Although knowing his hand, the damn thing would have probably ended up behind the fly anyway.
Fuck it, he was gonna chain his wrists to the frickin' headboard.
After he shaved, which like tooth maintenance was out of habit rather than pride in his appearance, he braced his palms on the marble and leaned into the main spray nozzle, letting the water sweep over him.
Lessers were impotent. Lessers . . . were impotent.
Hanging his head, he felt the hot rush over the back of his skull.
Sex kicked up all kinds of bad shit for him, and as the image of a grungy stairwell bloomed like a stain on his brain, he popped his lids and dragged himself back to the present. Not that it was an improvement.
He'd have gone through what had happened to him a thousand times to save Xhex from being mistreated that way once.
Oh . . . God . . .
Lessers were impotent. Always had been.
Moving like a zombie, he stepped out, dried himself, and headed for the bedroom to get dressed. Just as he was pulling on his leathers, his phone went off and he reached over to his jacket to fish the thing out.
Flipping it open . . . he found a text from Trez.
All it said was: 189 st. francis ave 10 2nite.
Clipping the phone closed, his heart beat with brutal intent. Any crack in the foundation . . . he was just looking for one little crack in Lash's world, a fissure, something he could wedge himself into and blow the whole fucking thing to pieces.
Xhex might well be dead, and this new reality without her might be his forever more, but that didn't mean he couldn't avenge her.
In the bathroom, he strapped on his chest holster, weaponed up, and after grabbing his jacket, he went out into the hall. Pausing, he thought of all the people who would be gathering downstairs . . . as well as the time. Shutters were still down.
Instead of going left toward the grand staircase and the foyer, he went right . . . and walked silently in spite of his shitkickers.
Blaylock left his room a little before six because he wanted to check in on John. Usually the guy gave a knock around mealtime, but there had been none. Which meant he was either dead or dead drunk.
At his buddy's door, he paused and leaned in. Nothing doing on the other side that he could hear.
After a soft knock wasn't answered, he pulled a fuck-it and opened the thing in. Man, the place looked ransacked, with clothes everywhere and a bed that might possibly have been used as a demolition derby site.
"He in there?"
At the sound of Qhuinn's voice, he stiffened and had to stop himself from turning around. No reason to. He knew that the guy would be wearing some kind of Sid Vicious or Nine Inch Nails or Slipknot T-shirt tucked into black leathers. And that his hard face would be cleanly shaven and very smooth. And that his spiky black hair would be slightly wet from the shower.
Blay walked into John's space and headed for the bathroom, figuring his actions would answer the question well enough. "J? Where are you, J?"
When he pushed his way into all that marble, the air was thick with humidity and smelled like Ivory soap, which was what John used. Wet towel was on the counter.
As he turned around to go, he slammed right into Qhuinn's chest.
The impact was like getting hit with a car and his best friend reached out to steady him.
Oh, no. No touching.
Blay stepped back quickly and stared out into the bedroom. "Sorry." There was an odd pause. "He's not here."
Duh.
Qhuinn leaned to the side and put his face, that beautiful face, in the line of Blay's vision. When the guy straightened, Blay's eyes followed because they had to.
"You don't look at me anymore."
No, he didn't. "Yes, I do."
Desperate to get away from that blue-and-green stare, he cut himself some slack and went over to the towel. Wadding it up, he shoved the thing down the laundry chute, and damn if the cramming didn't help a little.
Especially as he imagined it was his own head he was forcing into the hole.
Blay was calmer when he turned around. Even met those eyes. "I'm going down to dinner."
He was feeling quite proud of himself as he walked by--
Qhuinn's hand snapped out and latched onto his forearm, stopping him dead. "We have a problem. You and me."
"Do we." Not a question. Because this was one convo he had no interest in encouraging.
"What the hell is the matter with you?"
Blay blinked. What was wrong with him? He wasn't the one fucking anything with a hole.
No, he was the pathetic fidiot who pined for his best friend. Which put him into wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home territory. Any closer to chicking out and he'd have to carry Kleenex tucked into his sleeve to catch his tears.
Unfortunately, the flash of anger deflated fast and left him hollow. "Nothing. There's nothing wrong."
"Bullshit."
Right. Okay. This was unfair. They'd already been over this territory and Qhuinn might be a slut, but the guy's memory was perfectly functional.