Page 6 of Peacocks

“The thing is…” I spread my hands helplessly. “I’ve done all I know how to do, but he won’t tuck his feathers.”

“Your… It won’t…Tuck its feathers?” he repeated, aghast.

“I dunno what the technical term is.” I shrugged. “Deflate? Settle? Move from red alert down to a nice, peaceable yellow?”

“And we’re talking about your…” He paused expectantly, and if I didn’t know better—if I didn’t know for sure that Lane was one hundred percent immune to my charms, such as they were—I’d almost have thought he snuck a glance at my groin.

“My… peacock,” I repeated slowly. The poor man was tired, and it showed. “Like I said.”

Lane squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “You definitely did not say that,” he muttered. “Dear God.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He waved a hand. “Come in, come in.” He turned and walked toward the kitchenette.

As I followed him inside, my eyes immediately went to his ass since it would’ve been wrong not to appreciate the rounded muscles there, and I was the kind of guy who tried to doright.

In fact, I was so committed to rightness there wasn’t a single time in the past six months I hadn’t taken the opportunity to stare at Dr. Desmond’s significant assets.

While I might not be educated or gifted, I sure as shit wasn’t stupid.

“Did you get the food I left?” I asked, suddenly feeling nervous. “I didn’t know… I mean, you might not be hungry. If you don’t want it or need it, you can just… throw it out. I mean, maybe don’t throw out the Tupperware. That’s one of my good ones. But you can…” I spotted the container on the table. “You know what? I’ll throw it out for you. It’s no trouble?—”

I reached for the Tupperware only to be stopped when Lane grabbed my wrist. “Jay, I want it. I’m starving. Please don’t throw it out. Italian Gentleman’s my favorite.”

His kind smile and the feel of his warm grip on my wrist made my stomach tighten. “Oh. Okay.” I swallowed again ’cause it was either that or drool. “Good, then.”

Lane nodded and let go, moving to the microwave and pulling out a bowl of the pasta. Seeing him eat the food I’d made gave me a feeling of… I didn’t know, exactly. Pride? Happiness? I wanted to take care of him, make sure he had what he needed and didn’t subsist on peanut butter crackers or cereal like I knew he did sometimes on heavy workdays. I wanted to lighten his load and bring a smile to his face.

He stabbed a fork into the bowl and shoved a giant mouthful of bow ties between his lips. I was mesmerized.

“So… you have a peacock?” he asked in between bites. “What’s wrong with him, exactly?”

This didn’t seem the right time to explain I hadmultiplepeacocks, so I focused on the one for now. “Dave’s got a feather issue, like I was explaining.”

Lane blinked at me, and when his lips twitched in a smile, I wanted to beat my chest. “Your peacock is named Dave.”

“Yep. D-Disco Dave,” I agreed, still staring at his lips. “I can’t take credit for his name, though. His former owner named him.” It didn’t seem the right time to explain that either, so I hurried on. “He won’t stop…flaunting.”

Lane stopped with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. “Flaunting?”

I shrugged. “The plumage thing…” I fanned out all ten of my fingers at once in a replica of a peacock’s tail. I had a second to be self-conscious—my fingers were blunt and callused from years of hard work, not at all like Lane’s fine hands—but the way Lane bit his lip at the sight made my pants tighten.

“When peacocks spread their tail feathers, ortrains, it’s called displaying or… or train rattling,” he said, eyes firmly on his pasta. “It’s a, uh… a mating thing.”

“Right. I knew that much. I also know it’s not the season for it. ButDavedoesn’t seem to realize that. And I don’t have any peahens, so what’s he even doing? I’m worried something’s wrong with him. I’m worried it’s a little like one of those medicine commercials, you know? Like, if hisdisplayinglasts more than four hours, he should see a doctor?”

Lane stuffed the pasta in his mouth to keep from laughing, I could tell, and that made me feel a bit better. Lane wouldn’t be laughing if he thought Dave’s condition was an emergency.

“How was work today?” I asked, deciding to change the subject. “I heard Sami Nishawn’s Doberman was in for a neuter. It’s about time. That asshole won’t leave Mr. Holcombe’s cockapoo alone.”

Why did I suddenly feel like I was using the wordcocktoo frequently for polite company?

“He came through with flying colors,” Lane said after swallowing and reaching for his water glass. “It should calm him down. But I think Mr. Holcombe’s cockapoo is the instigator in that situation. Poor thing’s bored to tears since Mr. Holcombe’s knee replacement. He hasn’t been able to walk her nearly as often.”

“I’ve been walking her every day,” I admitted. “She likes going to the little creek at the end of Newell Road. Makes her muddy as fuck, but Mr. Holcombe has a hose right by the back door with hot water to it and everything.”

I didn’t add that I’d been the one to plumb the hot water to it after Mr. Holcombe had complained about how hard it was to wash off muddy paws in winter. But now that there was a warm water supply, Binnie was living a life of luxury.

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