Everything Carries Me to You (Axton and Leander Book 3) (27 page)

"It was not fine," New York said. "
You
were fine, because you slept like you were already dead, which I'm still bitter about."

"I still don't think ghosts communicate through shitty air conditioning units," Leander said. "I just don't."

"Don't come crying to me when you end up with a rental property built over an old graveyard," New York said, "and your AC units all malfunction at once, screaming and moaning and rattling their chains."

"Yeah, speaking as a pretty experienced landlord, that's never come up."

They ended up staying in and watching several shitty monster movies.

No werewolves, though.

Usually, Leander liked watching movies with New York. When he wasn't busy being an idiot, New York was insightful and intelligent. Plus, his shiftless layabout liberal arts over education had included lots of literature and film courses. However, there were certain genres of movies that tended to devolve into the same discussion over and over again. And most survivalist horror movies ended up in the same exact place.

"In the event of a zombie apocalypse--" New York started.

"Oh god," Leander muttered, "not this again, no--"

"My weapons of choice--"

"Are stupid," Leander said. "Two katana? No way."

"Yes way," New York said.

"Seriously though, katana? Is there a louder way to say douchebag without opening your mouth? I don't think so."

"Chicks dig katana," New York said.

"I really don't think that's true," Leander said. "And dude, you don't even have an excuse. You're not Japanese."

"Whatever," New York said. "So, katana, and--"

"Besides," Leander interjected, "you need a spear. With a guard on it so the zombies can't run up it and eat you. Like boar hunting spears."

"Stop interrupting. So I'm going to have twin katana and two revolvers," New York went on, "and then I'm going to invoke Baron Samedi."

"The Baron," Leander repeated.

"The one and only," New York confirmed.

"And what exactly does the Haitian spirit of sex and death want to do with your sorry American ass at the end of the world?"

"
Everything
, obviously," New York said. "I'm a womanizer and I'm great at parties and I speak Creole. Less Haitian, more Louisiana voodoo. Don't be dense. "

"You are a
douchebag
," Leander said.

"An
awesom
e douchebag," New York said. "So I think that the most frat boy of the Loa can dig it."

"I regret not talking you out of the minor in religious studies," Leander said. "I thought it might be good for you. I was wrong."

"Seriously, stop interrupting," New York said. "So I'm going to invoke the Baron, and then--"

"No, we've been through this," Leander said. "You can't pilot your little fucking plane in the zombie apocalypse, that thing is a death trap--"

"The highways will be useless," New York said. "So--"

"I would get on a boat," Leander said, "and then--"

"Oh, here we are again, at the fucking boat thing," New York said, rolling his eyes heavenward. "You can't solve all your problems by getting on a goddamn boat--"

"I know that," Leander snapped, "but the point of the boat is--"

"The point of the plane is that I get to wield twin revolvers and dual katana
and
pilot a plane," New York went on, "thereby becoming the most attractive man on the planet--"

Leander had looked out into nothingness and then stilled, though it wasn't like New York had noticed, since he was busy explaining the more nuanced merits of his plan to singlehandedly (singlecockedly) repopulate the Earth.

"That's it," Leander said suddenly. "Of course, that's
it
."

"What?" New York asked. "What is what? I'm already the most attractive man in the world? Thank you."

"The boat," Leander said.

"The boat is stupid in the apocalypse," New York said. "Refueling's gonna be
such
a bitch."

"No, I mean, right now," Leander said. "The boat is useful right now."

"What boat?" New York asked. "If not the theoretical zombie killing boat?"

"I don't know, what boat do we have access to?" Leander asked. "Do you still have the yacht?"

"My uncle's boat?" New York asked. "The one I bought off the Armenian drug dealer guy?"

"Yeah," Leander said. "That one."

"Yeah," New York said, "but that's a fuel guzzler. Not a good boat for escaping zombies."

"Not zombies," Leander said. "Not zombies at all."

Back in the gym, doing two minute sparring intervals, switching partners every time the bell went off--

"You're still favoring that leg," New York, with gleaming eyes.

"I am not," Leander said, wary as they circled with their hands up.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," Leander said. He was trying to not strike first because New York was a hell of a counterpuncher.

"Really?" New York asked.

Fuck it. Leander kicked New York in the leg just because he could.

New York was sprawled out on the apartment floor, being melodramatic.

"I hate eating every two hours," he said.

Leander munched on his chicken breast stoically.

"Why," New York asked the unfeeling universe. "Why is being bro-shaped so hard?"

"Because the only drug you don't take is steroids," Leander said.

New York lifted his head up just enough to narrow his eyes at Leander.

"You don't take steroids," he said, while his eyes asked,
DO YOU?

"I have good genes," Leander said, which was what he always said. It was true. "Plus, I eat my meals instead of bitching about them." Still, there was only so much size you could put on when you were a martial artist. It was in direct opposition to getting bigger muscles, and anyway, bigger biceps didn't make for stronger punches. Leander accepted this. New York did not. At least--New York did not
consistently
accept this, because consistency was not his strong point.

"I think you just look more muscular because you're not as tall as I am," New York said, unable to keep the shit eating grin off his face. "It's mostly just an optical illusion."

"Yeah, whatever makes you feel better about not being fucking jacked," Leander said. "I'm going to eat your chicken if you don't get your ass up here."

The marina was nearly empty, being that it was early lunchtime on a Thursday.

"I don't know," Leander said thoughtfully, "it's kind of a big boat."

"Ship," New York corrected. "
Ship
. Yacht. Thing."

"But is it good for like, evading crazy people," Leander murmured, hands in his pockets, gazing at the boat like it contained answers to age old esoteric mysteries.

"What if," New York said, "what if you didn't flee by boat? Ship. I meant ship."

"Then I don't have to stand here looking at this thing, I guess."

"No, no," New York said. "I mean, what if the boat isn't step one?"

"Given that Axton might be somewhere landlocked," Leander said, "it's kind of likely the boat won't be step one."

"Okay, but," New York sketched out complicated shapes in the air that conveyed absolutely nothing to his audience, "what if you
flew
to the boat?"

"In, let me guess, your little death trap plane?" Leander asked, in a voice that was clearly a veto.

"We could get a helicopter," New York said.

"I am not putting my traumatized boyfriend in a helicopter with you for who knows how many hours," Leander said. "No."

"But I want to pilot the getaway vehicle," New York said, plaintive.

"We have to find him first," Leander reminded.

New York sighed, as if life was being terribly unfair to him.

"Well, let's go board," he said glumly.

"Your life is
so hard
," Leander said.

"It
is
," New York agreed, without a shred of sarcasm.

"Anyway," Leander said later, leaning over a railing to look down at the water, "we'll have to get into the air at some point, because of shed skin cells."

"What?" New York asked.

"Scent trial disruption," Leander said, distractedly looking down the length of the boat.

"Dana has, like, scent dogs?" New York asked, dubious. "That's pretty specialized, bro. Is he a dirty cop? You've never actually
denied
that he's a dirty cop. Just sayin'. Like I'm not backing out at all, but I'd like to know if we're going up against cops."

"Um," Leander said. "He has, what…hunting…dogs. He hunts. Axton mentioned it once."

"He hunts what?" New York asked. "Because if he hunts primarily with sighthounds, they don't track scent that well."

"Ah," Leander said, "I forgot that your dad had those French dogs for a while." Damn New York and his sudden and unexpected knowledge bases.

"Yeah, they're meant to take down bears," New York said, cheerful again. He loved dogs, especially big sloppy dogs. It would be terrible if he ever met Axton in wolf form--it would be kisses on the snout and tummy rubs all day long, and Leander wouldn't even be able to object.

"Bears," Leander sighed, suddenly wistful. Axton was always complaining about encroaching bears.

"Yeah, so, like, it depends," New York said. "What's he hunt?"

"Uh, deer and shit, I don't know," Leander said, instead of rattling off a list of prey animals favored by wolf and werewolf alike. Deer. Sure, why not. It was
true
. Dana probably ate deer. It was just that he was his own scent…hound…thing "Useless," New York said, "useless, useless. You should let me pilot the helicopter, just in case."

One morning Leander woke up and wandered into the kitchen, looking for coffee, only to find New York perched on a stool and going through--

"Hey," Leander said. "That's my phone."

"Yeah, and your background is a picture of your boyfriend's dog," New York said. "I was going to make fun of you, but now I just feel bad."

"Give me that," Leander said, but New York leaned away and kept the phone out of his reach.

"I looked through your gallery and you have a ton of dog pictures," New York said. "It's kind of pathetic."

"Stop looking through my shit," Leander said. "Seriously."

"I skipped over your boyfriend's nudes, obviously--"

"Jesus fucking christ," Leander said.

"Anyway, I've been texting back and forth with Sarah for a while. Do you think she knows it's me?"

"She always knows," Leander said. "She's just humoring you."

"Hmm," New York said, and then he went back to texting.

"Fine," Leander said, "if you're that keen to go dick pics of my boyfriend, just go ahead."

"Hah," New York said, now scrolling. "I know that you're just trying to get me to object and surrender the phone. But no. I'm not going to be that defensive of my masculinity."

"Of your sexuality," Leander corrected, rooting through the cabinets to find coffee beans. "Those aren't the same thing. I' m still masculine as fuck, sexuality update and all, thank you."

"Whatever, semantics, and now you sound defensive," New York said. "But hey. You took some gnarly pictures of your stitches and shit."

"Yeah," Leander said, "well." He loaded up the coffee grinder.

"You have a morbid streak in you," New York said. "You may have everyone else fooled, but
I
remember that you made your dentist give you all your wisdom teeth in a jar."

Leander ignored him and ground the coffee beans.

"Don't worry," New York confided, once the noise died down. "I still have the one you gave me. It was very sweet of you."

"Look, I'm not taking shit about that from the asshole who suggested a blood brothers pact when we were seventeen," Leander said. "Fuck you."

New York held up his hand and wriggled his fingers before showing his palm.

"The scars are hardly even there anymore," he said. "Think we should renew?"

"Besides, I was high on prescription painkillers when I offered you a tooth," Leander said. "You accepted while sober. I think."

"And you agreed to the blood brothers pact while we were
both
sober, so I'm not sure what you're being high and mighty about," New York said.

"Shut up," Leander said. "I was young."

"Will you make me a coffee?" New York asked.

"Already on it," Leander said, holding up a double serving of grinds.

They were pretending no one was home. The woman knocking on the door did not seem convinced. They were hiding behind a couch and peering around the edges because New York was a paranoid bastard, and it was contagious.

"I don't feel good about this," Leander whispered.

"Shhh!" New York hissed. "I don't know how she got into the building."

"What did you
do
to this one?" Leander asked.

"Nothing," New York said, in a defensive whisper.

Leander waited.

"Nothing I don't do to, like, all of them," New York allowed. "I broke up with her on schedule, like I said I would. It's not my fault she thought I was joking."

Leander waited.

"I
may
have also asked out her sister afterwards," New York said.

"Successfully?" Leander asked.

"I think that's the problem," New York said.

An especially furious round of knocking and doorbell ringing interrupted them.

"What if
I
answer the door," Leander asked, "and tell her you're not here?"

"Maybe you could tell her I died," New York encouraged.

"I am not telling her that," Leander said. "I feel bad enough enabling this bad behavior."

"Whatever, guy who dated his way through half the hot farmer's market babes before falling in love with some lone woodsman, who for all I know
also
sold charming handcrafted wares at a farmer's market, thereby keeping your record intact," New York said. "I'm not taking shit from you."