Jed
“YOU KNOW what my apartment had?” Jed told Redford mournfully, shaking out his leather jacket, sighing at the cloud of fur that rolled off of it. “About a thousand percent less shedding. Also, no wolves running through my weapon room and scaring the shit out of me.”
“Uh-huh.” Redford was sprawled out on the couch in front of their fireplace, paging through a book. And clearly not as invested in this rant as Jed was.
Three weeks into moving into the commune, as Jed had decided to start calling it, and it was becoming abundantly clear that, however gigantic this mansion was, it was so not large enough. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Jed continued, slouching down to sit in the chair opposite, guns out on the table for cleaning. “They’re not half bad.” Which was pretty much the highest praise he’d be willing to give. “But does Edwin need to nap on my jacket?”
At least he wasn’t using it as a chew toy. Jed should probably be thankful for small favors.
“Yeah.” Redford nodded, turning a page. And Jed was now convinced he hadn’t heard a word. Which was absolutely a tragedy, because this was a grade A rant!
“We need a job,” Jed declared, pointing at him, waving his finger around. “I haven’t stayed at my old place this long, much less in kiddie wolf camp.”
Randall and Victor were positively domestic. Disgustingly so. Cooking dinner, working together, and they along with Anthony were eagerly working on turning the stuffy, dark mansion into something light and open. Hell, just yesterday Anthony had gotten Edwin’s help in knocking out a wall and combining two small, dank rooms into what was apparently going to be a huge, open family area on the second floor.
It was a whole lotta family shit, was all Jed was saying. He desperately wanted to go out and blow something up.
No one was talking about the war. It seemed quiet, for now, and as far as Jed was concerned, they would take what they could get. He’d gone out the first night, checked the defensibility of the grounds. Appropriately enough, for a place that looked like a castle, pretty much all it was missing was a moat. It would be a fortress if they needed it to be, which made Jed sleep a lot better at night.
Didn’t mean he didn’t want a job.
“We need to work,” he repeated, sullenly getting out his knives to sharpen them. Again.
“Absolutely,” Redford hummed, eyes still on the book. “Sounds great.”
Jed flicked a look up at him, eyes narrowing. “I think I’m going to start walking around naked,” he informed Redford.
“Uh-huh.”
“I might tattoo my entire body with a life-sized portrait of Margaret Thatcher. You know, in honor of my right ball.”
“That’s good, Jed,” Redford murmured, turning another page.
Jed did the only thing he could. He stood up, undid his jeans, and shimmied them off his hips. His shirt was next, tossed off to land on top of Redford’s head. Redford blinked, looking up at him, eyes widening.
“Take me to bed right now,” Jed demanded. “You aren’t listening to me. I think we need to rectify that.”
He strode off toward the bedroom. Redford was right on his heels.
They had much better communication in bed. Jed made sure Redford worked on his listening skills. Namely listening as Jed begged for more and harder and oh, God, just like that. Redford was very attentive.
They lay in each other’s arms quite a while later, content, Jed’s eyes falling half shut as Redford ran absent fingers through his hair.
“You want a job?” Redford asked.
Jed raised his eyebrows as he looked up at him. Redford just smirked. “I listen to you,” Redford assured him, dropping a kiss to Jed’s nose. “You just had a nice steam worked up. I thought I’d let you go at it.” A pause and he smiled, another kiss pressed to Jed’s forehead. “Please don’t get Margaret Thatcher tattooed on you. That would be… disturbing.”
Jed snorted out a laugh and curled up farther into Redford’s arms. “We need a job,” he agreed. “I’m getting fat and lazy.”
His phone chirped, and Jed sighed, looking over at it. “I didn’t mean now,” he muttered at it in a grump, considering ignoring it completely. Stupid thing had the worst timing. Reaching over, Jed grabbed it and squinted as he scrolled through the messages. One voice mail, unknown number.
Jed pressed play. And on the first word, the first smoky syllable, he was sitting up straight, eyes going wide.
“What is it?” Redford asked, concerned.
Son of a bitch.
“It’s David.”