HOWL 1.1

He can feel its heat even through his shirt and jacket.

Author's Note: This takes place roughly a few days before the beginning of Courting Death.

Lazy wisps of cigarette smoke drift through the air, curling in cyanide circles. Not only do they stink up the place, but haze over and darken the already piss-yellow lighting. Smelly, stale alcohol stains what little air is left. Noxious gas, or liquid poison. Precisely the kind of scene Eric St. John has avoided most of his life. Regan was always the infiltrator in bar or club missions. Realizing his train of thought, he frowns. He doesn’t want to think about either of these things—his partner or his liquor—yet here he is, resenting both.

His tall form is hunched over his glass, toned arms resting on the bar, shapely rear plopped on a wobbly stool. Worn-out jeans hang down over his heavy work boots. The flannel shirt has long sleeves, to cover the thick leather band on his wrist. His clothes are supposed to blend him in, but they fail. Eric stands out. His perfectly slender, sloping face is too stunning, his alabaster smooth skin too remarkable, his seemingly hand-carved ass too noticeable. Cropped military short, his hair is an attempt to hide his looks, but it only draws the eye to the curve of his forehead as it blends over his brow, and the green, liquid-clear eyes beneath.

Other men are handsome, but Eric is beautiful. Regan gave him no end of shit for it. It was always the blond partner who went when they needed cover. He was good-looking enough, but only in a normal way. Cute, but forgettable. Eric is the kind of face that’s remembered.

And Regan always wondered why I don’t go out, Eric thinks bitterly. But then, Regan wonders a lot of things. Why doesn’t he party? Why doesn’t he loosen up? Why doesn’t he have sex more? Why doesn’t he try being with a guy just once? Why doesn’t he trust his thrill-seeking partner to come out of a deep-cover op unscathed? Why doesn’t he stop asking weird questions? Why doesn’t he try being solo for awhile?

“Shit,” Eric mutters, realizing he’s doing it again.

Steeling himself, he tips back his glass. Grimacing at the taste, he forces himself to swallow it all. Then flags the bar tender for another.

No more thinking about Regan, he promises himself. The abandonment of his supposed partner has been the only thing on his mind, but if the other hunter doesn’t want to be around him anymore, than fine. He doesn’t need him anyway. Regan wants to do the ‘solo thing,’ Eric can too. He can be solo all he wants. Just repressed, boring, sober Eric all alone in a shit bar in a gas-station town he can’t remember the name of. Hal? Howell?

With this resolved, he picks up his new glass and slams it back, face twisting again. Beside him there’s the scrape of a stool being pulled back. More out of reflex than anything else he glances over to see who it is, and must have had too much alcohol to move his head that fast because the world swims in front of his eyes. He doesn’t realize he’s swaying on his seat until he feels a heavy hand clasp his shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” comes a warm voice. “You okay?”

Blinking, Eric finally sees the man who’s sat next to him. The man stands out as badly as Eric does, in his own way. He’s only wearing a tight t-shirt, no jacket to ward off the cold. He’s big, not fat, just very solidly built with broad shoulders, thick arms, and probably a heavily muscled torso beneath his shirt. Eric’s no kind of judge, but he would guess him to be pretty good looking. The man’s face is wide and precise, and with his crooked nose he gives off an almost fantasy-barbarian vibe. His kind of surfer-dude hair helps the image. It’s a medium brown streaked with natural, sun-bleached highlights (Regan taught him how to tell the difference, but he’s not thinking about that). But mostly it’s the eyes that keep Eric from looking away. He must have had too much of whatever he’s drinking because they look yellow to him. They look pale, wild gold.

Realizing he’s being rude, Eric drops his gaze and mutters, “Yeah, fine. Don’t usually drink this much.”

He can only see the man’s mouth, so he watches startlingly white teeth appear as he smiles.

“It’s okay, not everyone’s a big drinker.” A large hand is offered. “Adam.”

Clumsy, Eric takes it. “Eric.”

For a second he wonders if he’s had too much to drink because he wasn’t really planning on giving out his real name, but oh well. No help for it now.

“So you don’t drink much, huh?” Adam asks, lifting two fingers toward the bar tender.

“Yeah,” Eric says. Then, “I mean, no. Uh…”

Adam laughs. “I know whatcha mean. Kind of interesting place for someone who doesn’t drink.”

“Yeah,” Eric says again, feeling stupid but not knowing what else to say.

Grinning, Adam looks him slowly up and down, strange yellow eyes taking in every detail. Eric must still be lightheaded because he had no other explanation for the sudden redness staining his cheeks.

“What’s your poison?” Adam flicks his head in the direction of Eric’s glass.

“I…don’t remember.”

Adam’s smile gets wider, and Eric’s blush gets redder.

“You really don’t drink much, do you?” Adam laughs, and Eric shakes his head. “That’s cool. Usually that’s just something people say. Because it’s not cool to go to bars, I guess.”

In Eric’s opinion Adam is making it look pretty cool, but as soon as he has that thought he pushes it away.

“Do you mind?” But Adam leans forward and is in Eric’s space before he can even process the question.

Once again Adam’s large hand is on him, resting warmly on his back. He can feel its heat even through his shirt and jacket. Their shoulders touch as Adam reaches across Eric’s chest to pick up his glass. He feels another rush of blood in his head, a strange pulse in his chest. And maybe there’s a smell. A deep, earthy musk. But as he draws in air he can’t pick up anything.

Tipping back his head, Adam drinks the entirety of Eric’s shot in a quick pull. When he’s done he doesn’t grimace, but he does shake his head as he puts the glass down.

“God, that shit is terrible.” He offers Eric a wry smile. “No wonder you don’t drink much if that’s all you’re ever exposed to.”

Eric wants to tell him he’s also had a few of the froofy mixed drinks Regan’s pulled out of his ass over the years, but remembers his promise to himself and doesn’t. Besides, his whole thought process is knocked off whack when Adam leans in close again.

“I’ll tell you what, come on over to my place,” he says. “I’ve got some great stuff I think you’ll really like. I pull my truck around, meet me outside.”

And then he’s gone, sliding off the stool and heading toward the door. For a moment Eric sits there, stunned. He isn’t the type people usually ask out for drinks. He isn’t the fun-loving party type, he isn’t Regan. He isn’t sure he’s feeling okay, can’t seem to get his heart rate or blush to settle down. Meet me outside keeps playing in his head. It wasn’t a question. Adam just assumed Eric would follow, plain-old, boring Eric.

Slowly, not really sure why, he pushes off his stool and wobbles to the door.