Page 60 of The Evening Wolves

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t an interrogation. And I’m thrilled to learn you’ve found a new way to avoid dealing with your feelings, but I’m tired, and I’m hurt, and I don’t want to fight with you tonight. So, knock it off. I need my husband right now, not the ex-cop out for revenge.”

The sound of tires on asphalt came from a long way off. The security light hummed.

“Sublimation isn’t necessarily an unhealthy way of dealing with strong emotions.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Would you prefer I went with my first option?”

John-Henry grinned even though he knew he shouldn’t. “Frying pan through the wall?”

“Tire iron to the Mustang. Extensively.”

“Ah. No, I wouldn’t prefer that.”

“Then show some fucking gratitude for that Psychology Today article I read.”

It was hard to tell in the dark, hard to tell with that hard, uninflected voice. But John-Henry thought if the light were a little better, he’d see one of those tiny, Emery Hazard smiles. A moment later, Emery’s hand cupped the side of his face. John-Henry leaned into the touch. Then, swinging his legs out of the car, he moved to lean against Emery, his face pressed into his side. Emery’s hand slid around to cradle the back of his head. He was warm and solid and real, and he smelled like the ridiculous body spray Colt had gotten him for Christmas, and his fingers worked against the back of John-Henry’s head in silent expression of all the pain and fear he was struggling to master.

John-Henry pulled back. He got out of the car, stood, and met Emery’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“I don’t feel like that conversation about Colt is resolved, but I’d like to finish it another time.”

Maybe it was the change in position, giving him a better look at his husband, but this time John-Henry could make out the almost invisible smile. “Like not standing near a plastic bucket full of frozen human waste?”

“That would be ideal. And another time like when I’m not—not so worked up.”

“I think that’s reasonable.”

“I shouldn’t have run off.”

“You’re allowed to need time and space to yourself.”

“Yeah, but—wait, why are you being so nice?”

“I’m always nice.” Before John-Henry had to reply to that, Emery added, “Also, you requested your husband, who is loving and supportive. I’ll tell you later, at length, what the non-husband part of me thinks about your decisions.”

“Shouldn’t all of you be my husband? Like, a hundred percent of you?”

“That would be ideal, wouldn’t it?”

A car door closed, and voices rang out in the night.

“I’m not saying you can’t talk about penises however much you want and with whatever language you want. Dongs. Dingalings. Dingos. Dorks. Prongs. Puds. Prawns.”

That, of course, was Shaw.

North said, “Nobody has ever called it a prawn, dumbass.”

“Really? It kind of looks like one. Especially when yours gets really red—”

“It doesn’t look like a prawn! It doesn’t look like any kind of shellfish!”

“Well, not to argue, but it does. And anyway, that’s not really the point. The point is that when you use words like sausage to talk about, er, dingalings, you’re participating in the long Western tradition that values and prioritizes the production and consumption of meat, which is intrinsically tied to the inhumane treatment of innocent animals.”

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