“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t look at me like that.”
Rhage recovered first. “I can’t help it. You’re just so sexy in those baggy-ass pants. I got to get me a pair, ’cause nothing says hotness like wearing what looks like two Heftys stitched together at your racket and balls.”
Lassiter nodded. “Totally craptastic. Sign my sac up for some of that.”
“You get that shit from Home Depot?” Rhage tilted his head to one side. “In the trash removal section?”
Before Tohr could hit back, Lassister jumped in. “Man, I only hope that I can pull off lookin’ like I got a load in my shorts as well as you do. Did you get training? Or is it just a case of lack of ass?”
Tohr had to laugh. “I’m surrounded by asses. Trust me.”
“Which would explain why you’re so confident going without one.”
Rhage tacked on, “Come to think of it, you’re actually built like Mary Tyler Moore. So I’m surprised you don’t like her more.”
Tohr took a deliberate draw on the milk shake. “I’ma put on some weight just to throw you down for that.”
Rhage’s smile stayed in place, but his eyes went grave. “Looking forward to it. I’m so looking forward to that.”
Tohr went back to focusing on the vestibule’s door, closing himself up, ending the banter because abruptly it didn’t feel right.
Lassiter and Rhage didn’t follow the lead. The pair were a Chatty Cathy combo from hell, riffing off each other and whatever was on the TV and what Rhage was eating and where the angel was pierced and…
Tohr would have moved if he could have watched the front door from any other-
The security system let out a beep as the mansion’s outer door was opened. There was a pause and then another beep was followed by a gonging sound.
As Fritz raced to answer the summons, Tohr sat up straighter, which was pathetic, considering the shape his body was in. Torso height was not going to magically improve the fact that he weighed little more than the chair his nonexistent butt was parked in.
Qhuinn was the first to stride in, the kid dressed in black, the gunmetal piercings that ran up his left ear and marked his lower lip catching the light. Blaylock was next, dressed all Mr. Preppy in his high-necked cashmere sweater and his slacks. As the pair headed for the stairs, the expressions on them were as different as their clothes. Qhuinn had evidently had a really good night, going by the I-got-laid-and-then-some grin on his piehole. Blay, on the other hand, looked like he’d been to the dentist, his mouth set grimly, his eyes down on the mosaic floor.
Maybe John wasn’t coming back. But where would he stay-
When John came into the foyer, Tohr couldn’t help it: He rose from his seat, catching himself on the high back of the chair as he wobbled.
John’s face had no expression on it at all. His hair was tousled, but not by the wind, and there was a series of scratches on the side of his neck, the kind made by a female’s nails. The scent coming off him was of Jack Daniel’s, multiple perfumes, and sex.
He looked about a hundred years older than when he’d been sitting by Tohr’s bed doing The Thinker mere nights ago. This was not a kid. This was a full-grown male working off a hard edge in the time-tested ways most guys did.
Tohr sank back into the chair, expecting to be ignored, but when John reached the bottom step, he put his boot up and turned his head as if he knew someone was watching him. His expression didn’t change at all as he met Tohr’s stare. He just lifted his hand in a half-assed way and kept on going.
“I was worried you weren’t coming home,” Tohr said loudly.
Qhuinn and Blay halted. Rhage and Lassiter shut up. Mary’s and Rhoda’s voices filled the void.
John barely paused as he signed, This isn’t home. It’s a house. And I need a place to stay.
John didn’t wait for a response, and the set of his shoulders suggested he wasn’t interested in one. Clearly, Tohr could have talked until his tongue was worn to a stump about how the people here cared about John, but nothing would register.
As the three of them disappeared up the stairs, Tohr finished his milk shake, took the tall glass into the kitchen, and got the thing into the dishwasher without a doggen asking him if he wanted anything else to eat or drink. Beth, however, was stirring a pot of stew and looking as if she were hoping to slip him a bowl so he didn’t stick around.
The trip up to the second floor was long and hard, but not because he was feeling weak physically. He’d fucked John up but good, and now he was reaping that crop of all the shutout he’d been laying, wasn’t he. Damn it-