by J. R. Ward
The knocking down below on the front door was loud, echoing up the open staircase.
With a squeak, she slapped her palms over her breasts even though there was no chance of anyone seeing her. “Oh, my God, tell me you do not have a roommate.”
Trez had already straightened, and she was slightly alarmed when he produced a handgun from somewhere. “You stay here. No matter what you hear, do not come down until I get you.”
She opened her mouth to tell him to pipe down with the he-man stuff. But then she decided the situation probably didn’t require an untrained, mostly naked female added to the mix.
But hey, at least she had one shoot-out already under her belt.
As she wondered exactly what her life had turned into, Therese nodded. “Be careful.”
Trez didn’t respond to that. He was already rounding the corner and descending the stairs with that gun front and center… and an expression like he was used to killing on his face.
As she heard him close the door at the bottom of the staircase and lock it, she wondered exactly how he was connected to the Brotherhood. She had a feeling it wasn’t just friends or drinking buddies.
He hadn’t been frightened in the slightest.
So clearly, he was well familiar with conflict of the deadly variety.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Trez made sure the door to the upstairs was locked before he moved on the intruder. He wasn’t risking his female’s life for anything, and that included even his own. Getting out his phone, he dialed V’s number.
One ring. Two rings…
As he waited for an answer, there was another series of knocking—and he was aware this was all his fault: His car was right there in the frickin’ driveway. Whoever the fuck it was knew someone was in here, and if they were looking for him—if this was a disgruntled pimp, a pissed-off dealer, or some Mob-connected guy with a hard-on about something that had happened at the club—then he’d led them right to this door.
And that was sloppy.
He couldn’t use that BMW anymore if his female was around—
As his call went into voice mail, someone clicked in on his other line. Taking the phone from his ear, he frowned. Accepted the call.
“Fritz?” he said.
The doggen’s cheerful voice came through in two places: in his ear, and on the other side of the door.
“Greetings, sire! Please excuse the interruption, I was endeavoring to get to your rental prior to your arrival. But I had to go to two places for the proper meat.”
Trez blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Meat, sire.” There was a pause. “Forgive me, but might I enter the premises with your victuals?”
Shaking himself, Trez took two steps forward and opened the front door. There, on the other side, was the ancient butler holding four paper bags by the handles. That wrinkled face beamed.
“You’re looking well, sire! And I shall not take long.”
Fritz brushed by and headed for the kitchen, undisturbed in the slightest by the fact that Trez had a gun in his hand and had been considering the idea of shooting through the door.
Shaking his head, Trez reflected that there were benefits to staff who had been with the Brothers a long time. Short of an H-bomb going off in the living room, little bothered them.
Trez lamely closed the door. “You didn’t have to do this.”
It was as close as he could get to what he really wanted to say.
Which was something along the lines of SHE WAS ABOUT TO TURN AROUND IN FRONT OF THE FIRE, FRITZ. TURN AROUND. IN FRONT OF THE FIRE! DO YOU THINK I CARE ABOUT FOOD RIGHT NOW?!?!?!
Hell, on that note, someone could come and take at least one of his legs—maybe both—and he wouldn’t argue with the body-part burglary as long as it got whoever it was the fuck out of this house. And he would have called upstairs and reported that all was well, but he didn’t want his female to feel compromised.
“Listen, Fritz,” he said as he walked through into the kitchen. “It’s cool. I can put everything away.”
Of course, that would be after he went back upstairs and checked on the fire—or rather the mostly naked female standing in front of said combustion.
“But the milk needs to be refrigerated.” Fritz pivoted and opened the GE’s door. “And the meat. And the ice cream.”
Okay, so Trez didn’t care if the milk curdled, the meat spoiled, and that ice cream drooled out of its container.
“As I was saying,” Fritz continued on happily, “I had to go to two stores. The big Hannaford’s steak offerings were not to my liking. I called my butcher.”
At least the doggen was working fast, going back and forth to the fridge, the cupboards, those bags.
“Wait, it’s almost midnight,” Trez said. “You woke the guy up? I’m assuming your butcher’s a human.”
“Oh, you know him. Vinnie Giuffrida provides unto the restaurant Sal’s, as well.”
“Yeah, Vinnie you could definitely wake up. iAm swears by him.”
“Indeed, he took care of us.” With triumph, the butler produced a paper-wrapped bundle and then popped it into the fridge. “And now I am finished here.”
Except Fritz just started to fold the paper bags. Like they were origami sheets. And he was trying to re-create the continental United States out of only one of them.
“It’s okay, Fritz. I’ll do that—”
Trez clapped his mouth shut as the butler recoiled like someone had cursed in front of his grandmahmen.
“Sorry.” Trez put his palms forward. “I, ah, you’re doing great. This is great. This is all so incredibly… great.”
Once again, at least Fritz was fast, but still, the second that last bag was folded flat, Trez wanted to frog-march the butler out the front door. But if suggesting that the doggen needed help was a problem, actually touching the male was going to cause all this forward-motion-back-to-the-front-door to crash to a halt. Grounded in their ancient traditions, Fritz’s kind couldn’t handle any sort of acknowledgment, praise, or physical contact from their masters.
It was like having a hand grenade with a mop around: Very helpful, but you were extremely aware of whether the pin was where it needed to be.
“So thank you, Fritz—”
A strange sound—part thud, part thump—emanated from out behind the house, bringing their attention to the sliding glass doors on the far side of the kitchen table. Through the glass, the security lights come on and illuminated the back deck.
“I think you better go,” Trez said in a low voice. “In case I have to deal with something.”
Fritz bowed low. “Yes, sire.”
And justlikethat the doggen was gone. Which, again, was the good news when it came to the male. Fritz was used to the kinds of emergencies that left bullets and knives in people. He might dawdle with paper bags, but when the shit hit the fan, he knew when to get gone.
As Trez outed his gun again, he was unaware of having reholstered it—and he killed the outside lights with his mind.
The human neighbors didn’t need to see him flashing his piece all around.
Moving through the darkened kitchen, he back-flatted it against the wall by the slider and focused on the backyard—
Freezing in place, he did a double take. “What the…”
With a leap to the slider’s handle, he unlocked the thing and shoved it back on its track. “Are you okay?”
Jumping into the snow on the deck, he tucked his gun and ran over to his female—who, for reasons he could not understand, was lying flat on her back in the snow.
And laughing.
Trez threw himself on his knees and looked up. The window in the bathroom upstairs was wide-open.
“Did you jump?” he said. Which was a ridiculous question. Like she fell out of a double-paned, closed set of Pella? “I mean, why? What—”
“I thought you needed help,” she got out between laughing. “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know what I thought I would do, but I didn’t
hear anything like banging and crashing, so I was worried you were hurt.”
His female lifted her head and indicated her fully clothed body. “I put everything back on, went into the bathroom—I was so nervous, I couldn’t calm myself to dematerialize. I threw up the sash, jumped, and then panicked in midair that the snow wasn’t going to be enough of a cushion. Good thing I managed to get myself turned around or I would have landed on my face—”
Lights came on in the yard next door, and a man in boxers and a flannel robe opened his own slider and piff’d out into the fluffy snow on his own deck.
“You okay over there?” he said.
Behind him, inside his kitchen, a dog the size of a throw cushion was barking in a series of high-alarm, high-register yaps that made Trez question how long that glass slider was going to survive without shattering.
“We’re fine,” Trez’s female said with a grin. “But thanks for asking.”
As the human looked suspicious and opened his mouth—no doubt to ask if 9-1-1 needed to be called—Trez lost his patience with everything and everyone. Reaching into the man’s mind, he threw a patch on the memories of anything strange-noise, strange-sight related, flipped a bunch of switches relegating everything to misinterpretation, and sent Tony Soprano back into his two-story with his little dog and whatever wife was waiting for him upstairs in their bed.
“I hate the suburbs,” Trez muttered as he got up and held his hand to his female. “I really do.”
She accepted his help and brushed the snow off the seat of her pants. “Well, maybe you could move? Although this is a great house.”
With a grunt, he checked out her mobility. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do we need a doctor?”
Batting a hand, she brushed the concern aside. “Oh, God, I’m so perfectly fine. I’ve been jumping out of windows into snow forever.”
“You have?”
“Before my transition, I used to sneak out of the second story of my house with my brother during the days while our parents—” She stopped herself. Put her hands on her hips. Made like she was looking around. “Well, anyway. I’ve done this before.”
She didn’t want him to see her expression. Not when she talked about her family, at any rate.
“Come on,” he said with exhaustion. “Let’s get inside where it’s warm.”
As they walked back across the deck, Trez couldn’t shake the feeling that the mood had been broken.
And he didn’t know how to get it back.
* * *
Therese entered the house feeling foolish and a little sad. As she stomped her boots on the mat just inside the slider, she hated thinking about her brother and all the good times they’d had together—so to escape all that, she replayed her brilliant, second-story-bathroom-window escape plan… and started laughing again. Ducking her head and trying to pull it together, she went over and stood in front of four carefully folded Hannaford paper bags—
“Wait,” she said. “Groceries? That was who was at the door?”
She had jumped for a food delivery? He’d gone down those stairs all 007… for a food delivery?
“Yeah,” Trez said as he shut the slider.
Clapping a hand over her mouth, the absurdity of it all struck her bell so hard, she nearly snorted. And as she vowed to stop—because he was clearly not in a good mood—she really wished she was a good giggler, one of those females who managed to express oh-that’s-funny in a melodic, pretty way. But nope. Not even close. She was a grunter. A chortler. A water buffalo crossed with an army tank backfiring.
Reeeeeal lovely stuff.
And given that Trez didn’t seem amused as he shut the slider and double-checked its lock, she was even more determined than usual to put a cap on it. But dayum. Ever since last night, she felt like her life was in a blender, everything flying too fast and out of control, whirling around, whizzing by, sizzling along. And considering that she had just gotten 95 percent naked in front of him, he’d outed a gun, and she’d ended up jumping out of a house into a snowbank?
All over someone delivering a grub haul?
Locking her molars, she told herself to grow up—
The noise that ascended her throat was nothing she could keep down, and Trez looked over sharply. Like he was worried she’d thrown a pulmonary embolism.
“I am so sorry,” she mumbled, “but this is too funny.”
“Yes, it is.” He smiled, but he lost the lift to his lips as he turned away. “Hey, would you like to eat something?”
Therese watched him open the refrigerator and bend down to look inside. When he stayed there, she knew he wasn’t checking out all the stuff in there. His eyes had nothing but a liter of skim milk, a thing of unsalted butter, and a butcher’s wrap of some kind of meat or poultry to regard.
“Trez,” she said, growing serious. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He closed the door and went over to the cupboard. “Oh, look. Raisin Bran.”
Therese took off her parka and went across to him. Putting her hand on his arm, she waited until his eyes finally swung in her direction.
“Talk to me.”
He shut the cupboard and stepped back, out of reach. His expression was so intense, she was worried he was going to leave or something—or tell her to go. And sure enough, he started to pace back forth.
“Listen,” she said, “if you want me to give you some privacy, just tell me. But if I stay, we’re going to talk whatever this is out. I’m not going stand around in this silence all night.”
Trez stopped and looked over, surprise flaring. Then he cursed. “I’m sorry. I think all the drama is just getting to me, and that has nothing to do with you. And no, I don’t want you to go.”
“Well, think of it this way. At least you’ve put your gun away for the last five minutes.” When he chuckled a little, she took that as a good sign and smiled at him. “I’m hungry. How about you?”
“I ate at the club when two of my bouncers got pizza. Would you like anything?”
“I will take some of that cereal, if you don’t mind.”
“Let me wait on you.”
Therese had the sense that he needed something to do, so she parked it at the little table. And as he got her a bowl and a spoon, the unopened box of cereal, and the milk, she liked watching him move. His body was so strong and heavy, but he was light on his feet, not cumbersome and clunky.
Now, if she could just get him to talk to her about what was really on his mind?
Because, no offense, he wasn’t worried about the drama. That was just an excuse to hide behind.
When he sat down across from her, she popped open the box and poured herself a good two servings’ worth. Then she glanced around, got to her feet, and went over to the sink. There was a roll of paper towels on a stand by the faucet and she pulled a section free. Back at the table, she smoothed the square flat.
“Okay, I know this is weird,” she said. “But it is what it is.”
As Trez cocked his head to one side, she started to pick raisins out of the bowl and put them on the paper towel. Using the spoon to help, she sifted through the flakes, making careful assessments.
“Can I ask you what you’re doing?”
Therese glanced up. “One raisin per spoonful. That’s the correct balance, not too sweet, not so bran-y. They overdo it with the dried fruit.”
“I guess I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“Cereal is serious business, Trez.” She wagged her spoon. “It’s the same thing with sundaes. You need to get the right fudge-to-ice-cream combination per spoon. It’s about each delivery to the mouth.”
“What about whip cream?”
“On a sundae?” As he nodded, Therese recoiled at the mere thought. “No, no, no. No nuts, no whip cream, no cherry. That’s all a distraction. It’s important to focus your taste buds.”
“And pizza?”
“Cheese only, heavy crust, light sauce.”
“Sandwiches.”
Cracking the top on the milk, she poured a proper level. “Two slices of meat, no cheese, light on the mayo.”
“No lettuce or tomato?”
“See also nuts, whip cream, and cherries.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Yup.” She lifted a spoonful out of the milk. “See? Perfect proportion. And you need to get it set before you moo-juice the stuff. Otherwise things get messy.”
Trez eased back in his chair. “You’re very precise about your food.”
She thought about her crap apartment where everything had its place. Her room back home. Her purse, her clothes, her shoes.
“Pretty much about everything, actually. It’s the engineer in me.” As his eyebrows went up again, she nodded. “I have a master’s in civil engineering. Online school obviously. I was hoping—well, it doesn’t matter now.”
“You were hoping what?”
Therese moved the cereal around with her spoon. “It turns out that there are not a lot of jobs for vampires who want to build public works.”
“I’ve never considered what civil engineers do.”
“Bridges, tunnels, maintenance of natural and built environments. Large-scale stuff. When I was little, I loved to work in the dirt. I was always building things. My father…” As she let that drift, she rubbed the center of her chest and changed the subject. “Just so we’re clear, I am not going to apologize to anyone for being a waitress. Work is work. You do everything the best you can, and it doesn’t matter what it is.”
Reaching for the milk, she tipped the carton over the bowl. “Milk percentage is off,” she explained as she felt him stare at her.
Like he’d never seen her before.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As iAm sat behind his desk in his office at the restaurant, he was supposed to be tallying receipts. Putting in meat and liquor orders for the upcoming week. Planning menus.
Failed it, not nailed it.
What the hell time was it anyway? he thought as he checked the digital clock on the landline phone.
Midnight-ish.
Settling back in his chair, he stretched his arms out and rotated both his shoulders. When that did absolutely nothing to relieve the tension riding up his neck and nailing him in the back of the head, he tried some office yoga by grabbing the edge of the desk and pulling against it. As his forearms roped up with muscles and veins, he reflected that as a chef, he never wore a watch. Or bracelets of any kind. Or rings. He needed to have his fingers and his wrists free of any entanglements, things that could be hard to clean, stuff that could break or be in the way, hindrances of any kind.