Chapter 16
16
Elliot Crane
im sorry
will you talkto me?
I rubbed sleep out of my eyes, then stared at the messages again. Getting texts from Elliot while I was asleep was becoming… I didn’t want to call it a habit, exactly, since I wasn’t the one doing it. I guess it was his habit.
I hadn’t responded to the messages he’d sent me two days ago, and I had no intention of replying to these, either, although they were a little more worrying. All of Elliot’s texts had always been written in complete sentences with correct punctuation, but these weren’t.
What if he was really upset? Or sick?
If he was either of those things, why would he be texting me?
I sighed, tapped my way to my text history with Hart, and sent him a message: Is Elliot okay? He sent me some weird texts.
He didn’t respond and there were no little dots suggesting that he was typing.
Of course, it was also like six in the morning, and Hart was not the morning type if he could help it. And it was a Saturday, so he was probably still asleep.
I was a morning person, though, Saturday or not. I got up and padded into my tiny kitchen from my tiny closet of a bedroom to make coffee and investigate breakfast options, although I wasn’t entirely certain I had any.
Turns out, I didn’t have any coffee, either. Or, rather, I had just enough grounds to faintly dust the bottom of my french press, but not enough to make anything stronger than brown water.
I’d wanted to spend the day in my pajamas, lounging in the wicker papasan chair I’d gotten on sale because it had been the floor model. It was dinged in a bunch of places and had a stain on the cushion that I hoped was somebody’s coffee and not something more unsavory. I’d washed it three times anyway.
But I had no coffee and no suitable breakfast food, not even cereal, because I wasn’t really a cereal guy. I did like granola… maybe I’d try to find some cheap granola. What I actually wanted was an egg and turkey bacon bagel. Or salmon and fake cream cheese with capers. But salmon was more expensive than I could afford.
I honestly probably couldn’t afford eggs and turkey bacon, either, but they were more affordable than vegan cream cheese, salmon, and capers, at least. And I was hungry. It would be a treat to myself for being an adult and going grocery shopping.
But in order to go out in public, I had to shower and put on clothes.
Once I’d gotten clean, I dressed in a pair of jeans, a long-sleeve grey t-shirt from UVA, and a grey-blue zipper sweatshirt from Shenandoah National Park. Early September in Wisconsin wasn’t cold, exactly, but it was definitely a lot cooler at seven in the morning than I was used to it being at this point in the year.
I was honestly kind of enjoying it. It was cooler up in the mountains where Noah and I liked to go hiking, and where we’d grown up, although as kids we weren’t really paying attention to the beauties of nature or the pleasantness of cool mountain air. So Wisconsin’s mid-fifties temperatures in the morning were great as far as I was concerned.
I pulled on my old hiking boots—I needed new ones, and other shoes that weren’t my work shoes, but money was tight—and headed out, locking my door and heading down the wooden exterior stairs, wincing a little as my knee made its displeasure known with every step.
I smelled it as soon as my feet hit the pavement at the bottom.
Him . I smelled him as soon as my feet hit the pavement.
I frowned, my eyes scanning the alleyway, looking for his familiar form, my heart pounding in my chest.
Nothing. And it’s not hard to hide in the alley between my building and the falling-apart asphalt parking area behind the building. It’s not like he was a small man— Oh .
I found him under a half folded and damp cardboard box from the candy store downstairs, his fur a mess of mud and God only knew what else. He let out a grunt when I pulled the box off him, then blinked his beady eyes at me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked him, a mix of annoyed and weirdly flattered.
He let out a grumbling noise and tried to put his paws over his stripey nose.
“You’re going to cut yourself with those,” I told him, sharply. “Get out of there. You’re filthy and you stink.” I stepped back, letting the box fall again.
With another grunt and a sigh, he pushed himself out from under the box, half-shuffling, half-waddling toward me. He stopped by the toes of my boots and looked up at me, letting out a soft half-whining sound.
Then promptly threw up on my shoes.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered. I guess it was a good thing I hadn’t yet gotten new hiking boots, although I wasn’t looking forward to getting badger vomit out of them, because despite the fact that they were now both worn and revolting, I still couldn’t afford new ones.
Elliot made another whining sound, then laid down and rolled to show me his furry belly.
This also meant, extra unfortunately, that he’d just rolled in his own vomit.
Having had previous experience with hungover shifters, I had a pretty good idea that I was dealing with one again. At least Elliot hadn’t tried to lick my face the way Noah did—I guess badger submissive behavior and wolf submissive behavior were different. Thank God.
Breakfast and coffee were clearly going to have to wait.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” I let out a grunt—in spite of myself—as I hefted the whining badger under his forelegs, hauling his disgusting self back up my stairs. I half-dropped him juggling my keys, and he scrabbled a little against one leg, his claws cutting through my jeans and my shin.
“Shit,” I hissed. His claws were sharp, and the cuts hurt.
He flopped over onto his side, whining some more. Then he threw up again, although at least this time he did it away from my shoes.
I could hear the liquid dripping down through the gaps in the wood planks. Gross.
He whimpered again.
I pushed open the door, stepped out of my shoes, leaving them outside the door with their badger-vomit coating, and then, with another sigh, turned back around to heave Elliot inside, as well, kicking the door shut with one foot behind me.
I hauled him to my bathroom, dumping him in the undersized tub, where he squirmed until he managed to flip himself back onto his feet.
“Stay over there,” I told him, gesturing for him to stay on the other side from the faucet. I turned it on low, sticking my fingers under it until the water warmed up. “Okay, shower,” I ordered. “There’s shampoo and soap in here, and I’ll bring you some clothes.” Mine would probably fit him fine.
I groaned a little as I pushed myself to my feet, and Elliot whined again. “Shower,” I repeated, then turned on the shower and pulled the curtain closed.
I looked down at myself and sighed again. My shirt and sweatshirt were filthy, but they’d clean up. The jeans were a lost cause—well, maybe I could cut them off and turn them into shorts. At least then they wouldn’t be a total waste.
I stripped out of my clothes, then decided to do a whole load of laundry rather than just put mine in the basket—between the mud and the vomit, I didn’t want them in the apartment any longer than they had to be. After patching up my shin with some bandaids and butterfly bandages, I left Elliot a clean towel and a clean set of clothes—sweatpants, a VCU t-shirt, and a pair of clean socks.
There was laundry in the basement, so after I’d put on clean jeans and another t-shirt, this one from Pocahontas State Park, I grabbed a token (the landlord included five a month with rent, and we could buy more if we needed them) and ran down and put in a load, grateful that none of the other three tenants were trying to do laundry this morning.
I pushed back into the apartment, noting that the water was still running in the shower, telling me Elliot hadn’t dragged himself out yet. At least I didn’t have to pay for water.
Not really having anything better to do, I went to see if there was anything I could cobble together to resemble breakfast.
No fruit—I usually had bananas, but I was out. No cereal, see previous comment. No bread—out of that, too. No turkey bacon or chicken or vegan sausage. I did have eggs. But that was it. No potatoes. Not even any beans to try to make sad huevos rancheros.
Apparently, I was making eggs.
I’d gotten the carton out and was trying to decide between scrambled and fried when I heard Elliot clear his throat from behind me. I hadn’t been paying close enough attention as I went through the kitchen to hear the water shut off.
His hair hung loose, still damp, the white streak near the front standing out starkly. I rarely saw him with his hair down, and it made my chest tighten a little because it felt almost too intimate. Weird, I know, but it felt personal to see him with his hair unbound. Like he was Sampson and I was a gender-reversed Delilah, not that I was planning on cutting his hair or anything. The fact that he was in my clothes made the tightness worse—and churned acid in my stomach because he wasn’t wearing them for the reasons I wanted him to be.
Elliot held out his towel. “I—wasn’t sure what to do with this,” he rasped. “And I’m so, so sorry.”
I walked over and took the towel from him, taking it back to my now-empty hamper. When I came back into the kitchen, he was still standing where I’d left him.
“I am sorry, Seth,” he said, and he sounded miserable.
“How do you like your eggs?” I asked him. Maybe it was an asshole move to not accept his apology or to tell him it was okay, but I still didn’t know why it was he was here. What he’d come here for . And I’d learned the hard way not to forgive things without knowing what they were.
“I—” He swallowed. “Can I at least buy you breakfast?”
I paused. It felt like a bad idea, to let him take me to breakfast. But I was hungry and had a total of four eggs in my shitty apartment and no coffee.
“You need shoes,” I pointed out, closing the egg carton and putting it back in the fridge. I went and grabbed my old trainers, handing them to him. “I have laundry in the washer,” I told him, by way of answering his question about breakfast. I didn’t say it was because of him. “I have enough time to take you home,” I told him. “But that’s about it. The washer’s communal.” I didn’t want to seem mean.
“I’ll call in a pickup order?” Elliot suggested, his voice more vulnerable than I’d ever heard him sound before.
I nodded once. “Sure.”
He looked relieved. “Okay. I—Can I borrow your phone?”
I handed it to him, and he tapped at it for a few moments, then held it up to one ear. When someone answered on the other end of the line, he ordered a garden skillet with dry toast and hashbrowns, telling them to make sure there was no dairy in it. Then he hung up and turned to look at me. “I am sorry about this.”
I nodded again. “Aren’t you eating breakfast?”
He grimaced. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, it won’t be ready until you’re back on the way home.”
“Well, thanks.” I was so awkward. We stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and then I cleared my throat. “Do you need anything before we go?” I asked him.
He swallowed, his expression stricken. “No, thank you.”
I nodded one more time. “Then let’s get you home.”
It was his turn to nod, and he followed me out the door, waiting quietly as I locked the door, then following me down the stairs and across the lot to my Cruiser, shuffling in my too-big-for-him shoes.
Elliot climbed in silently, staring down at his hands, the damp curtain of his hair hiding his face. “I am sorry, Seth,” he said again.
“Why?” I asked him, finally.
“I—had too much to drink,” he half-whispered, although I could hear him just fine, thanks to my shifter senses.
“Do you often walk shifted into downtown Shawano when you’re drunk?” I asked him, when he didn’t seem to be about to add anything else.
“This was the first time,” he answered softly.
“And you came to find me,” I said. I didn’t mention the fact that I hadn’t given him my new address—just that I’d found somewhere to live.
“I was really drunk.”
I sighed, turning onto the highway that led out to his house. “But why come find me ?” I pressed.
“You weren’t answering my texts.” The words sounded half-swallowed.
“You texted me at like two in the morning,” I retorted. “I was asleep.” I also hadn’t texted him back the last time he’d texted me, and it had been two days. He’d also told me to nevermind , and I’d used that as a reason not to respond.
“And I was really, really drunk. I’m sorry.”
I tried to swallow the next sigh, letting it slowly out my nostrils so that he wouldn’t notice. I don’t know if he did or not, but he didn’t say anything.
“How did you find where I live?” I asked him, then.
“I went to the Sheriff’s Office, then followed your scent here.”
“You stalked me,” I said flatly, annoyed and a little alarmed.
“I—didn’t mean to!” He not only sounded contrite, but actually a little horrified. “I just—I wasn’t thinking. Just on… badger-auto-pilot.”
I shot him a quick look that showed my incredulity.
“I know, and I am sorry.”
I should have been more alarmed by the fact that he’d tracked me by scent from my job. I know I should have been. But I also knew that when you were shifted and out of it—whether from fear or alcohol—you did shit you would not do while sober. Like go home with the guy who you blew in the bathroom—Devin—or attack your twin brother, or, apparently, scent-stalk your former lover who you basically threw out of your house.
Two of those had been me. And one of them I hadn’t even had the excuse of being a shifter a little out of control.
So I got it. I understood that your emotions and instincts sort of took over sometimes. Especially in fur.
He hadn’t broken into my apartment or set up recording equipment or even tried to watch me. He’d gone to sleep—or passed out, I suppose—at the bottom of the stairs leading up to my apartment door. I was the one who had brought him inside, given him my clothes.
Because of course I had. He’d clearly been miserable. My instinct had been to help him, not fear him or be repulsed by him. I still wanted to help him, to comfort him. But I was also wary of giving him more than I already had—because all I’d gotten back was heartache.
And food and shelter for about three weeks.
It wasn’t that I was ungrateful—I was incredibly grateful. But I was also acutely aware that Noah was right. I didn’t owe Elliot sex or affection because of his generosity. I’d actually done the math—sat down and figured out how much he’d spent keeping me fed and housed. Or pretty close, anyway. I probably owed him three or four grand, depending on how you did the math for utilities, plus food, plus some clothes and other things that he’d bought for me while out on shopping trips, despite my protests.
And that didn’t include rent, which I’d probably factor in another grand or so for if I wanted to give him market rate for my room. So five or six thousand. I figured at the current rate of my expenses and income, I’d be able to pay him back in a year or so.
“Seth?” Elliot’s rough voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“It won’t happen again.”
I shot him a sideways glance. I’d heard that before. Not from him, admittedly, but it was one of those red flag phrases. To be fair, I suppose there must be people who really did mean it—and who didn’t do whatever it was again. I just didn’t think I’d ever met any of them.
Elliot sighed. “I know what that sounds like,” he said.
I shrugged.
“I mean it, though.”
“Okay,” I replied, not really wanting to get into an argument with him about it by not replying.
He made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded unhappy, but he didn’t press the issue any farther.
I turned into his driveway, then drove up and around the curve to the house, where I stopped.
“Your breakfast should be ready, in your name, by the time you get back to the Farm Inn.” He paused, hand on the door handle. “I am sorry about this, and thanks. For everything.”
“You’re welcome.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.
He got out of the car, closing the door and shuffling his way toward the stoop—then he stopped, I saw his shoulders move in a sigh, and he began picking his way around the back. Because he’d shifted—his front door was probably locked, but the sliding back door would have been the one he left open.
I waited, watching until I saw lights come on through the vertical strip of rippled and leaded glass beside the door, telling me that Elliot had gotten inside.
Then I threw it in reverse and left, forcing myself not to look back at the house with its lonely light gleaming out against the overcast morning.
There was a new pair of hiking boots—in the right size and far more expensive than what I’d have gotten myself, although they were exactly the kind I’d have enviously gazed at before getting something more budget-friendly—sitting in a box outside my door the next morning, a scrawled Sorry about your shoes written on the top in sharpie. My clothes and shoes that Elliot had worn home were in a brown paper bag beside them.
I sighed, then picked up both box and bag and brought them inside.
I appreciated the fact that I wouldn’t have to clean badger yarf off my shoes, and I did need new ones, but…
I didn’t like owing Elliot any more than I already did.
I knew, logically, that this was his way of apologizing and paying me back for having put up with him throwing up on my shoes and letting him shower in my apartment and taking him back home again. Even though he had already bought me breakfast.
Good breakfast. I’d made a mental note that when I had money again, I wanted to go back to the Farm Inn.
My phone buzzed.
He’s a dumbass , it said. The message was from Hart. It buzzed again. Keep the fucking shoes .
I blinked. Are you also stalking me? I asked him, knowing full well that Elliot had undoubtedly told him what had happened.
Seriously, if you don’t keep the shoes, I’ll have to stage an intervention.
I let out a snort. Why? I asked.
Because he’s putting you through shit for no fucking reason , came the next message. Because he is, as I said, a fucking dumbass. You deserve the shoes. More than the shoes. Shoes are a mere token of what you should get for putting up with his stupid ass.
I should keep the new, expensive shoes because he’s a dumbass?
Glad we understand each other .
I let out a laugh. I still wasn’t sure I should keep the hiking boots, but having Hart’s perspective on it made me feel less guilty. My boots had pretty much been ruined. And it wasn’t like I’d demanded new ones. Or expensive ones. I’d still have felt guilty if he’d gotten me a bargain-basement new pair.
Maybe Hart was right and I needed to just let it go and take the boots.
I set the box in my tiny closet—since I wasn’t going hiking today—and took off my work loafers to switch them for the trainers.
I had on my only other pair of jeans and a t-shirt again, this one plain and light blue. It was warmer today—and a little later in the morning—so I didn’t need a sweatshirt. Thankfully, the vomit, dirt, and grime had come out of my shirt and sweatshirt, and I’d put in enough detergent that even my nose couldn’t smell it.
I’d been on my way out the door when I’d found Elliot’s offering. I needed groceries—badly—and also needed to pick up a new pair of trainers for the physical training component of firefighting certification.
And another pair of jeans.
And some serious first-aid cream, because apparently I had not cleaned out the cuts on my shin adequately—not surprising, given how fast I had been working and how disgusting Elliot had been—and they were showing early signs of infection. If I could purge the wound with alcohol and iodine, then load it up with antibiotic ointment, I might beat the infection without having to go to urgent care for oral antibiotics.
I all but held my breath at the bottom of the stairs, half-afraid that the shoes meant that Elliot would be waiting for me. Part of me wanted that—and part of me recognized that it would be unhealthy for both of us if he were.
The boxes at the bottom of the stairs were badger-free, and I felt terrible that I was both relieved and disappointed by that.
There was something seriously wrong with me.