Page 91 of The Evening Wolves

Fingers carded his hair once more, and Emery said, “This is what we do for each other.” Then his voice shifted. “John, what you said about a baby—”

“I know. I’m sorry; I don’t—I don’t know. It just popped into my head, and then it seemed like the perfect solution, and God, I know, I must have sounded insane.”

In the distance, the shower dripped.

“Is that something you want?” Emery asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to think clearly right now. But it’s not something I have to have. I think, more than anything, it felt like an outlet. Something else to fixate on, if that makes any sense.”

Emery made a considering noise and stroked his hair. “In that case, perhaps now it’ll be appropriate, as North suggested, to dick you down.”

John-Henry burst out laughing.

“That wasn’t a joke, John.”

That only made him laugh harder.

“I didn’t mean now as in this instant, you understand. I’m speaking in terms of your emotional state.”

Now John-Henry had to wipe his eyes. Emery huffed and pushed his head out of his lap, but when John-Henry sat up, he wore one of those invisible Emery Hazard smiles.

“I honestly do not know,” John-Henry said, “what I would do without you.”

“Eat pizza and masturbate, apparently.”

“Well, it’s not the worst plan.”

They drove home in silence, John-Henry’s hand on Emery’s thigh. The headlights carved hollows out of the dark and cold. The rumble of the tires. The rock and sway of bodies as the van’s suspension adjusted to uneven pavement. The hiss of warm air in the vents.

The house was bright with lights when they got home. North’s ridiculous new car—some black contraption from the ’80s—was parked at the curb next to Tean and Jem’s rental, and Theo and Auggie’s Audi sat farther down the block. After the garage door had closed behind them, John-Henry could make out the sound of excited shouts from inside the house.

“At what point,” Emery asked as he opened his door, “did we adopt six additional children?”

“Tean’s more like your younger brother.”

“Except that he’s older than me.”

“Trust me, I know.”

When they stepped inside, John-Henry had to stop and stare at the scene in front of him. He had a clear line of sight across the kitchen and into the living room, where Tean—the younger brother in question—had a towel duct-taped around his head. Theo was holding a baseball bat out of North’s reach and saying, “—really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Let me guess,” North said. “You’ve got a better way to teach him how to fight. Four-eyes, don’t flinch, ok?”

Tean blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I can’t believe you agreed to this,” Theo said, moving the bat farther out of North’s reach.

“I didn’t agree to it! Jem just told me to wrap this towel around my head!”

“You’ll be fine,” Jem said. “The towel is like padding. It’ll absorb the blows. Well, mostly.”

“But not in the face,” Shaw said.

“No, not in the face.”

“The face is a big deal for me,” Tean said, his voice rising.

North took Colt’s hand—the one with the still-swollen knuckles from his encounter at the high school—and curled his fingers in. “Now, when you throw a punch, you want to make sure you keep your thumb out of there so it doesn’t get broken, ok?”

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