Lover Mine(135)

As he focused on the television screen and tasted the whiskey in the back of his throat and felt the warmth of the fire that had been lit across the way, he felt the blender in his brain slow down a little. And then a little more. And further still.

Today was going to be brutal, but at least he wasn't contemplating death by sun ray anymore.

Sometime later, he realized it was Tohr who he was sitting beside, the two of them stretched out as they'd done back home when Wellsie had still been alive.

God, he'd been so pissed off at the guy lately that he'd forgotten how easy it was just to hang with the Brother: On some level, it felt like they had done this for ages, the pair of them before a fire, drink in one hand, exhaustion and stress in the other.

As Mothra flew in for some wing-to-claw action with the big guy, John thought of his old bedroom.

Turning to Tohr, he signed, Listen, when I was at the house tonight--

"She told me." Tohr took a drink from his squat glass. "About the door."

I'm sorry.

"Not to worry. Shit like that can be fixed."

True that, John thought, turning back to the television. Unlike so much else.

From way against the far wall, Lassiter let out a sigh that suggested someone had cut off his leg and there wasn't a medic in sight. "I should never have given you the remote. This is just some guy in a monster suit, batting around at a pinata. Come on, I'm missing Maury."

"What a shame."

"Paternity tests, Tohr. You're button-blocking paternity tests. This sucks."

"Only to you."

While Tohr held steady on 'zilla-vision, John let his head fall back against the leather cushions.

As he thought about Xhex out there alone, he felt as if he'd been poisoned. The stress was literally a toxin in his bloodstream, making him light-headed and nauseated and twitchy.

He thought back to all that "Kumbaya" shit he'd been spouting before he'd found her. How he was owning his feelings, how even if she didn't love him, he could still love her and do what was right and let her live her life and blah, blah, blah.

Yeah, he was so choking on that self-actualization Kool-Aid right now.

He was not okay with her out there by herself. Without him. But she clearly wasn't going to listen to him or anyone else.

And how much you want to bet she was scrambling to get to Lash before nightfall--when John could finally be in the field. On some level, it shouldn't matter which of them took out the piece of shit--but that was rationality talking. The inner core of him couldn't bear another weakness--like, oh, say, sitting idly by while his female tried to kill the son of evil and likely got mortally wounded.

His female . . .

Ah, but wait, he told himself. Just because he had her name tattooed on his back didn't mean he owned her--it was just a lot of black letters in his skin. Fact was, it was more like she owned him. Different. Very different.

Meant she could walk away quite easily.

Just had, as a matter of fact.

Fuck. Rehv seemed to have summoned up the sitch better than anyone could: Her end game didn't include anyone else but herself.

Couple hours of good sex wasn't going to change that.

Nor was the fact that, like it or not, she had taken his heart out there into the daylight with her.





Qhuinn went to his bedroom and headed straight for the bath on legs that were surprisingly steady. He'd been pretty drunk before the emergency meeting had been called, but the idea of John's female out in broad daylight, walking into a shitstorm all by herself, had a way of slapping down the waves of heeeeeey-noooow.

Then again, he was kind of dealing with a twofer along those lines.

Blay was also off in the world all by his little lonesome.

Well, he wasn't alone; he was unprotected.

That text that had come through from an unknown number had settled the mystery of where he was and then some: I am staying the day with Saxton. I'll be home after dark.

So like Blay. Everyone else in the world would have shortened that message to: Stayn t day w Sax b hm afta drk

Guy's texts were always grammatically correct, though. Like the idea of busting out of the King's English made him scratch.

Blay was funny like that. All proper and shit: He changed for meals, trading leathers and T-shirts for French-cuffed button-downs and pressed slacks. He showered at least twice a day, more if he sparred. Fritz found his room a complete frustration because there was never any mess to clean up.

He had table manners like a count, wrote thank-you letters that could make you tear up, and he never, ever swore in the presence of females.

God . . . Saxton was perfect for him.

Qhuinn sagged in his own skin at that realization, imagining all the proper English that Blay was calling out at this very moment as the other guy had him.

Merriam-Webster had never been used so well, no doubt.