Chapter 1

Macalister Niles, Mac to his friends and enemies, stared at the massive teakwood shelving unit that took up all of one of his walls, trying to determine what was off about its contents.

At a glance, everything looked ok. The tiny terrariums he’d found in his favorite cereal, Alpha-Bits, were pointed at the Sesame Street mini-beans, so Big Bird, Grover, and Elmo could see the plants inside. The entire collection of Pokemon collectibles were neatly lined and sorted by color and cuteness. The Darkwing Duck Fanny Pack was perfectly equidistant from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bowl and the spooky spoons, the light-up spoons, and the dinosaur spoons.

Mac bent and checked a lower shelf, then the next, but the unopened sticker packs were all in place, the rings, whistles, and temporary tattoos all looked perfect, and the mini pinball machines were exactly as he’d left them.

He got down on his knees to examine the shelves that would have been the perfect height for three-year-old Mackenzie, his now long-gone little sister, to comb through. The wacky wall-walkers, monster bike spinners, glow-in-the-dark skeleton pirates, ghost detectors, and monster disguises were all exactly as he’d placed them. Mackenzie would have said they were adowwable. She always had liked the strangest shit for a little girl. No Barbies for her. She had only liked it if it had four eyes or simulated entrails… or, of course, if it came out of a cereal box.

Mac stood to eye the unit as a whole, moving around a bit to see it from a different angle. He saw it! The replica of Mackenzie’s favorite blanket that lined the back wall of the shelf had shifted off-center on one side, revealing a sliver of the wood behind it. Mac stepped forward and gingerly reached his hand past all the treasures, pulling at the red spiky blanket, trying to get it just right, barely hearing the car pull up in his driveway.

Heavy footfalls sounded on his porch, and Bruin’s deep but somehow gentle voice reached him. Talking to himself.

“Is this the place? This has got to be the place.”

Spring had not quite arrived, but it was trying hard and the sunshine of the morning had been enough to make Mac leave his security door open, so only the screen door was between him and Bruin. Shit. Instant regret, not only for that, but for inviting Bruin to his house at all. Bruin would be the first person to see the place in… ever?

It had been his family’s place, where he’d spent most of his boyhood, but after the females had been killed, his father had pined for his mate and had died young, drank and sorrowed himself to death, leaving Mac even more alone than he’d been. Since his father’s wake, had he ever invited anyone over?

Mac’s jaw tightened at the memories wanting to flood in on him. He’d had it no worse than anyone else and he wouldn’t act like he did. Boohoo had no place inside his head.

He tugged at the blanket one more time, then stepped back to survey his work as Bruin pulled the screen door open gently and stepped inside, making the room seem too small, suddenly, even though Mac wasn’t even looking at him. Bruin had that effect on most rooms.

“Mac! I knew this was the place!” Bruin cried, excitement in his voice, like he hadn’t seen Mac in months, years maybe, when in fact they’d seen each other less than ten hours ago. Mac grinned and faced him, his grin faltering as Bruin’s eyes shot past him and took in the room instead.

Mac knew it was a hot mess, but it was his hot mess, and it made him feel… better, somehow.

Bruin took in the spiky red blankets hung in the center of three of the room’s walls, the red upholstered reclining chair, also done in that spiky red fabric that looked like it was rough, but really was surprisingly soft. Faux Fur Fabric Long Pile Monkey Shaggy was the name of that particular fabric, and fire red had been Mackenzie’s favorite shade. She’d never gone anywhere without her blanky, burning through so many of the things that their mother had bought an entire forty-eight-foot roll of the fabric to cut and sew the blankets herself, and damned if Mac hadn’t continued the tradition, even after both of them were gone. Sometimes he would make a new one, just so he could pretend Mackenzie was waiting anxiously behind him for it, pretend for forty-five minutes or so that she was still alive, that when he pulled the blanket out of the sewing machine, cut and tied the threads, then turned to her with it in his hands, her baby blues would widen and she would rush to him, hugging and kissing him first, then take it from him reverently to rub across her plump cheek. Ba-ba, she’d called the blankets, even after she could say blanket correctly.

Mac let the thoughts and emotions flit through his mind for a mere moment before he pushed them away, manhandled them into some mental dream chest, and slammed the lid. He both loved and hated his memories of Mackenzie, and the conflict tore at him daily. He clenched his fists and reached for the only emotion that could cover it. Pissed-off-ness. Then he summoned his best super power. Snark. Now he was ready to deal with someone else in his home. Bruin was a good start. No matter what he said to Bruin, the male would not get angry, would not turn away from him.

Bruin took in the bits of haphazard red without comment, then his eyes landed on The Cereal Prize Shrine. Mac waited for Bruin to laugh, to make fun, for his eyes to widen and maybe for him to back out the door like he’d just entered the den of a freak. But Bruin only raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and gave an I-can-dig-it head bob, like maybe he’d even expected it.

The knot inside Mac loosened slightly, but he still glared at the big bear. “Not a word,” he warned.

Bruin held up his hands, then mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key. He pushed past Mac, his head still bobbing up and down, to get closer to The Shrine. His thick fingers raised as he prepared to lift a small toy from the shelf.

“Ah!” Mac moved so quickly he expected to hear wind whistle past his ears. He caught Bruin’s hand in mid air and pushed him backwards a step. “No touchy, big guy. I’ve got extras you can play with after your nap, but right now we’ve got places to be.”

Bruin bobbed his head again, his eyes still on the little toys, his expression saying he wouldn’t say no to playing with them, or their extras. “Cool. Do we have time to watch I Love the 80s?”

Mac pushed Bruin back another step. It was like pushing a linebacker who didn’t want to go. At a couple of inches taller than Mac’s six foot three inch frame, and certainly thicker through the chest and shoulders, Bruin was hard for even a brute like Mac to manhandle. “Yeah, you’re hilarious. I get it, cuz my decorating reminds you of the era.” He pushed again. He’d done it. Another person had been in his house and he hadn’t lost it, but emotions he didn’t like to examine were perilously close. It was time to go. Time to do anything else. “Keep moving, big and hairy. Time to go to work.”

Bruin let himself be pushed. “Can we stop to eat on the way?”

Mac glanced at the time. 10:04 in the morning. “You didn’t eat breakfast?”

“I did. I’m hungry again. Besides, there’s a place I keep hearing about we gotta try. It’s out on Route 41, called the Honeybee Garage or something. The pies there are supposed to be the bee’s ankles.”

Mac stopped pushing, even though they’d almost reached his front door. He half-grinned and stared at Bruin. “The what?”

“You know, bee’s ankles. Better than bee’s knees, but not quite as good as the bee’s nose.”

Mac shook his head and laughed, pushing past Bruin to the door and opening it, waiting as Bruin took one last look around his place. “Actually, Bru, I don’t know about bee ankles or noses. I’ve only ever heard of the bee’s knees.”

Bruin bobbed his head one last time and followed Mac out onto the porch. “It’s just as well. The bee’s nose is pretentious. Don’t even get me started on the bee’s elbows.”

Mac could believe they were having the conversation. Bruin was a font of ridiculousness. “Do bees have elbows?”

“Are you kidding? They have six!”

Mac locked his door, shaking his head. Six elbows. Beebows. Got it. He turned to see what Bruin would be driving him to work in, then groaned at the sight of the tiny red Ford Escort with black trim and the ridiculous spoiler on the back. “Bruin, that thing is smaller than the car we had to drive back from California. It’s a fucking lunch pail. How many juice boxes can you fit in the trunk?”

Bruin strode to it, his face proud. He patted the hood. “She’s a 2003. Gets 32.9 miles to each gallon. I tracked her myself. Name’s Peony Honey.”

“You’re kidding me, right? This is a joke. You’ve got a truck stashed somewhere.” He looked around, hopefully eying the big evergreen in front of his neighbor’s place. There could be a truck on the other side of it.

“I never joke about quality wheels, Mac-attack. It’s practical. That’s what matters in a car.”

Mac started forward, then stopped mid-stride and studied Bruin’s face. He was telling the fucking truth. Mac would be stuck in this thing until his car was fixed or the insurance company totaled it. “Bruin, come on.” He dropped his voice, eyeing it and shaking his head. “You can’t even fuck in the backseat.”

Bruin bent and peered in the window, as if to check, then straightened, a frown on his face. “Your car doesn’t have a backseat, Mac.”

Mac groaned again, louder this time, as he dragged his feet over the concrete to Bruin’s sedan. “Maybe not, but at least I look cool in it, not-fucking. This thing is pure woman repellant.”

Bruin pulled open the driver’s door, bent into the car for a moment, then popped back up again, cheap blues-blocker shades covering his eyes. “Not the right woman, Mac. Remember that.”

Mac watched as Bruin climbed into the tiny car and the entire thing settled to the left to accommodate his bulk. Mac hoped a tie rod would snap, then they could walk the twenty-two miles to the police station. That would clear his head. Maybe.

No such luck. With a sigh, Mac pulled open his door. Only good thing, he wasn’t thinking about that thing he didn’t want to think about, anymore.

Really.