Primal (Wrong Side of the Tracks 2)

He could hardly breathe when he imagined that Dane might visit him less and less, and only the sturdy hold of Dane’s hand kept him from sobbing.

The jeers came to an end once they disappeared into the corridor, and as they passed the swinging doors and stepped into the large hallway with posters on the walls, all he could hear was annoying modern music and his own breath.

Dane cleared his throat. “Okay… maybe that was a bit too soon for you.”

Jag was too ashamed to look into Dane’s eyes and held his bag of popcorn to his aching chest. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to see it so much. I should have just shut up. I promise to sit quietly next time.” Because there would be a next time. He’d make sure of it even if he had to beg and plead.

Dane exhaled and placed his big, warm palm on Jag’s nape. “No, that’s okay. I should have known this would be too much for you. We can go home and see a movie on Frank’s TV instead.”

Since they were in an empty corridor, Jag leaned closer and wrapped his arms around Dane. “We could see your favorite Marvel movies.” Holding Dane’s close calmed Jag, but deep down he still feared this might be the end. That his behavior in the theatre proved that they were incompatible, and while their relationship worked at the junkyard, it failed the test of being outside its bounds. But Dane pulled him closer and rested his chin at the top of Jag’s head while the annoying music swirled through the air in the empty hallway.

Maybe all wasn’t yet lost?

Dane pulled away with a soft exhale and offered Jag a smile. “Okay. How about we get burgers on the way?”

Jag never had burgers before his life at the junkyard, but any time he got invited to have some at Frank’s, he found the juicy meat sandwiches delightful. He stole a quick kiss from Dane’s lips.

“Yes. Will they accept barter, or only money?”

Dane chuckled and gave Jag’s cheek a gentle pinch. “Only money, I’m afraid. I’ll use some of what you found for me. Come on,” he said, dragging Jag by the hand.

Whether it was because hardly anyone stood in the corridor or because Dane felt more comfortable entwining their fingers here, Jag didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to poke holes in Dane’s decisions. “Can we get the ones with the cheese?”

“Any you want. And fries, and a milkshake, if you’d like something sweet,” Dane said as they made their way into the street. The air was perfumed with a sugary scent, which made ignoring the stink of normal human activity that bit easier, but all Jag cared about was Dane.

The town was relatively empty, and Dane didn’t let go of Jag’s hand as they walked toward their vehicle, passing streetlights as bright as the full moon.

Dane was smiling at him, as if the evening hadn’t been a complete fiasco, but their conversation made Jag wonder how Dane imagined the future of their relationship. Did his mate see himself as the provider for the duration of Jag’s recovery, or was this something he’d like to continue in the future? And would he even stay at the junkyard once he was free to leave? Jag had to make sure he would.

“I could learn to make us burgers,” he offered.

The raw enthusiasm painted across Dane’s features eased Jag’s heart. “Yes, that would be great. Bet you’d like them extra rare,” he said, raising his voice when a steady roar grew louder behind them.

“Oh yes! When the meat is fresh, it makes the perfect steaks…” He drifted off when he noticed Dane stared at the motorcycle farther down the street as if it were a wolf.

The vehicle slowed, and when its rider raised his head, Dane scooted down behind a sleek-looking red car, and tugged Jag behind him. The sudden change of position twisted Jag’s wrist, but words of protest died on his lips when he spotted sheer terror on Dane’s face.

“Come on. We need to hide,” Dane uttered, squeezing the popcorn bag so hard the thing opened, vomiting golden nuggets of salt and sugar all over the pavement.

“Why?” Jag asked, but when Dane moved toward the nearest gap between buildings, he followed his lead, keeping low to the ground as if shots might be fired at any moment.

“He’s here,” Dane hissed, getting up as soon as they entered the shadows.

Whatever improvement Jag noticed in terms of smell after leaving the theatre was nulled by the odor of rot coming from large plastic containers and ripped bags bleeding trash onto the asphalt. But Dane dashed past the mess and waved at Jag before hiding behind a massive waste container.

Confused yet on high alert, Jag followed, scooting next to Dane. “Who?”