Chapter 17

Matt

My phone chimes with a text, but I'm still reaching for it when my best friend and his… demon appear in the middle of Dylan's living room.

Dylan chokes on his coffee.

I clutch my chest. "Motherfucker! Warn a guy before you do that shit, Ian."

Ian rolls his eyes. "I sent a text."

"That I never even got the chance to open!" I grab my phone and hold it up to prove my point. "And what, you couldn't appear in the hallway? Knocking is too much effort for you? What if we'd been naked?"

"What a thought," Marc murmurs disdainfully. He's looking around the room as though he's never seen one before.

Ian, on the other hand, just shrugs and flops down on the other side of me on the couch. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

My mouth is open to retort, but I snap it shut. "When did you see Dylan naked?"

"In the locker rooms after training, a million years ago. You were there too, remember? We were all too damn tired to care if anyone saw our bits."

Oh yeah. Apparently I was also too damn tired to even remember that, which is a damn shame. I turn my head to look at Dylan, who's stopped coughing and re-learned the art of breathing. "Shame we were too dumb to hook up then. I have a ton of locker room fantasies."

"Gross," Ian complains, but Dylan just kisses me.

"Next time we're at the compound, we'll sneak into the locker room after hours," he promises, and I fall a tiny bit more in love with him.

"What? No!" Ian complains. "I use that locker room. I don't want to be wondering if my brother and his boyfriend fucked on the bench I need to sit on."

"Now we have another reason to do it," I tell my boyfriend, and he laughs.

"Do you want coffee, Ian? Marc?"

"Yes. Please. Coffee," Ian begs. "Though if I have to think about you and Matty doing stuff, tequila would be better."

"Coffee would be acceptable. Thank you." Marc adds the last two words as an afterthought, and I elbow Ian.

"Teaching him manners?"

"I have manners," the man—demon—himself informs me. "Far better than yours, I assure you."

That's probably true, since I'm barely housebroken. Gabe tried, but Ian and Connor were a bad influence on me.

"You can sit down, you know. You won't catch anything from the furniture." He's still standing in the middle of the room where they first appeared.

"I never thought I would. I was just… appreciating this room. I've never seen this… style of décor before."

Beside me, Ian coughs, but he's totally trying to cover a laugh. Dylan, who's coming back in from the kitchen with a mug in each hand, just snorts. "You mean thrift store and Ikea chic? I don't really do décor, Marc."

"That explains a great deal about that coffee table. Thank you," he adds as he takes one of the mugs.

We all look at the coffee table. The clear Perspex top is scuffed and scarred and marred with many ring stains from people not using coasters, but I think Marc's probably more focused on the fact that the orange plastic base is shaped like an elephant. Unfortunately, time and many owners have left their mark, and the trunk, ears, and tail are long gone, leaving jagged plastic edges where they used to be.

It's unique.

And ugly as fuck. At one point, it must have been in direct sunlight, because the front half is more faded than the back, giving it a weird two-tone effect. But it serves its purpose, and I never have to worry that I'm going to damage it. By now, anything I do to it would just… well, I can't say "add character," because it has none. But it wouldn't do any harm.

"That's actually the only family heirloom in the place," Dylan says with a straight face. "You don't like my antique table that's been passed down from my great-grandfather?"

Marc slowly turns to look at him. "Indeed. And yet, it goes so well with all the other… vintage furnishings."

We all crack up, because Dylan's stuff is so shitty, it can't even be called vintage. It's just old. "You're no fun to tease," he complains, handing the other mug to Ian. "But if you want, I'll give you a budget and you can redesign this room."

It's Ian's turn to choke on his coffee, and I stare at Dylan with my mouth open. "What?"

He shrugs. "What? It's a great idea. We've been slacking off on Operation: Friendship lately. We need to keep working on making him more relatable."

"And you think him redecorating your house is going to do that?" Ian asks incredulously.

Marc, on the other hand, has his lips pursed as he surveys the room. "What kind of budget? Do I need to… shop?"

"I'll work it out and let you know, and yes, you need to shop," Dylan insists. "You can't demon magic furniture for me." We both shudder in unison. It's kind of weird, since Marc demon healed me and demon teleported Dyl, but the thought of sitting—or fucking—on a sofa that he demon magicked into existence is… yeah, no way.

"I will consider it," Marc declares. "I need to see the budget first, and do a full assessment."

I look around. Couch, chair, coffee table, rug, TV. The TV is good—Dyl doesn't skimp on electronics. I may not be a fancy décor or style person, but I figure it can't be too hard to go to an upmarket furniture store and point to one of their living room settings. Isn't that why they pay people to do that shit in the showrooms? "Assessment of what?"

Marc just looks at me like he scraped me off his shoe, and I figure I really don't care that much anyway.

"I'll work on that budget," Dylan promises. "And then we'll get some pics and video of you and me shopping and getting everything set up. Ian, too." He glances over at me. "Not you, not unless we put some makeup on you to make you look bruised."

"I'm totally cool with not coming furniture shopping," I say honestly.

"I'll keep him company," Ian offers hastily. "He shouldn't be alone. It's not safe."

And just like that, the light mood dissolves.

"You're both coming," Dylan orders. "We just won't get Matty in any pictures." The smile that was on his face a minute ago is gone, but he seems really set on this refurnishing project.

I want him to be happy, so I nod. "Okay. I can take the pictures."

Ian's glare is boring into the side of my head, but I don't look at him. He might have wanted me to fight harder to get out of it, but Dylan's more important to me than… oh fuck. Furniture shopping?

The things I do for love.

"How charming," Marc drawls, managing to make it sound anything but. "What a delightful expedition that will be."

"Shut up, you live for that crap," Ian chides. "I'll even let you terrorize a sales assistant—but only if they're snooty and treat us like dirt because we're not dressed fancy."

Looking down his nose, Marc informs him, "There's a difference between ‘fancy' and ‘presentable,' Ian."

My bestie turns to look at me. "Do you see what I have to put up with?"

I'd feel more sorry for him if he wasn't voluntarily fucking the guy. I mean, when he was just stuck with him for work, he had my sympathy. Now, not so much. "Dude, you choose to spend extra time with him."

"He says he loves me," Marc informs us, shaking his head. "I believe he may be defective."

Silence falls, because… did Marc just crack a joke?

"Oh my god," Ian whispers. "I've finally turned you. You're becoming human."

I laugh so hard, my stomach hurts, even as Marc glares at Ian. Dylan comes to sit beside me again, curling up against my side, and I lift my arm and wrap it around his shoulders so he can get closer. My hand rests on his sleeve, and I note that his T-shirt feels a little crisp. Mine's been like that too, lately. Maybe we need to switch brands of fabric softener. He doesn't need rough fabric against his skin all day.

Marc, done with glaring at an innocent-faced Ian, reluctantly perches on the edge of the armchair's seat cushion—but only after giving it a thorough visual inspection.

"Enough already," I snap at him. "It's clean—Dylan might not care about his furniture matching, but he's the tidiest one of all of us." I always thought computer geeks lived in a hoard of old fast-food containers and grime, but Dylan's fanatical about getting rid of anything that might attract vermin—apparently rats and cockroaches are bad for computers. And he's rabid when it comes to dust. The whole apartment gets cleaned from top to bottom every week to minimize the amount of dust that might get near his computers. I made the mistake of asking about it once and got a fifteen-minute lecture about respecting your tools, and would I let my sword get dirty and rusty?

"It's fine," Dyl tells me. "We know what he's like. You can inspect the bedroom later," he informs Marc. "I changed the sheets this morning so you and Ian can sleep there. The bed's not secondhand—I bought it a couple of years ago."

"I'm sorry, they what now?" We're being kicked out of our bed? I turn to my bestie-brother. "What are you trying to do to me?"

"I knew nothing about it," he protests. "Dylan, you don't need to give up the bed. Where are you guys gonna sleep?"

Dylan shrugs. "The sofa folds out."

Ian closes his mouth on his planned offer. We all know Marc won't sleep on a sofa bed. "Uhhh…"

"If I may offer a solution," Marc suggests smoothly, "Ian and I can return home to sleep and?—"

"No!" Dylan's voice is sharp, and I blink at him. What the hell? "I mean… then we can't have the full houseguest experience."

"The what?" Ian asks. "Dyl, are you okay?"

I was just about to ask that myself, but looking at my boyfriend's anxious face, I choke it down. I'm not sure what's going through his head right now, but this is clearly important to him, so…

"He's right," I agree. "We've been looking forward to the houseguest experience."

"What the fuck is in the water up here?" Ian mutters, reaching out to put his palm against my forehead. He seriously needs hand cream or something, because his skin is as rough as sandpaper. I knock it away.

"I don't have a fever, idiot."

"Are you sure? Because?—"

"I have another idea, then," Marc interrupts. His gaze is on Dylan, and if I didn't know it was impossible, I'd think there was compassion there. "Perhaps you would allow me to bring in a bed for Ian and me to sleep in? I'd remove it when we're not using it."

That's one fucked-up idea. I turn wide eyes on Ian, but he doesn't seem to have any issues sleeping in a disappearing demon bed.

"Where would we put it?" he demands instead. "Dylan's spare room is his office."

Marc looks around. "Here. We'll move the coffee table—preferably to a dumpster—and this chair, and there should be enough room. It only needs to be here when we're using it."

He's being weirdly accommodating, and I'm not sure I like it. Honestly, I thought for sure he'd have a diva fit at the thought of sleeping on the sofa bed—this was before I heard Dylan's plan for us to sleep there—and insist on sleeping at home. Or a posh hotel.

Instead, he's being… helpful.

Something's not right here.