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“Stay. Here.” Preston planted Cobalt with his ass against the kitchen counter and dashed out the door.

  The clatter of bikes dropping off the sidewalk to the street and hurtling away into the dark came from his left, Chance’s yipping and barking from his right, too far away to be emanating from the backyard. Cursing, Preston followed the lead rope to where it was attached to the collar, which lay on the ground, sliced apart, empty and damp.

  “Fuckers!” He carried the cut collar and rope back into the house.

  Cobalt remained where Preston had placed him. His hands shook and he stared at nothing.

  “Sir?”

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Winslow.”

  Cobalt’s shoulders began to shake.

  “Cobalt!”

  He stared, mute and shivering, and Preston hurried around, uncaring of the mud he tracked across the kitchen’s pristine floors. He gripped both Cobalt’s shoulders, one hand wrapped around each. The fragile feel of too little muscle stretched over too much bone brought Preston even closer.

  “Coby,” he whispered. “Hey.”

  Cobalt blinked and focused on the collar still in Preston’s hand and now caught between his meaty palm and Cobalt’s shoulder. The dampness Preston had felt was clearly blood. “Did they kill my dog?”

  “No. Oh no.” Preston pulled him against his body. “They cut his collar, and he ran off. It might not even be his blood. Could be the asshole’s who cut his collar.”

  “He wouldn’t run away.” Cobalt pushed free of Preston’s hold to glare at him, and this time he seemed to see Preston. “He sounded hurt.” His eyes watered, even while he looked pissed off and tried to square his jaw. “What did they do to him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I have to find him.” He scuttled away from the counter toward the door and opened it, looking like he might forge out into the dark. He had taken off his shoes already and didn’t seem inclined to put them back on.

  “Hey, now.” Preston gripped Cobalt’s wrist and gently pulled him back, away from the door. “You stay here. I’ll go look. I have the car, and he might just wander back on his own. You should be here, just in case.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and checked the battery. “Call me if he comes home.”

  Cobalt stared at him, and Preston feared he was once again losing the man to his panic.

  “Mr. Cobalt.”

  Cobalt blinked. “I want to find him.”

  “Listen to me. This is the best way, and the longer I linger here, the farther away Chance might have run.”

  “Yes.” Cobalt sank into a kitchen chair. “Yes.”

  Frowning, Preston took a moment to study him, worried that the instant he left, Cobalt might wander off in this strange daze. God, how much did he love this stupid dog?

  Uncertain he was doing the right thing, Preston nonetheless hurried from the house to his car. It was a fool’s mission, he felt sure, going out in the dark to find a terrified, possibly injured dog and leaving Cobalt alone in such a precarious state.

  “Be there when I get back, you daft thing,” he muttered. “Just be where I left you.”

  He trolled the streets slowly, up and down through the dilapidated neighborhood, acutely aware of all the tiny nooks and crannies a frightened animal might hole up and he would never see him from inside the car. How was it even possible so many people had broken fences and falling-down sheds to house a runaway dog? Blasted kids. What was it they wanted to prove, picking on a frail man and a trusting animal?

  Preston gripped the wheel and peered through the orange haze of street light drifting through a thin but gathering mist.

  “Perfect.”

  Ahead, the glow of illumination changed color slightly, brightening under the Pittaluga Garage sign. Next to the garage, a tattered split-level house spilled a warm glow from the front porch and ground-floor windows onto a patch of wildflowers. A commotion just inside the porch door caught his attention, and he recognized one of the dancers he’d often seen entering and leaving Cobalt’s class.

  Of course. Matt Pittaluga, Adam’s younger brother, took the same classes, and the family lived just blocks from Cobalt. Preston stopped the car at the end of the drive and got out, desperate for help in finding the dog so he could get back to his charge.

  The porch door opened as he sprinted up the walk.

  “Hey!” A young man much shorter than Matt, with shaggy brown hair and a dimpled grin, greeted him. “Preston, right? You’re Cobalt’s guy?”

  Preston couldn’t suppress what must have looked like a wistful smile as he agreed. “Yes. You’re….” Matt’s guy. But he preferred to use the man’s name rather than designate him someone’s boyfriend, and dug through his memory for it. He came up with it at the same time the young man spoke.

  “Christopher,” they said together.

  “Yeah.” Christopher grinned at him. “I bet you’re after the mutt, huh?”

  Preston’s knees weakened. Could he be so lucky? “You found him?”

  Christopher’s bright expression waned. “Not exactly. We just got home. We passed him. He was flyin’, man. Matt thought it was Chance, but he only saw him that one time he picked Adam up there when Mr. Winslow was sick. We shoulda stopped. Man, I am so sorry.”

  Dammit. “Thanks anyway. Which way did he go, do you know?”

  Christopher pointed back the way Preston had come. “He dodged into the body shop parking lot, which is mostly fenced, but there’s a spot at the back a dog could probably get under. If he does that, he’s in the ravine.” He grimaced. “In the dark.”

  “It’ll be next to impossible to find a mostly black dog down there who doesn’t want to be found.” He imagined going home to Cobalt empty-handed. If he couldn’t find the damn mutt in the dark, he’d damn well stay up all night looking. He would not go back without the precious brute.

  But then, not going back at all was just as bad. He didn’t trust Cobalt’s state of mind.

  “Shit.”

  “Dude, you want help?” Christopher waved at the house. I’ll get Matt and the twins and some flashlights. We’ll find him. Mr. Winslow loves that asshole mutt.”

  “He does.”

  Matt had joined them in time to hear the tail end of the conversation. “So it was him.”

  Christopher nodded. “You were right, dear.” He pecked Matt’s cheek. “Now moving on, how are we going to find him?”

  “I bet Mr. Winslow is freaking the hell out,” Matt said as he draped an arm over Christopher’s shoulder.

  Preston sighed.

  “Tell you what.” Matt smacked him on the arm. “You go back to his place and check on him. I’ll round up the twins, and we will find your dog.”

  “I can’t ask—”

  “We offered,” Christopher said.

  “I—thank you.”

  Matt grinned. “It’s no biggie.”

  Preston studied the young man, all bright earnestness and floppy enthusiasm. “You need my number,” he said at last.

  “Yeah.”

  Matt dug out his phone, and they exchanged the information. Then Preston hurried back to his car. “I truly appreciate this.”

  “Mr. Winslow is a good guy with some shitty crap going on. He doesn’t deserve to lose his dog too. Go take care of him.”

  That was a rather precise assessment of Cobalt’s life, and Preston’s chest clenched. “Yes.” He put the car in gear and headed back toward Cobalt’s house, keeping a hopeful eye to the shadows, just in case.

  He had nothing to show for the careful scrutiny by the time he pulled back into Cobalt’s drive. As he parked, Cobalt rushed out to meet him. He’d changed from the sweaty dance clothes to bright pink sleep pants, tank top, and thin yellow shawl and nothing on his feet. The excited, hopeful look dying in his eyes about broke Preston’s heart.

  Chapter 5

  “HEY.” PRESTON hurried out of the car and dashed up the steps to fold Cobalt into his arms. “It’s freezing out here. Get back inside.�
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  Much as he wanted to sink into that heavy embrace and hang on for dear life, Cobalt placed both palms against Preston’s wide chest and gazed up at him. “Where’s Chance? You said you’d find him.”

  “And we will.”

  “I’ll get dressed.” Cobalt wiggled out of Preston’s grasp and turned to open the door.

  Preston reached past and beat him to it, holding the screen until Cobalt was back in the kitchen. Once they were both safely inside, Preston closed and locked the main door behind them.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” he rumbled. “Sit. I’ll make you some tea, and you’ll stay where it’s warm.”

  “I have to find my fucking dog!” Cobalt glared at him, heat flushing into his cheeks. Maybe it was stupid to insist, but Chance was the one Cobalt came home to every night. He couldn’t leave him out there alone, frightened, maybe hurt. Preston didn’t have to understand the bond. He just had to get the hell out of Cobalt’s way. “You don’t have to help.”

  “I am helping. I’m keeping you from getting sick again. Now. Sit. Down.” Preston pointed to a kitchen chair. His voice had gone deep, digging into Cobalt’s gut and making his knees wobble.

  He plopped his ass onto the chair, then scooted forward to the very lip, about to stand again, because this guy was the driver, and what the fuck was he doing ordering Cobalt around like he was a child?

  Preston crouched in front of him. “Settle,” he said, placing a big hand on each of Cobalt’s thighs and squeezing. “We aren’t giving up. Adam’s brothers and Christopher are out looking.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Your students, Mr. Cobalt.”

  “No—don’t—” With Preston crouched there in front of him, holding him in place and looking perfectly calm and steady, hearing an honorific whisper from that mouth sounded—and felt—so wrong. Cobalt touched Preston’s full lips with his fingertips. “Don’t call me that,” he whispered.

  Preston took Cobalt’s hand and lowered it to his lap. “Your students and their brothers are out looking for your dog. They saw him, and maybe they’ll—”

  The ring of Preston’s phone shattered the fragile stillness surrounding them, and Preston rose, putting the cell to his ear. “Preston.”

  Not hello. Not even a curt yes. But Preston. Everything that mattered about the man contained in two small syllables. Cobalt shuddered and clasped his hands between his shaking legs.

  “We’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and turned back to Cobalt. “Come. They found him.”

  His tone was flat, his face expressionless.

  “Is he okay?” God. He sounded ten.

  “Not sure. They can’t get close enough to tell.” Preston held out one of those giant, square hands, full of competence and steadiness.

  Cobalt took it and let Preston ease him to his feet.

  “Go dress. They can keep him from running any farther.”

  Cobalt nodded. The instant Preston let his hand go, a shiver traveled down his spine. He wanted the contact back. Touching Cal had never felt like that—safe, secure, and like every wrong thing in the universe was just waiting for Preston’s attention to make itself right.

  Pulling his shit together—and the bright shawl tighter around his shoulders—Cobalt hurried from kitchen to living room and up the single flight of steps to his converted attic bedroom. Once there, he hauled on the first pair of jeans he could find, a skinny pair of fuchsia low-waisted things that left his belly button exposed, and a slinky black turtleneck sweater. The black shimmered in the low light from the bedside table lamp and hugged his thin frame. He pulled a silvery gray shawl over his shoulders to hide the angular lines of his body and dug out a pair of thick socks. That ought to keep Preston happy, if he had fat, warm socks covering his ugly ballet feet. He could take them off again as soon as they got back.

  Grimacing, he hauled the socks over his feet and tried not to walk like a cat with tape on its paws as he tiptoed back downstairs.

  Preston was still standing in the kitchen, gazing out the broken window. He turned when Cobalt cleared his throat. His eyes widened slightly, a barely there flash of shock Cobalt would have missed if he hadn’t been looking directly at him.

  “If this is you dog hunting, I don’t know if many men could survive you in full-on clubbing gear,” he said.

  Cobalt wasn’t sure how to take that. Was it a compliment?

  Preston flushed. “Come on,” he muttered, voice a low, gravelly rash of sound that sent a flash of electricity arcing through Cobalt’s body. He clutched the edge of his shawl, running his fingers over the gilded ribbon woven into the hem, like the motion or the contact could discharge the electric zing of Preston’s voice.

  The normally soothing habit did nothing to stop the leap of his heart as Preston placed a hand at the small of his back and herded him toward the door. How many hundreds of times had he done that? Why, suddenly, did the touch spark a thousand points of light and heat just under Cobalt’s skin?

  At the door, Cobalt slipped his feet into a pair of clogs and tried to decide if he was hurrying because he needed to get to Chance or because that touch—

  The drive was short and, Cobalt thought, slightly more on the reckless side than Preston ever drove. They pulled up under a brilliantly lit sign—Pittaluga Sons’ Bodywork—and Preston cut the engine. “Mr. Pittaluga said to meet them here.”

  The gate to the lot full of rusting car hulks was open just enough for a person to slip under the chain, which Cobalt did when Preston held it up for him. His clogs rattled the gravel under his feet, and he tottered, worried the unyielding platforms might turn his ankle and land him on his ass.

  Then Preston was there, a hand on his elbow, and Cobalt took his thick arm, accepting the silent assistance. “Stupid shoe choice,” he muttered.

  Preston patted his fingers. “You were in a hurry. It’s fine.” He firmed his arm under Cobalt’s grip. “I have you.”

  Ridiculous that his heart fluttered over the rock-solid assurance of those three words. But it did. And Cobalt let it.

  Then a small, pathetic sound came to him. A whine, pitiful and frightened, followed by a sharp warning yip.

  “Chay.” He picked up his pace, Preston remaining at his side, until a group of men came into view. They hovered at the edge of a large pit, talking quietly, and Cobalt quickly recognized Matt and Christopher.

  “Hey, Mr. C.” Christopher grinned at him, unrepentant at Cobalt’s frown. Cobalt had never liked the informality of his students addressing him like he was a garden-variety community center instructor. Unfortunately his small class of first-time college kids hadn’t grown up with the strict discipline of Russian ballet teachers drilling such things in under their skin like a tattoo. “Found your pooch,” Matt said cheerily, pulling him out of the slow boil. “Only he’s sort of stuck.”

  Cobalt and Preston arrived at the edge of the pit, and Cobalt realized it was, in fact, an empty pool at the edge of what had once been a home’s backyard but was now the back lot of the body shop. The hole had sloping sides that ended in a small hexagonal shape about seven or eight feet below ground level. He could easily imagine Chance sliding headlong down the smooth tile side to land at the bottom, then being unable to climb back out.

  The dog now huddled at the bottom, looking warily up at the strangers.

  “I tried going down to get him,” Matt said. “No dice. Wouldn’t come near me, and he kept trying to climb the other side. I was scared he’d hurt himself, so.” He shrugged. “He’s got a rattrap stuck on his tail.”

  “Fuckers!” Cobalt spat. That was how the kids had gotten him to run.

  Chance’s ears pricked and he tilted his head, staring at Cobalt, a long, low whine begging Cobalt to help him.

  “Why is there an empty pool in your back parking lot?” Preston asked, his tone curious.

  One of the other brothers spoke. “Used to be a house.” He shrugged. “Burned down about ten years ago. Since the zoning allows commercia
l or residential here, we opened the body shop. Nothing wrong with the three-car detached garage, and once the house was gone, it was a steal. Just never got around to filling the pool.” He crossed his arms over his chest and contemplated the dog at the bottom of the slippery sloped hole. “Maybe should do that.”

  “You think?” Preston grumbled as he crouched and called to the dog.

  Chance thumped his tail, yipped, and whined.

  As Cobalt watched, Preston yanked off his dress shoes and socks and clambered down to the dog. Chance backed away, but Preston’s low, soothing voice soon had him trotting forward and licking at his hand.

  “Good boy,” Preston soothed, running a hand over Chance’s head. “Good boy.” His quiet rumble eased both dog and Cobalt. In another minute, Chance was letting Preston release the trap from his tail.

  “Here,” Matt called softly, sliding a five-point harness down to Preston. It was already attached to a rope that Matt and his two burly brothers were bracing to haul on. “Put that on and carry the creeper up here, yeah?”

  Preston agreed, put on the harness, and convinced Chance to let him pick him up. Awkwardly, slowly, and leaning back into the harness while he trusted the Pittalugas to hold his weight, he nestled the dog to his chest and walk-climbed up the slanted side of the pool to level ground.

  The instant Chance’s feet were on solid ground, he wiggle-dashed to Cobalt, plowing into his legs and whining for hugs and fingers scratching through his coat.

  “You asshole dog,” Cobalt muttered into the fur of his neck. “You stupid little shit.” He wrapped both arms around the wriggling bundle and held on. By the time he had managed to dry most of his relieved tears on Chance’s coat, Preston had removed the harness and thanked everyone for their help.

  “Our pleasure,” one of the twins said amicably as Cobalt stood.

  He felt ridiculous as all five men watched him keep a possessive hand tangled in Chance’s fur, just in case the fool dog thought he might want to go anywhere. Awkward and self-conscious, Cobalt shook himself, lifted his chin, and managed a shaky-voiced thank-you.

  “Aw, Mr. C.” Matt stepped forward and drew him into a bear hug. “Don’t blame you for lovin’ that pooch. He’s pretty awesome. ’Cept when he’s all bein’ an asshole and runnin’ away, I guess.”