Mongrel [bxb] | Bad Moon Book III

Chapter 22: because it was Bailey

After that day, Bailey didn't shed another tear—at least none that Matt saw. He untangled from Matt's arms and left the barn, disappeared to the bedroom with a bottle of liquor and slept until dinner. The next day, it was as if nothing had happened. He cared for the chickens in the coup and carried hay until his arms bled, showered every morning and again in the evening until his skin was red and scraped from scrubbing. Then back to bed he'd go.

Every night, he slept away with his arms over his chest, and Matt ran his fingers through his wet, scented hair. Every night, he watched the faded nape of his neck and the tattoo on his shoulder and begged himself not to ruin it all by doing too much—until one night, Bailey turned to face him, shadow eyes heavy with sleep.

"I'll pay you back for the console," he said.

"I've got a better one," Matt told him.

"You do?"

"Play Station. I've hardly used it."

"Can we play it?" Bailey asked.

"Tomorrow," Matt said.

The next day, Matt stopped at the store after work and bought a new Play Station. He hid the box in his father's garage and set it up while Bailey slept, tucked away in the cupboard of his entertainment system. And when Bailey woke at nearly six that night, they played games until his stomach rumbled. Matt barbecued steaks and Bailey waited on the porch steps, while the sun slipped behind the trees.

For the first time since that night, Bailey spoke of the incident in the pub. "What did Bronx do with the bodies?"

"Dunno," Matt said, prodding at the steaks. He pictured Billy with his long, coiling tongue and the splattered beige spot on his nose. His stomach unfurled at the thought of eating them. He turned the steak over. "Just took care of 'em, I guess."

"Wasn't you, was it?" Bailey asked. The sunset reached his eyes and something green flared awake in the pits of them. "It was Raven that killed them."

"Yeah." Matt forked the steak onto plates and delivered one to Bailey, stalking back up the steps. In the distance, his father sprayed down his cruiser with a garden hose. He eyed them occasionally, but hadn't said a word to Matt about Bailey's return—which usually meant they would never discuss it again. Which mean Matt wouldn't have to explain why it was none of Jack's business what Bailey was to him.

Bailey followed him inside as Matt dropped his plate onto the table and picked up the counter where his spices and rubs were laid out. Steak used to be his favorite meal, but beef tasted a lot like rot now.

"I could tell," Bailey said. "He didn't have your accent."

"I don't have an accent."

"Maybe not to you. To everyone else, you sound like you crawled out of a horse's ass."

When Matt looked over his shoulder, the hound was sitting at the table, prodding his meat with a fork but making no effort to eat it. Matt had expected this. Since finding out he'd lost his wolf, food was a burden. It didn't matter what Matt made—nothing was ever worth the time it took to chew.

"Eat," Matt said, wiping the crumbs from the counter. "Please."

"You can have it," Bailey said. The chair clattered as he stood up. "I'm tired."

I'm tired. Matt's heart sunk. For the third time now, Bailey had rejected food under the premise of I'm tired. He tossed his rag in the sink and it slapped against an empty glass with a rattle. "Will you just tell me? Tell me what the hell I can do to make you feel better."