Primal (Wrong Side of the Tracks 2)

A deep flush burned Dane’s face, but he kept his expression neutral and nodded, even though the other man’s reaction told him that he wasn’t doing a good job.

Shane glanced at them in the rear-view mirror with amusement in his eyes. “So he’s still a virgin?”

Jag’s nostrils flared. “You better sleep with one eye open.”

Dane stopped breathing, flooded with memories of the first time Jag’s cock had pushed inside his ass. He’d been tired, breathless from being chased down, and this man-beast had dragged him from under a truck, shoved down his pants, and claimed him as if it were his God-given right.

His hole throbbed.

“None of your fucking business!” Dane choked out. “What I meant is that he saved my life!”

Jag’s beautiful eyes darted his way but then hid behind curtains of messy hair.

Shane shrugged. “Okay, okay, I’m just messing with him. I’m glad you see it that way.”

Dane’s shoulders dropped. “Well, someone tried to murder me, so I really am grateful. To him. And you guys,” he said as his hand drifted to Jag’s. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did when Jag tucked his arm under the comforter, refusing to be touched. Dane itched to establish where they stood after this terrible day, but it wasn’t something he could do in Shane’s presence.

“We’ll work it out, you’ll owe us some favors, and all will be good in the world again,” Shane said with a sigh as he drove into the junkyard.

Dex waved when the headlights licked his form, and he slid off the old TV he’d been sitting on to close the gate—a job Frank had surely made him do as punishment for leaving Jag on his own in favor of hooking up with some rando. To be fair, Dane would have been furious too.

“My life’s in your hands,” he told Shane, unsure whether that brought him relief or spiked the anxiety that had been crawling under his skin for the past month. At least his family now knew he was safe. “I’ll give back. Take care of Jag.”

Jag scowled like a cat forced to take disgusting medication. “I can take care of myself. I’ve been on my own for four winters, and this accident is barely a scratch.”

“It definitely isn’t,” Shane said from the front, driving through the dark landscape of junk. “Stop being a prat.”

“He’s right,” Dane said and slid his fingers to Jag’s sweaty neck without thinking. He’d make sure Jag’s wound stayed clean, and that the dumb bastard didn’t overexert himself.

He half-expected to be shrugged off, but Jag just hung his head with a sigh.

“Here we are,” Shane announced, slowing down by an unfamiliar house built right in the middle of the junkyard.

Frank’s small one-story home sat behind a white picket fence, looking about as appropriate as a cake on a bloodstained cutting board. The man himself waved at them from the porch, where he sat on a bench he must have scavenged from the piles of junk, because Dane doubted flowery ironwork would have been his first choice..

“Try not to twist your body,” Frank called, approaching the car in quick strides. He opened the passenger door before Dane could have gotten outside, and pushed his hands under Jag’s armpits to help him out.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Jag snapped and showed his teeth like a wild animal cornered between Frank and Dane.

Frank shook his head and guided him out. His homemade necklace of screws and other small metal items jangled as he moved, reminding Dane of Jag’s extensive key collection and the scrap he added to clothes for decoration. Now that Dane had met the elusive Frank, it made him wonder who was the trendsetter, and who—the follower in this small world of junk fashion, but his meandering thoughts came to a halt when Frank scolded Jag for moving too much.

Jag shook his head, dismissing them both with a gesture, but as he left his blanket cocoon and stood by the vehicle, his body seemed so unstable Dane feared he might fall over and rip all his stitches. They were about the same height, but despite his wiry frame being packed with muscle, Jag seemed small and fragile, like a dog with ribs peeking through the skin.

Dane picked up the blanket, draped it on Jag’s shoulders, as if it were a cape, and gave his arms a gentle squeeze. “You need to rest. Remember how you’ve taken care of me? Now it’s time for me to return the favor,” he insisted, gently urging his lover toward the porch.

“It’s not your job to do that,” Jag grumbled through gritted teeth.

Frank offered Dane a tired glare over Jag’s head. “We all know you have your den, and you can take care of yourself, but let your friends help you this time, eh?” Frank asked, leading them into his home.