Born to Be Wylde (8 page)

“I might have found something,” Ken said noncommittally.
“I know I haven’t been the most supportive of your wild ideas about a killer on this stretch of road.” Marty shrugged, pushing back his thinning brown hair. “But it was my territory, you know? Seemed like you were a hot newbie cop burning to prove yourself.”
Ken came up beside Marty, feeling a weird sense of dislocation as he talked to both his friend and would-be killer. He leaned against the SUV, giving Marty a mild look. “I really am not burning to prove myself,” he said. “I would rather make pots all day, and one day I hope to be able to do that.”
“I’m sorry about your studio, Ken,” Marty said.
Shit. He sounded like he meant it.
He took a deep breath and gave a curt nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He remembered Wylde’s burned hands. The roof collapsing, shattered shards of pots he’d made in Japan that he’d planned never to sell. But mostly he remembered Wylde rescuing whatever he could.
“Have you considered it could be your lifestyle behind the attacks on you?” Marty went on. “It’s a pretty common motivation, and you haven’t exactly been discreet.”
Ken frowned, thrown. “My lifestyle?”
“You’re a gay man.”
Ken’s jaw ticked.
“Come on, don’t be like that, Ken! I mean, even the pottery was a little….” Marty widened his eyes. “It’s not exactly what most cops do in their spare time.”
Ken’s face was impassive as he prodded quietly, “Why are you really out here, Mart?”
Marty blinked, as if he hadn’t expected Ken to ignore the red flag of his gay-harassment theory. Maybe he’d thought Ken would be defensive about it. Fuck that. He’d grown up reading yaoi. He’d never pushed his orientation, but his parents hadn’t needed to be told.
“I decided you were right all along about some shady character haunting this road,” Marty surprised him by admitting. “Happy now?”
“Why the gun?” Marty had it pointing toward the cracked asphalt, but Ken sensed a buried eagerness in his fellow deputy, as if he couldn’t wait to use it.
“I’m going hunting and figured you’d want in.” Marty smiled at Ken’s confused look. “There’s a vagrant around, long black hair, blue eyes, lives in a cave…. Doesn’t that sound like the sort of guy who could have been hurting folks, maybe off his meds?”
“How do you know about him?” Ken rasped. God! Wylde could innocently rejoin them at any time. And Marty would shoot him. The sick thing was, his story was plausible. Law enforcement was more likely to look at someone like Wylde, who lived an unconventional life, than Marty, a deputy with twenty years on the job.
“You been giving him handouts, Ken?” Marty moved closer, shifting the gun in his arms. “Being queer, I guess you have a soft heart, but he’s our guy, and I’ve already called for backup to help me hunt him down.”
Ken’s heart jumped. “No,” he whispered. Wylde had saved his life, risked himself. Now Marty meant to use the resources Ken had been asking for to hunt him.
“I thought you wanted to take down the mysterious stalker!” Marty pushed, hard brown gaze holding Ken’s. “You sure as fuck wouldn’t leave it alone.”
“I do,” Ken said, straightening. “You know, the day I was beaten, left for dead, I called my location into dispatch before I left my truck.”
“Uh-huh.” Marty moved away from the SUV, checking his rifle. “You always were anal about that.”
“That’s how you knew where to find me, how you got the drop on me, you son of a bitch.” Ken’s Glock was in his hand. There was a ringing in his ears. He was going to die now. Marty would kill him, but Wylde would be safe.
“That’s crazy, Ken!” Marty made a disgusted sound. “You’re obviously upset over losing your studio. I’m sorry I insulted you about the gay thing. It’s this vagrant we gotta look out for, hunt down.”
Ken shook his head. “That’s not true and you know it! Drop the rifle, Marty. If I’m wrong, it won’t take long to prove it.”
Marty smiled, leveling his rifle on Ken. “You’re not wrong.”

W
YLDE
found what he thought was a shallow grave half a mile into the woods. He backed away, knowing that Ken would not want him disturbing the evidence. As he did, a cedar branch brushed his hair and Wylde had a sudden wrong feeling.

The burial hadn’t been so hard to find, not with the clothes almost an arrow pointing in this direction.
For some reason, Deputy Marty Grimble wanted to make it easy. Why?
Wylde could think of only one reason.

Ken’s jaw bunched. He knew he was going to die, absolutely. But he wouldn’t let this man take advantage of his innocence again. In retrospect, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t looked at Marty. “You may shoot me, but I’m also going to shoot you, and I might get lucky.” His hands were steady, holding the gun. He’d hit Marty in the middle of the body. It wouldn’t stop him, but he would be too wounded to hurt Wylde. Ken only hoped he’d hold on long enough to call off the manhunt for an innocent man.

Marty looked annoyed. “You couldn’t leave it alone! You’re a potter, for Christ’s sake. You shouldn’t be doing this job.”

“But it is my job, and I will perform it,” Ken countered. “Too bad, samurai.”
Marty fired.

H
E WAS
running through the woods.
Never had he run so fast, certainty singing through his
blood.
His mate was in trouble, needed him.
The body being so easy to find meant the killer wanted
to point the finger at someone, and Wylde figured it had to
be him. He was different. Sometimes that was enough to
make people turn away, to hate you.
But honorable Ken would never allow that. He’d try to
protect Wylde.
And it would get him killed.

Marty missed. He had a hand on his temple, blood running freely…. “What the fuck is this?” He looked around wildly, and both he and Ken saw a nearby bush swaying….

Wylde tackled him from behind, arm around his throat. “You hurt him. You put bruises on his body!” Wylde growled.
Gun up and ready, Ken used his free hand to tug away Marty’s rifle. His hands were shaking. He wanted to hit Marty.
“Step away from him, Wylde. I’ve got him,” Ken ordered. He hated seeing his Wylde anywhere near the guy. Wylde’s hand tightened on Marty’s throat. His blue eyes were dark cobalt, narrowed.
“Wylde… Steven,” Ken whispered, needing to reach his lover. “Please let me do my job; let me finish this.”
Wylde held his gaze, feral, long hair in his eyes. His muddy hand tightened, and then he stepped back, and Ken wrestled Marty around to handcuff him.
“Ow, what did you hit me with, you fucking hippie?” Marty growled at Wylde.
Wylde shrugged, looking serene now that Ken had Marty in custody. “Used my slingshot.”

T
WO
weeks later, Ken parked his SUV after a long shift. His body ached with tiredness as he slammed the vehicle door behind him, looking around hopefully for Wylde.

His lover came and went, but somehow Ken never slept alone anymore. Sometimes he woke up in the morning and found wildflowers on the pillow beside him. Sometimes he found some high-priced Seattle tea on his counter. Wylde was a mix of primeval and uptown, it turned out, and Ken loved discovering that.

His heart picked up when he saw his lover’s tall, muscled form up on a ladder. He was drawing a tarp taut near the old site of Ken’s studio. Ken came to a halt as he saw Wylde was also not alone. His father Makoto was there; Josh, Wylde’s young best friend; and Alec, Ken’s fellow deputy whom Wylde had once been attracted to.

Josh and Alec had come by for sushi soon after Wylde began living with Ken full-time. He liked both men, and he could see that the darkly handsome Alec was relieved Wylde had found someone because he seemed to truly care about him.

Now Josh flashed a smile, a good-looking kid with ash blond hair and gray eyes, before he went back to placing debris into a wheelbarrow from the ruins of the studio.

“What is going on, Wylde?” Ken asked as he came up behind his lover, putting a hand in the back pocket of his jeans and discreetly squeezing his ass.

K
EN
’
S
eyes burned, as he remembered everything that had happened over the past weeks. “It was just intense. Marty, poor Andrea. I was grateful for the support you’ve given me.”

“Marty’s in jail, and you gave Andrea back to her sister,” Wylde said, stepping down the ladder and then turning to face Ken. “It’s time to make stuff again.”

Belatedly Ken took in more details, such as Josh’s truck had an open trailer to take away the ruins of his old workspace, making room to… rebuild? And there was a footoperated wheel, a long table, and his supplies sitting on the pine-needle floor stretching between two Douglas fir trees under the tarp Wylde had just finished putting up.

A place to work over the summer.
“Wylde….” Ken looked away, swallowing thickly. Wylde put an arm around him, insistent. “Time to make

M
UCH
later when they were alone again, Ken lit candles, and Wylde brought sake and a warmed carafe and cups thrown by Ken’s hands. The spring night was warm, and around them were the soft sounds of nesting birds and bright dots of flowers pushing through the forest floor.

Ken sat at his potter’s wheel, and Wylde fitted himself behind him, arms around his waist.
Ken’s heart picked up to a slow, heavy beat, and his cock filled as Wylde tasted the skin of his neck, biting down to leave a possessive mark. Yet they had time; there was no rush. He knew Wylde just wanted to be a part of this, Ken’s reawakening to his craft, as he had once brought Ken’s body back to life.
Porcelain clay bubbled up in his hands as if he’d never spent any time away from the wheel. It was drier now than it had been the last time he’d created, because the air was drier in later spring, so he used more water, compensating, letting it rise, and then another pair of hands tentatively overlaid Ken’s—Wylde wanting to experience making a pot with him.
“Ken, Josh said I should tell you I love you,” Wylde said. “He said if I tell you we’re friends or that I care, that’s a copout.”
Clay skittered as Ken’s hands gave a little jump.
“Oops,” Wylde said.
Ken turned around, facing Wylde as the wheel behind him wound down to gentle circuits, the botched piece forgotten.
Wylde lifted Ken’s legs up, and Ken wrapped them around Wylde’s hips. Ken put his wet clay hands on Wylde’s cheeks, and Wylde laughed at the chilly feel. “Marking me, Ken?”
“You bet,” Ken said.
“What is the kanji for dream, Ken?” Wylde asked.
Ken’s throat tightened as he caught Wylde’s drift. He sketched it out in the air, and Wylde copied it on Ken’s chest, over his heart.
“Time to dream again, Ken.”
“I suppose I’ve been a little fussy,” Ken admitted. He’d been restoring the hardwood floors in the cabin, the work filling the hours, making him feel like he was doing something productive.
Wylde shrugged. “You need to be fussy sometimes.”
Ken gave a shy smile. “You make the bed perfectly now, and I know you don’t care about that kind of thing.”
“But you do.”
Ken kissed him, and the candles guttered in a sudden gust of sea wind, the moment perfect. Wylde reached down and freed his cock from behind the laces of his leggings. Ken reached over to the table where he’d placed a stash of supplies as well as their sushi.
He covered Wylde with a condom, licking his lips. And then Wylde stood up with Ken wrapped around him as he leaned Ken into one of the trees that held the tarp.
Ken arched up wantonly. He watched their shadows thrown by candlelight on the pine-needle floor, Wylde’s larger one merging with his as he felt Wylde pressing against him, wanting inside as always.
“Ken, my mate….” Wylde whispered as he filled Ken. He nuzzled him affectionately. “You let me in; you always let me in.”
Ken’s head fell back, and he breathed out as he adjusted to Wylde’s thickness. “I love you in,” he admitted softly.
“Deeper, Ken?” Wylde’s muscles bulged as he lifted Ken higher so he could fuck him at an angle they both enjoyed.
Ken made a hoarse sound, feeling the secret part of himself coming out to play. He was Wylde’s captive again, the mate he crushed under him, mounted and took and pleasured…. Wylde was slamming in and out of him, the wheel was still turning, the candles flickering. His body impacted where it gave him the most pleasure, Ken climaxed.
Wylde kissed him as if he wanted to breathe in that sound of satisfaction.
Ken felt serene, almost protective as Wylde stiffened, his blue eyes moist with emotion as he held Ken’s gaze… and gave himself to Ken.
“Not such a freak….” Wylde huffed. “You like me, Ken. Like me in you.”
Knowing this was something that haunted his lover, Ken summed it up as best as he could. “You’re different, Wylde….” He paused, trying to think of the most romantic way he could put it for his wild man, and then he just knew. “Different-beautiful, like the pots I make.”
J
AN
I
RVING
has worked in all kinds of creative fields, from painting silk to making porcelain ceramics, to interior design, but writing was always her passion.

She feels you can’t fully understand characters until you follow their journey through a story world. Many kinds of worlds interest her, fantasy, historical, science fiction and suspense—but all have one thing in common, people finding a way to live together—in the most emotional and erotic fashion possible, of course!