Born to Be Wylde (3 page)

W
YLDE
adjusted the sheepskin around Ken’s hips, sitting back on his heels to admire him. Shortly after he’d bathed him, while Wylde was rinsing himself off under the waterfall, he’d looked over his shoulder to discover Ken had fallen asleep in the warm grass, his dark silken head pillowed on his arms.

Bruises smudged his golden skin, on his jaw, over one closed eye and his sides, but the swelling had subsided, so Ken didn’t look as bad to Wylde’s concerned eyes.

Protect. He had to protect this man.
Tilting his head, Wylde stroked the center of Ken’s chest with a gentle finger, tracing the slight wisps of hair. The pattern was beautiful, so Wylde wanted to rub his face against Ken’s chest, his armpits, and between his legs… especially between his legs.
He took a deep breath.
He wanted more than anything to have more time alone with him, but Ken wanted Wylde to take him back to the place where he’d nearly died.

W
YLDE
sat on a fallen cedar, keeping watch on the cabin and renovated garage in the stand of cedar trees below. This part of Washington State was close to the border of Oregon, so it was a little drier than the woods where Wylde had grown up. He appreciated that now as he waited, yellowed grass from last summer blown by the wind off the ocean scraping against his handmade leggings.

He brushed that leather, remembering his grandfather, half-Cheyenne, had taught him the basics of tanning and cutting deerskin to make clothing. They’d even read a book together on basket weaving once, but Wylde had never mastered making them.

After a while, his patience was rewarded when a man with dark almond-shaped eyes that resembled Ken’s, and white hair but an otherwise youthful appearance, pulled up at the cottage, getting out of his Dodge truck and walking around the driveway, as if in search of someone.

Wylde chewed his lip, feeling reluctant empathy as he watched the man use a key to let himself into the cabin.
He knew just who was missing, who the man was looking for.
His BlackBerry vibrated. He pulled it out of the pouch he’d sewn for it in his leggings, opening it and waiting in his typical fashion.
An exasperated voice said, “Wylde, I know you’re there. Can’t you ever learn to say ‘hello’ like a normal guy?”
Seventeen-year-old Josh Matthews, Wylde’s best friend. He smiled.
“And I know you’re smiling right now, bastard. What’s up with leaving me a message? I thought you were going to be on one of your alone-time deals for a while, avoiding evil and bewildering civilization.”
“I met someone,” Wylde admitted, finding it difficult to speak of Ken. His bond to the other man lodged in his throat and his body, a part of him.
“Shit!” Josh paused for a moment. “I know you’ve been really lonely. I know it sucked when Alec…. You know he cares about you, right? He couldn’t help it that you, um, kind of liked him for a while.”
Wylde quirked a rueful brow at that idea. “I was so dumb. I didn’t understand when he was nice to me, he didn’t mean…. Shit.”
“That was ages ago and he’s forgotten it. I only hope you can forgive yourself for being, you know, kind of all new and dorky.” Josh said.
“He wasn’t for me,” Wylde said. It didn’t hurt as much now, how he’d screwed up the two previous times he’d tried to find a boyfriend. Not now that he’d held Ken, kissed him, pleasured him. “It’s okay, Josh.”
“You’ve been looking for something as long as I’ve known you,” Josh contradicted. “Is this ‘someone’ you’ve met the right guy?”
“When you take Veronica on a date… there are things you do. Like conversation.”
He could hear the smile back in Josh’s voice as he said, “So your urgent message was for dating advice? Oh man.”

“M
Y
…
STUDIO
?”
Ken asked as Wylde carried him through the stand of trees that shielded the small garage he’d converted into a pottery workspace. He’d left the cedar natural since it was harmonious, blending in with the cabin and the surrounding woods. There was a fountain outside his sanctuary, squashed brown clay plates, burbling water. The daffodil he’d floated in it when he’d last been home had turned brown. “How is this possible? I thought we were lost in the wilderness!”

“Not so lost, turns out,” Wylde said, lips quirking. He put Ken down as they reached the building.
“Okay, I knew you had to have some kind of connection to civilization because… soap, a towel…. But you knew exactly how to find my place.” Ken leaned against the log wall, his thumb moving over a familiar knot in the wood he’d contemplated sometimes when he was spacey from creating pots, plates and vessels for a show in Seattle or Portland. “How is that possible?”
Faint color touched Wylde’s tanned cheeks. “I watched you,” he confessed very softly. “Sometimes.”
“Watched me,” Ken repeated, drawing a blank. “You mean… making pottery?”
“You,” Wylde said.
Now Ken blushed. “Oh!” He cleared his throat. “So your cave, your waterfall, are only a short walk from where I live?”
Wylde nodded. “It is quiet around here, and sometimes I need…. I bought the land some time ago.”
“And you, um, have been here before, watching me….”
“Yes.”
“A normal person would have made his presence known,” Ken said, hearing the disapproval in his voice.
“I’m not….” Now Wylde’s gaze fell to the ground. “I’m a freak.”
Ken felt bad. Wylde was different, but he had helped Ken, returned Ken to his home, even though Ken sensed it was the last thing the other man wanted to do.
“Will you take me to the place you found me?” he prodded again. “I have to find out who beat me, left me for dead….”
Wylde’s head lifted, like a deer detecting the sound of a hunter. “I said,” he assured Ken in a distracted tone. He was backing away, leaving Ken by his studio to fade back into the trees.
“Wylde…!” Ken called.
“Kakumi!” Hearing his Japanese name in a familiar voice, Ken swung around to see his father running from the cabin toward him, white hair in his eyes, which were welling with tears.
“Papa….” He was crushed in his father’s arms.
“You’ve been missing, son! Your official vehicle was found by the road,” Makoto Ito rasped. “The other deputy, Marty Grimble, came by to tell us. We thought you were dead.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ken whispered, knowing that since his mother was ill lately, suffering from memory problems, his father already shouldered a painful burden. “But I’m fine, Papa.”
Makoto pulled away, sharp almond eyes running over Ken’s bruised body. Wylde had lent him a pair of deerskin leggings when he’d woken up, thank goodness, or he’d be nude. “I think you need to get checked out at the local clinic,” Makoto said. “Come on. I’ll drive you. How is it you are back home, Kakumi?”
Weary, Ken nevertheless let his father take some of his weight as they headed for Makoto’s truck. He licked his lips, lips that still felt the imprint of hard, impassioned kisses from his wild man.
He looked over his shoulder at the forest. No sign of Wylde, but Ken felt him, knew that he was watching.
“Someone found me, Papa, took care of me.”
“I’m very grateful, son,” Makoto said, helping Ken carefully into his truck. “I was concerned about your obsession with solving the mystery of those disappearances.” His father paused, looking at the leggings. “Strange apparel.”
“Can you grab me something from the cabin, Papa?” Ken asked. “After I see a doctor, I’d really like to wear something a little less….” He shrugged. “Distinctive.”
“Of course,” Makoto said. “I’ll be right back.” He took a deep breath, looking at Ken. “I will also call your mother, tell her you’re all right.”
Ken nodded in gratitude. After he’d gone to the clinic with his father, he’d better go by his parents’ house, even though he felt like shit. They needed this, needed to see him after their scare. He was their only child.
When Makoto was gone, Ken pushed open the door of his truck and poked his head out, looking again over his shoulder at the woods. Still no sign of his rescuer.
“Thank you, Wylde,” he said, knowing somehow Wylde would hear him. “Thank you for taking care of me, and thank you for getting me home for my family.”

H
E LEANED
the blood-spattered baseball bat against a tree and then ghosted closer to the cabin. Deputy Ken Ito was in there, his face lumpy with bruises. He was washing plates in his kitchen, but he paused, his dark eyes going to the trees on the rise above, as if searching for someone.

The little slanty-eyed prick! He should have left well enough alone, not gone digging around in business no other cop had ever cared about before.

W
YLDE
sat up in his cave, wide-eyed, panting.
His heart was pounding with fear, as if someone,
something had chased him through the woods…. Still disorientated from the depressed sleep he’d fallen
into after forcing himself to leave Ken behind at his home, he
reached a shaking hand toward Ken’s place on their bed, but
his palm touched cool sheepskin, not warm, firm body. I had to let him go.
Once, maybe when Josh and the others had first found
him living alone in the woods, he might have kept Ken, made
him stay with him, but he knew better now. He had to try to
be civilized, not be such a freak.
He put his head on his knees, trembling.
Wylde’s sanctuary smelled of Ken. The bowl he used for
tea reminded Wylde of how he’d first nursed him, holding
him when he’d been frightened, making him drink stew and
water to keep hydrated.
But saving him, touching, and pleasuring him probably
meant nothing to Ken. In order to woo him, he was supposed
to do normal shit like talk easily to him, charm him. But no
matter how hard he tried, Wylde couldn’t be normal, as
much as he ached to be that way for Ken.
Wylde suddenly grabbed his crudely carved teacup and
threw it against the cave wall. It shattered, and he stared at
the splinters dully.

K
EN
rubbed the back of his neck, pacing his spartan cabin restlessly. Everything was neat and in order, exactly as he’d left it, yet he couldn’t seem to lie still, relax. His mind picked up different thoughts, like pebbles from a stream. His body was sore and he was exhausted. This insomnia wasn’t helping!

After he’d been checked out by a doctor, he’d talked to his fellow deputy, Marty Grimble, who had covered his patrol when he’d disappeared. The man had been so relieved Ken had returned relatively unharmed, yet he hadn’t seemed that interested in Ken’s theory his attack was linked to the disappearances of people on his patrol route. It was frustrating! The cops out here seemed content to do their jobs, take care of things under their noses, and not stir the pot.

Of course when Ken had been missing, there had been a search for him, but Ken had been safe in Wylde’s cave, oblivious, healing.

Safe….
Ken frowned, wondering why he felt so uncomfortable in his home. Every time he closed his eyes and tried to let go, he experienced fear. When it happened with Wylde, the other man had soothed him—or plain ordered him—to sleep. And it had worked, lying in muscled arms, lost, far away from the real world.
He’d felt almost the way he did when he lost himself for hours creating something in his studio.
Ken closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to understand the source of his disquiet. He couldn’t go back and hide in Wylde’s cave. He had to get his life back. He knew that despite the reluctance he’d sensed in the enigmatic Wylde at setting him free, even he’d understood that.
Now Ken walked into the hallway between his open living room and his kitchen. He kept his eyes closed and reached out with his senses the way he did sometimes while creating his clay sculptures, large vessels, light fixtures….
A dark note, almost like a discordant thrum from a tuning fork….
It was the same feeling Ken had experienced when he’d found Andrea’s body—which was missing again. Someone had removed it from where Ken had stumbled on it while Ken had been recovering from his attack.
His eyes snapped open.
The killer, the man who had beaten him… he’d been here in Ken’s cabin. Ken was sure of it! If he’d cleaned up the scene where Ken had found Andrea, the next step would have been to come here.
Ken felt icy threads trickle down his spine as he stared, wide-eyed, at his living room. The killer must have come looking for Ken when he’d disappeared with Wylde, trying to find out where he was….
So he could finish what he started?

B
ANG
! Bang!
Ken jumped. His jaw ticked, and he took a deep breath.
He was a cop, for God’s sake!
But he picked up his spare handgun from a drawer in a
Japanese altar table, and he carried it as he went to answer
the knock at his kitchen door.
Long black hair and a creased forehead. Worried blue
eyes.
Wylde, staring through the screen at him.
He unlatched the door, and he wasn’t sure if he moved
or Wylde moved or—
Pressed safe against hard muscle. He made a sound,
breathy, a little embarrassing.
He forced himself to pull away. “I thought….” He
swallowed, trying to get a grip. Knowing someone had been
in his cabin had really shaken him. “I thought you’d gone.” “He could come back,” Wylde said flatly.
“I know,” Ken agreed.
Wylde pulled him back into his arms, and Ken rested
the gun on the kitchen counter and laid his head against
Wylde’s shoulder. He kissed it fervently. They’d only been apart a short time, but it felt like something had been torn
away.
“Don’t go away again,” he whispered.
“You… want me?” Wylde seemed more hesitant than he
had when they’d been together previously.
“Yes,” Ken found himself admitting, sensing at some
level that Wylde needed reassurance. “I want you.” “I will stay,” Wylde promised.

He unlocked the door, holding Wylde’s gaze as if he wanted him to understand something, and then left it open to the dusk mountain air.

Wylde followed Ken inside, feeling as if there was something going on… some kind of significance to Ken inviting him into the workshop. He wished he could call Josh and ask him. Josh had advised him that telling Ken he’d watched him in the past would probably not go over well, but it had been too late. Wylde had already told him. But wasn’t he supposed to be honest with his mate?