Page 7 of Chained
“Don’t know.” Not the kinds of things he demanded of Edge—at least not at the beginning. Later, when Brandt was entirely within his grip, the boss might insist on more, although even then he’d likely be gentler. Human bodies were more fragile than Edge’s.
“You’re not giving me a whole lot to go on, Edge.” Brandt sighed. “I feel like I should, I don’t know… rehearse or something. But I don’t know for what.”
“Nothing to rehearse.”
“Right.”
Edge decided to throw him a small bone. “Soon he’ll have a party. He’ll introduce you to industry pros. Producers, directors.”
Brandt rewarded him with a bright smile. “Okay, cool. I’ll look forward to that, and I’ll be on my best behavior.” Perhaps realizing that he’d drawn all he was going to get from Edge, Brandt selected one of his CDs and popped it into the stereo system. After he’d fiddled with buttons for a moment, loud music poured from the speakers, and he smiled as a woman sang about walking like an Egyptian.
As if he’d forgotten Edge was there, Brandt closed his eyes, raised his arms, and swayed to the beat. His feet moved in clever patterns as his hips swung, and he was perfectly graceful.
Sometimes Edge and his brothers would race one another. It was a good form of exercise and it appealed to Duke and Holt’s competitive natures, but it had originally been Butch’s idea, back when they were all new to the estate. The brothers, in their dog forms, would line up along one end of the long strip of grass that edged the estate and wait for a prearranged signal such as the start of a gardener’s lawn mower. Then they’d be off, each pushing to be the fastest. Their canine bodies were massive, not streamlined like those of sighthounds, but they were still capable of tremendous speed. Edge loved those moments—muscles straining, ears and jowls flapping, air streaming in through his nose and deep into his chest. He felt free then, as if he belonged only to himself. He always reached the limits of the property too soon, always ahead of his brothers. Butch had always come in last but hadn’t cared.
But he didn’t want to think about Butch now.
That sensation Edge had when running, that beautiful lightness in his core, was what he saw on Brandt’s face as he danced.
But then the song ended and Brandt seemed to recall that he had an audience. He stopped dancing and turned the volume way down. “Sorry. I like that song. Do you like the Bangles?”
Edge shrugged.
“Well, what music do you like? Do you have a favorite singer or song? Or a genre you’re fond of? You seem like the type who might be into heavy metal.”
“I don’t know.” Edge had heard music many times, on TV and during the boss’s parties, but he didn’t know what any of it was called. He’d never paid much attention because it didn’t seem to have anything to do with him. Music was a human thing.
“You probably work long hours and don’t get much of a chance to listen now. But what about when you were a kid? A teenager? I remember the first record I bought. My aunt gave me a record player for my thirteenth birthday, and I used my paper-route money to buy Elton John’s newest album. I must have listened to that thing a thousand times, and ‘Daniel’ made me cry every damned time.” He paused and stared expectantly at Edge. “So, how about you?”
Edge could only shrug. There had been no songs during his youth.
He expected Brandt to drop the subject, but instead he came a few steps closer, his brow furrowed. “You really don’t have a favorite? Do you hate music?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. Hang on.” He strode to his stack of CDs, scanned the titles, and pulled one out. Then he replaced the Egyptian disc with the new one and looked over his shoulder at Edge. “I don’t own vinyl anymore, but now I have this one on CD.” He pushed a button and music began to play.
For the first time in his life, Edge paid close attention to a song. Although he didn’t completely understand the details, he got the main points: one brother, scarred and damaged, leaving another. The words and melody made his throat feel too tight, as if his collar were strangling him, and he swallowed several times.
When the song was over, Brandt stopped the CD and gave him a small smile. His eyes looked watery. “Did you like it?”
Edge gave an honest answer. “Yes.”
“Good. Let me show you some more.”
He played several more songs then, naming all of the performers as he went: Pet Shop Boys, George Michael, REM, The Smiths. One of them, by a singer named Tracy Chapman, made his throat tighten again; it was about someone struggling to escape her constrictive life. What unsettled Edge even more, however, was the way Brandt watched him, gauging his reactions, seeming to truly care what Edge thought.
Nobody ever cared what Edge thought.
Brandt was trying to decide on the next song when one of the housekeepers arrived with a tray. Edge took it from her and she hurried away. When he walked toward the table in one corner of the room, Brandt stopped him. “Can we eat outside on the balcony instead?” He opened the French window in an inducement.
The small balcony held an iron bistro table and two chairs. Shaded by the overhanging roof, it offered a sweeping view of the estate. Several groundskeepers were toiling away, and Holt was patrolling near the entrance to the main house. Duke wasn’t visible. Edge set the tray on the table and Brandt sat down. When Edge didn’t sit too, Brandt motioned at the chair. “Join me?”
Seated across from him, Edge felt like an actor in a movie—a beast playing the role of a human. He kept shifting, trying to find a more natural position, but no matter how he held his back or angled his legs, he didn’t feel like himself. At least the food wasn’t difficult to eat, just thick roast beef sandwiches with potato chips and cut-up fruit. Maybe the cook had realized Edge was going to be eating this meal and, taking pity on him, had prepared something that wouldn’t require elaborate maneuvers to consume. The cook was always kind to him, sneaking bits of food when Edge was in dog form and saving him large bones to gnaw on.
“Have you worked for Mr. Whitaker for very long?” Brandt winced. “Sorry. That sounded like a pickup line, but I didn’t mean it that way. Just being conversational.”
“Yes.”
