Cut and Run 6 - Stars and Stripes

home was with Ty, even if he was sitting on a rickety tin roof framed by the smoky light of a summer moon.
    “How’d you get up there?” Zane asked.
    “Either stupidity or codeine, I’m not sure,” Ty answered amidst a blue ring of smoke.
    “Should I call you Juliet or Rapunzel?”
    “That which we call a rose.” The genteel words were so unexpected, uttered in Ty’s low, gravelly voice, Zane couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him. Ty leaned forward and smirked. “Are you ready to go home, my love?”
    Zane bit his lip and nodded. “I’m ready for anything.”
    Ty’s grin was slow and mischievous. “I certainly hope so.”

    When Ty pushed through the door of their row house, the first thing he did was make the hissing noise to call for Smith and Wesson.
    Zane shook his head. He would just have to come to terms with the fact that he would always play second fiddle to killer felines.
    “Oh God, it’s good to be home,” Ty said with a groan as he eased himself onto the couch and sprawled. Zane sat next to him with a sigh. They were both so banged up it was nearly impossible to do anything but lean against each other. Ty pressed his lips to Zane’s temple. “You want to talk about it?”
    Zane stared at the room around them. They’d already made so many memories here, some of them stored in photos and trinkets, others only residing in Zane’s mind. It was a life he’d never expected to have, colorful and easy and bright. He shook his head. “I just keep wondering . . . would I have been like her? If Becky hadn’t died, if you hadn’t . . .”
    “Zane.”
    “Would I have turned into her, Ty? Would that have been me?”
    Ty wrapped his arm around Zane’s shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know, Zane. There are . . . there are so many paths in life. Some we choose, and some are chosen for us. We walk our paths without looking down and that’s the life we lead. The only things you’ll get from guessing where another path would have gone are questions you can’t answer and heartache you can’t ever soothe.”
    Zane met Ty’s eyes, gazing at him as a sense of calm seeped into his bones. He smiled. “You’re like a damn walking fortune cookie, you know that?”
    Ty smiled, and Zane kissed him. He was right; it was good to be home.
    Ty broke the kiss with a gasp when it got too heated for his injuries. He hummed and cocked his head. “Do you hear the cats?”
    “No, actually.”
    Ty sat up and called for Smith and Wesson again, then got up and headed for the stairs, looking up and frowning. Usually when the door opened, the cats came running. If it was Ty, they would swarm his legs, rubbing against him, purring so loudly they seemed to vibrate the floor. If it was Zane, they would both sit down to stare at him disapprovingly. They would watch him as he moved around the house, growling or hissing if he came too close to one of Ty’s things, and they wouldn’t leave him unattended until Ty got home.
    It was odd that they hadn’t come when Ty’d called the first time. Even more so that they’d allowed Zane to cuddle with Ty on the couch for that long without trying to bleed him dry.
    Ty headed for the basement door, but he stopped short when he passed the kitchen counter. He picked up a manila envelope and his breath caught.
    “What is it?” Zane asked. He stood and followed. A sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he watched Ty’s expression fall.
    Ty shook his head and cleared his throat. “It’s from Cross. He says thanks for watching his boys. He came and got them.” Ty pressed his lips together hard as he read the rest of the note.
    “Oh, Ty,” Zane said as he moved closer. He put his arm around Ty’s shoulder and hugged him. He had dreaded this day, knowing it would break Ty’s heart when those stupid, scheming, evil cats were gone.
    Ty nodded, still looking at the note on the envelope. Zane thought he might be fighting back tears. First, he’d had to leave Barnum behind, and now Smith and Wesson were gone too.
    “What’s inside?” Zane whispered.
    Ty shook his head and handed the package to Zane. Zane squeezed his shoulder before taking it and reading the rest. Cross’s note was longer than the original he’d scribbled when he’d left Smith and Wesson and a bowl of cat food in Ty’s kitchen. The prose was odd and stilted, but it didn’t strike Zane as unusual for Julian Cross. That was the way the man spoke. He’d