Page 11 of Bad Blood Bear

He could ask Ben what state his house was in.

If he wanted.

He looked at the number a long time, thumb hovering over the ‘call’ button.

There was a knock at the door, and he looked up to see Flynn filling the doorway. He’d put his pants back on, which was a small mercy. And he was carrying a bottle of Alexander Grant’s top-drawer single-malt whiskey, which was even better. They’d all be sad when that shit ran out.

“Hey,” Flynn said. “How you doing?”

“Healing,” Tank said. “My back will stop bleeding in a little while, probably.”

Flynn gestured, and Tank shifted so Flynn could see his back. Flynn walked over and handed Tank the bottle, then pulled the towel away. He hissed between his teeth. “You need a couple of butterfly bandages,” he said. “Got any?”

“In the dresser.”

Tank took a couple of good pulls of whiskey while Flynn went over and rummaged in the dresser drawer until he found the bandages, then came back and sat down on the bed behind Tank. He wiped the blood off, and Tank felt him pulling the edges of the wound together and anchoring them with the bandages.

When he was done, Flynn laid his hand on Tank’s back for a second. “There,” he said. “Give it a couple of hours.”

Tank nodded.

Flynn turned until they were sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, their shoulders just barely touching. Shifters needed touch, to settle their animals and reassure each other. Tank knew Flynn wouldn’t apologize for cutting him up—it was his job as alpha of the crew to keep everyone from killing each other.

But this touch was his way of saying ‘sorry.’

Flynn picked up the damp bloody towel off the floor, looking at the splotches of blood staining the light gray fabric. “This stain ain’t coming out any time soon,” he said, holding it between his hands. “And we’ve been going through a shit-ton of towels, brawling so damn much.”

None of them were completely in control of their animals—not after what they’d been through. Flynn was the closest to it, but even he had a short fuse, not to mention the occasional berserker death wish.

Tank gave a huff and a half-grin, passing him the bottle. “I was thinking we should go with black after this,” he said. “Or maybe burgundy. Something that doesn’t show the blood.”

“Fuck yeah,” Flynn said, taking a drink. “Make a note. Now that we have money, we can order about six dozen off the internet.”

They sat there for a couple of minutes in silence, passing the bottle back and forth.

Finally Flynn said, “Have you given any more thought to starting that business we talked about?”

Tank took another pull of whiskey, thinking about how to answer. He and Flynn had discussed opening their own construction business, doing renovations on people’s houses and maybe small additions, decks, stuff like that. It would bring in income and help make the crew self-sufficient.

It would be good to work again, but Tank had been putting off doing anything about it. He had enough money to carry him through for quite a while, so there was no rush. But there was more to it than that. He didn’t know if he had enough control over his bear to be going out, working in people’s homes. He’d had another idea, but he didn’t know if it would pan out.

And he knew the real reason went beyond that. Starting a business meant putting down roots here. Pledging to Flynn—a lion—as his alpha, committing to this fucked-up crew, leaving his old life behind for good.

He knew he couldn’t go back, but he somehow couldn’t seem to make himself go forward either. He was stuck in this limbo, and he didn’t know how to get out.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Still thinking about it, I guess.”

Flynn nodded, taking a sip of whiskey and handing the bottle over. “Thinking about the business, or thinking about whether you want to stay here at all?”

That was the question they’d been dancing around for the last few weeks. And Tank didn’t know what to tell him.

“This has been a fucked-up day, Flynn,” was all he could manage. “Not a good time to be making decisions.”

Flynn nodded, then got up with a sigh. He stopped at the doorway and looked back. “I need you to help me with this crew,” he said. “You’re the only halfway sane one out of all of them.”

Tank gave a laugh that didn’t really have much humor in it. “If I’m the sanest one, we’re in worse shape than I thought.”

Flynn gave his famous crooked grin. “You just figuring that out?”

Tank held up the bottle questioningly. Flynn shook his head. “Looks like you need it even more than I do, today.”

Tank just nodded.

Flynn opened his mouth as if to say something else, then shook his head again and walked out, leaving Tank staring at his phone once more.

But this time, instead of an empty cabin full of ghosts, his mind’s eye saw a lively face with vivid blue eyes, dark and shadowed. A shabby figure with her head held high, knife in hand, ready to fight the world.