe’s shoulder, rubbing his belly.
“Dude. Those were seriously intense burgers. And the milkshakes? Awesome.”
Christophe chuckled and hit the intercom to give François the signal to go. “I am glad you approve. What would you like to do next?”
Trent gazed up at him and ran a finger along the beard at Christophe’s jawline. “You did promise that we’d have time to try out the bed later.”
“Don’t you wish to recover from your meal a bit first?”
“Hey. I’ve got the metabolism of a nineteen-year-old.”
“Or twenty-six-year-old. But I, sadly, have the metabolism of a twenty-five-year-old.”
“Seriously? You’re only twenty-five? You seem older.”
Christophe pressed the back of his wrist against his forehead in a theatrical gesture. “Oh the humiliation. I fondly imagined I carried my age so well. I shall have to invest in a walker next, and perhaps learn to play shuffleboard or horseshoes.”
Trent laughed. “That’s not what I mean. You’re so confident, like you have no questions about how you fit in your own skin. Usually guys in their midtwenties haven’t hit that stride yet.”
“My father has been grooming me to take over for him practically since I was born. I have had a great deal of practice in appearing confident and in control.”
“Because of that captain-of-industry shit?”
“Captain of commerce, certainly. Our family business is import and export, not manufacturing, but the concept is similar.”
“But—” Trent struggled upright, and Christophe immediately missed his warmth. “Last night—Jesus, was it only last night we met? It feels like we’ve known each other forever. Last night you said you wanted to study medicine. Genetics, right?”
“Yes. However, in my family, the tradition has always been for the sons to follow in the footsteps of the father. I—”
“Bullshit. You shouldn’t let your father control your life.”
“No? But isn’t that what you do yourself?”
Trent frowned. “I flew across the country—twice—to get away from him, so no.”
“Yet when you allow your feelings for him, his actions, to control what you do and where you go, you grant him the same sort of power.”
“But at least I’m trying to find a way to do my own thing—once I figure out what the hell it is. You know what you want to do, but you’re not doing it.”
“I was bred for this position.” More literally than you can know. “Choosing another path is not as simple as you make it seem.”
“Well it should be. I think you should do what you want.”
“What I want . . .” He took Trent’s hand and drew him back. “What I want is to take you to my flat where we, after a suitable recovery period, will try out my bed.”
“Yes!” Trent grinned. “Is this like waiting an hour after eating before you go swimming?”
“Something like that.”
Trent grabbed Christophe’s face and dove in for a quick but thorough kiss. “Then we can—” He jolted back, eyes widening as he stared out the window beyond Christophe’s shoulder. “Where— God, where are we?”
Christophe glanced outside. “On Cornell, near the Audubon Society, I believe. My flat is in the Pearl District, so this is the most direct route.”
Forest Park. No. Not here. Not now. Trent plastered himself against the door, his eyes like saucers, whites visible around the blue. “Please. Go back. This is— I can’t— We have to—”
Christophe smacked the intercom with his fist. “François. Pull over!” The car slowed as François turned into the Audubon parking lot. Christophe inched toward Trent, holding his hands palms out. “Easy, cher. Whatever it is, we will fix it, I promise. Let me—”
Trent flung himself into Christophe’s arms. “Jesus fuck.”
Christophe gathered Trent close, petting his hair, kissing his temple. “Shhh. What do you need? I have water here.” Liquor too. Was liquor ever prescribed for a panic attack? He couldn’t remember. “Whatever you want, whatever you need, I will get or be or do.”
Trent heaved a shuddering breath. “This. Just . . . hold me. You make it better. I don’t know why, but you do. When you hold me, I can think again.”
“Then I shall hold you forever.”
His laugh was bitter. “Might be inconvenient. For both of us. François too. Hope the poor guy at least had lunch.”
“Yes. He had a Skyline burger as well.”
“Good.”
“But we must talk about you, not François.” Christophe leaned back until he could gaze into Trent’s eyes. “Cher, you must tell me what is wrong. I am happy to do what I can to help, but if I don’t know the triggers, I might inadvertently cause you distress.”
“It’s fucked up. You don’t need to deal with my shit.”
“Everyone has, as you say, shit to deal with. I told you, I adore a man with issues, and there is nothing you could say that would make me betray your trust.”
“Not even if I’m a total fricking basket case?”
Christophe captured Trent’s flailing hand and laced their fingers together. “I doubt your situation is so dire.”
“Easy for you to say. Your issues are ordinary corporate daddy issues. Mine are totally whacked out.”
Oh, cher, you have no idea. “I promise I won’t judge you. You will be the same man after you tell me. I will simply know you better, and that cannot be bad.”
“That’s what you think,” Trent muttered.
“What are you afraid of?”
Trent’s face mirrored the terror he was clearly attempting to hold at bay. Christophe recognized the expression—he’d worn it himself only last night.
“That you’ll think I’m crazy. That I’m broken.”
“I promise, I will not.”
His smile was crooked. “If that’s how you negotiate your contracts, you won’t have to worry about taking over from your father. He’ll fire you before you run the company into the ground. Always check the fine print before you sign on the dotted line.”
“I trust my instincts. And my instincts tell me that you are as sane as I am. A bit impulsive perhaps.”
Trent snorted. “You think?”
“But that is not necessarily a bad thing. I rather enjoy spontaneity. So much of my life has been ordered, regimented, planned from the moment I was born.” He kissed Trent softly. “Never fear, cher. I won’t let you down.”
Trent’s chest felt as if it were being crushed by a giant vise. He should have told François to keep driving, fast, to get back to the city where the trees wouldn’t menace him, enclose him. Where he could run away if the nightmare got too close.
But Christophe had promised, and Jesus fuck, he needed someone he could talk to. That was why he’d flown across the whole fricking country, wasn’t it? To see if having someone he could talk to about his ordeal would make it easier to handle? If it would stop the nightly replay?
He had no idea why he felt safe with Christophe, even safer than with Logan, who’d been there at the beginning. Maybe you still blame Logan for not saving you in the first place, or not saving you sooner. Which was fucking nuts.
But nobody’d ever accused him of being logical.
He burrowed closer to Christophe. “This morning, when you said you’d believe anything until it was proved false—did you mean it?”
“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
“Then . . .” Trent took a deep breath. It was only six thirty. They had a few more hours of daylight. He could handle the park in the daylight—he hoped. “Will you take a walk with me?”
Christophe’s eyebrows drew together. “Certainly. When we get to my flat—”
“No. I mean here. Now.”
Christophe peered out the window. “On this road? It seems a trifle dangerous.”
“No. Into the—the park. It’s about a mile, and the path is steep in places and might be muddy.” He checked Christophe’s shoes—handmade Italian, if he knew anything about them, and he did. “Never mind. Your shoes—”
“Are immaterial. However, as it happens, I have a pair of boots in the trunk that will do nicely for a hike.”
“Okay, then.” Trent blew out a breath. “Let’s get this the hell over with.”
When Christophe got out of the car to retrieve his boots, Trent’s panic returned, and he started to hyperventilate, his vision darkening around the edges. Jesus, not here. Not now. Hold it together.
Christophe returned and sat on the end of the seat. “I haven’t worn these in—” He glanced at Trent and dropped the boots. “Trent. What is it?”
Trent held out his hand. “Touch me, please. When you’re too far away, it all comes back.”
“Very well. Although putting on boots one-handed may be beyond my current skill set.”
Trent scooted closer until he pressed against Christophe—legs, hips, and shoulders—and he could breathe again. “This’ll do. Go for it. It’s the contact, you know? The touching.”
“Whatever you need, cher. Whatever you need.”
Trent’s description of the trail as steep and rough was rather an understatement, and as they made their way deeper into the park, Christophe wished his boots had sturdier soles. Although he had vast experience navigating forest tracks, that experience was with four feet, not two.
The ground was muddy in spots from recent rain, but the going wasn’t impossible. Since the evening was fair, they passed other hikers occasionally, some of whom gave them odd looks, although they seemed more focused on Christophe’s inappropriate hiking clothing than on the fact that he and Trent were holding hands, despite the narrow path.
Trent slowed down when they came to a small clearing where their trail intersected with another one—the left-hand fork heading up into the hills, the right-hand one following the creek. At the back of the clearing, abutting the hillside, stood a derelict two-story stone building, roofless, mossy, and defaced with graffiti on most of its intact walls.
Trent clutched Christophe’s hand more tightly. “Funny. The first time I saw this place, I said I’d expected it to be bigger. Since then, though, it’s gotten so enormous in my memory that it’s a shock at how small it really is.”
“What is this place?”
“Its nickname, at least in paranormal circles, is the Witch’s Castle.”
Christophe raised his eyebrows. “A witch lived here?”
“Nah. The WPA built it sometime in the thirties. I think it was a rest station or a john or something. But this area, a lot of Forest Park for that matter, was originally the homestead of Danford Balch, the first man legally hanged in Oregon.”
“You are a student of local history, then?”
“No. I’m the moron who got so carried away by a ghost story that he— Well, never mind.” Trent squared his shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get closer.”
Trent stayed glued to Christophe’s side. When they were halfway across the clearing, a head with flyaway blond hair popped up over the wall on the upper level.
Trent backpedaled. “Jesus fuck.”
“Easy, cher. It is only a little girl.”
“Welcome to the Stone House,” the child piped. “Welcome to the Stone House.”
“Annie, sit down and drink your juice,” a woman’s exasperated voice rose from behind the wall.
Trent returned to Christophe’s side. “Guess it’s not responsible parenting to tell your kid you’re having a picnic at the Witch’s Castle. Not unless you’re into tough love and aversion therapy.”
“I imagine it would depend on the child. For some, particularly teenaged boys, I suspect the notion would be an incentive rather than a deterrent.”
Trent barked a laugh. “You got that right. Jesus, do you ever. Come on.” He led Christophe into a shallow alcove on the first floor, under where the hidden family continued their meal. He glanced at Christophe’s trousers and grimaced. “Shit. If you sit down, you’ll ruin your pants. Here.” He stripped off his sweatshirt and spread it on the ground. “Sit on this.”
“You don’t need to do that. You’ll get cold.”
“No, I won’t. I’m planning to wear you.”
Christophe raised an eyebrow. “We’re hardly alone.”
As he’d hoped, Trent grinned. “Mind out of the gutter, Clavret. Sit. I’m using you as a backrest.”
Christophe sat on the sweatshirt, the cold cement of the floor seeping through to chill his arse. Trent sat in front of him, between his legs. Christophe settled him against his chest. “Are you comfortable, cher?”
“Yeah. I—I’m actually okay at the moment.”
“Excellent.”
Trent’s hand closed on Christophe’s knee. “Not quite, but—” He swallowed audibly. “Okay. Here goes. Seven years ago last October, Logan and I sneaked into the park after hours.”
“Was this one of those so-famous fraternity pranks?”
“You mean hazing? Nah. Neither of us were in a frat anyway. I’d just lost the lead in a play, and Logan was trying to cheer me up. Back then, I was totally into legend tripping.”
“Legend tripping?” Christophe shifted uneasily against the rough stones. “What is that?”
“You visit the site of some urban legend or paranormal event, and try to re-create it. It’s about the adventure, the thrill and chills. Cemeteries were very big with my legend-tripping group.”
“Indeed.”
“Yeah. Nuts, right? Anyway, Logan knew about this ghost war, a feud between Balch’s family and the Stumps, the family of his son-in-law, the guy he murdered in front of practically the whole town.”
“Jesu.”
“No shit. But as it happens, this legend was true. We saw the ghost war.” Trent began to tremble, and Christophe wrapped his arms around him. “In fact, I joined it.”
“You what?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what Logan said. He tried to stop me, but I was so into it, you know?”
“Trent—”
“How many days are there in seven years?”
“I did not realize our hike came with a mathematics test.”
“That’s how many times I’ve been hanged. How many times I’ve died. I took Danford Balch’s place in the ghost war, and I was stuck there for seven fucking years. I’d still be there if Logan and the Haunted to the Max people hadn’t sprung me from the Phantom Zone.”
“Are you saying—”
Trent twisted in his arms, his glare accusatory. “You promised you’d believe me.”
“Easy, cher.” Christophe kissed his forehead. “I am only trying to understand. So when you say you are either nineteen or twenty-six—”
“It’s because I’ve been hanging out in limbo for seven years. How do you count that time? I don’t look any different, but sometimes I feel older than dirt. And twice as lonely.”
“Who else knows of this?”
“Logan, of course. Riley too. I guess he’s the one who figured out how to spring me, but they had help from others, including the ex-ghost of Danford Balch, although apparently he was a tough sell. Have you really never watched the show?”
“No. Perhaps I should. I seem to be woefully uninformed.”
“Hell, I wish I was. I checked into a private psych-treatment center to try and deal with it, you know? But it’s not like I could tell them the truth. They’d have locked me up faster than you could say schizophrenic, and I’d have spent the rest of my days in a rubber room or drugged to the gills.” He leaned his head on Christophe’s shoulder. “And sometimes, that sounds like a fucking awesome idea.”
