Taylor tried a couple of heaves, but he had tired fast. Will was the better wrestler anyway, being taller, broader, and heavier. Taylor relied on speed and surprise; he went in for all kinds of esoteric martial arts, which was fine unless someone like Will got him on the ground. Taylor was usually too smart to let that happen, which just went to show how furious he was.
Will could feel that fury still shaking Taylor — locked in this ugly parody of a lover’s embrace. He shook with exhaustion too, breath shuddering in his lungs as he panted into Will’s shoulder. His wind was shit these days, his heart banging frantically against Will’s. These marks of physical distress undermined Will’s own anger, reminding him how recently he had almost lost Taylor for good.
Taylor’s moist breath against Will’s ear was sending a confusingly erotic message, his body hot and sweaty — but Christ, he was thin. Will could feel — could practically count — ribs, the hard links of spine, the ridges of scapula in Taylor’s fleshless back. And it scared him; his hold changed instinctively from lock to hug.
“You crazy bastard,” he muttered into Taylor’s hair.
Taylor struggled again, and this time Will let him go. Taylor got up, not looking at Will, not speaking, walking unsteadily, but with a peculiar dignity, over to the tent.
Watching him, Will opened his mouth, then shut it. Why the hell would he apologize? Taylor had jumped him. He watched, scowling, as Taylor crawled inside the tent, rolled out his sleeping bag onto the air mattress Will had remembered to set up for him, pulled his boots off, and climbed into the bag, pulling the flap over his head — like something going back into its shell.
This is stupid, Will thought. We neither of us want this. But what he said was, “Sweet dreams to you too.”
Taylor said nothing.
Chapter Two
Will looked like hell. Eyes red-rimmed, hair ruffled. There was a black-and-blue bruise on his jaw, which Taylor tried to feel sorry about — but Will looked sorry enough for himself for both of them.
Taylor watched him pour a shot of bourbon into his coffee without comment. Yep, Will was definitely having a bad day, and it was only seven o’clock in the morning.
As though reading his thoughts, Will looked up and met his eyes. Taylor, feeling weirdly self-conscious, looked away.
“So I guess we’re still not speaking this morning?” Will asked.
And despite the fact that he didn’t want to fight with Will, that he wanted to find some way to step back from the precipice he teetered on, Taylor shrugged and said coolly, “What did you want to talk about?”
And Will just gave a kind of disgusted half-laugh, and turned back to his spiked coffee.
So that was that.
They moved around camp, neither of them speaking, moving efficiently and swiftly as they breakfasted and then packed up — like the day before and the day before that, only this morning the silence between them was not the easy silence of a long and comfortable partnership; it was as heavy and ominous as the rain clouds to the north.
It was still early in the season — and the weather poor enough — that they met no one as they started down the steep trail, stepping carefully on the gravel and small stones. It was a strenuous descent, requiring attention, and Taylor was glad to concentrate on something besides Will. He’d been thinking about Will way too much lately. For the last year, really.
The view was spectacular: huge clouds rolling in from the north, snow-covered mountains all around them, and a long, green valley way below, moody sunlight glinting off the surface of a slate blue lake. The scent of sagebrush was in the air — and the hum of bees. The sun felt good on his face after weeks of being indoors in bed.
Will, the experienced hiker, went first down the trail. The set of his wide shoulders was uncompromising, his back ramrod straight as though he could feel Taylor’s stare resting between his shoulder blades — which he probably could. They’d got pretty good at reading each other’s thoughts, and half the time they communicated with no more than a glance.
Back when they used to communicate.
The bulky sweater and comfortable fatigues couldn’t conceal the lithe beauty of that tall, strong male body. Will was the most naturally gorgeous guy Taylor had ever known. And no little part of his attractiveness had to do with the fact that he was pretty much unaware of just how good-looking he was. Taylor’s gaze dropped automatically to Will’s taut ass. Yep, gorgeous.
Will’s boot slipped on shale, and Taylor’s hand shot out, grabbing him, steadying him.
Will grunted thanks, not looking at him. Taylor let go reluctantly.
It was weird the way his body craved contact with Will’s. Any contact. A nudge in the ribs or a pat on the ass. It was like an addiction. In the hospital he’d lived every day waiting for Will to drop by — and to give Will credit, he’d managed to visit almost every single day, even if it was just for a few minutes. It had been strange, though, with Will so gentle and careful with him; at the time Taylor had been too ill to question it.
Even when Will didn’t touch him, when he just stood next to him, Taylor could feel his
