by J. R. Ward
“In the kitchen, right?”
“I’ll get—”
“I can pour my own. Had years of training. You couch it.”
Jane sat back down on the sofa and pulled the lapels of her robe closer as she rubbed her temples. Shit, was she ever going to feel like herself again?
Manello came in just as she leaned forward and put her head in her hands. Which naturally sent him into full doctor mode. He put his mug down on one of Jane’s mother’s books on architecture and knelt on the Oriental.
“Talk to me. What’s happening here?”
“Head.” Jane groaned.
“Let me see your eyes.”
She tried to sit up straight again. “It’s fading—”
“Shut up.” Manello gently took her wrists in his hands and eased her arms away from her face. “I’m going to check your pupils. Lean your head back.”
Jane gave up, just gave the hell up and relaxed against the couch. “I haven’t felt this horrid in years.”
Manny’s thumb and forefinger went to her right eye and carefully peeled her lid wide while he brought up a penlight. He was so close she could see his long lashes and his five-o’clock shadow and the fine pores of his skin. He smelled good. Cologne.
What kind was it? she wondered in a fuzzy mess.
“Good thing I come prepared,” he drawled, clicking on the little beam.
“Yeah, you’re a Boy Scout all right—Hey, watch it with that thing.”
She tried to blink as he shone the beam in her eye, but he didn’t let her.
“Make your head worse?” he said, going over to the left side.
“Oh, no. That feels great. Can’t wait for you to—Damn, that’s bright.”
He clicked the light off and tucked the thing back into the breast pocket of his scrubs. “Pupils dilate properly.”
“What a relief. Guess if I want to read under a klieg light I’m good to go, right?”
He took her wrist, put his forefinger on her pulse, and brought his Rolex up.
“Is there going to be an insurance copay with this exam?” she asked.
“Shh.”
“ ’Cause I think I’m out of cash—”
“Shh.”
It was awkward being treated like a patient, and keeping her mouth shut made it worse. Man, there was something to be said for hiding awkwardness behind words—
A dark room. A man in a bed. Her talking…talking about…Hannah’s funeral.
Another sharp shooter nailed her in the head and she sucked some air in. “Shit.”
Manello let her wrist go and laid his palm on her forehead. “You don’t feel hot.” He put his hands on the sides of her neck, right under her jaw.
While he frowned and prodded, she said, “I don’t have a sore throat.”
“Well, you don’t have any swollen glands.” His fingers went down the column of her neck until she winced, and he tilted her head to the side. “Shit…what the hell?”
“What?”
“There’s a bruise here. Or something. Goddamn, what bit you?”
She put her hand up. “Oh, yeah, I don’t know what that is. Or when I got it.”
“Seems to be healing up okay.” He palpated the base of her neck, right over her collarbones. “Yeah, no swelling here, either. Jane, I hate to break it to you, but you do not have the flu.”
“Sure I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re an ortho guy, not an infectious-disease czar.”
“You’re not having an immune response here, Whitcomb.”
She felt her own throat. Thought about the fact that she wasn’t sneezing, coughing, or throwing up. But, hell, where did that leave her?
“I want to have a CAT scan on your head.”
“Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“The ones who present with your symptoms? Absolutely.”
“And here I thought I was special.” She shot him a weak smile and closed her eyes. “I’ll be okay, Manello. Just need to get back to work.”
There was a long silence, during which she realized that his hands were on her knees. And he was still up close, leaning over her.
She lifted her lids. Manuel Manello was looking at her not as a doctor would, but as a man who cared about her would. Shit, he was attractive, especially like this…except something was off. Not with him—with her.
Well, duh. She had a headache.
He inched forward and stroked her hair back. “Jane…”
“What?”
“Will you let me set up a CAT scan for you?” As she started to shut him down, he interjected, “Consider it a favor to me. I couldn’t forgive myself if there was something wrong and I didn’t push on this.”
Shit. “Yeah. Okay. Fine. But I don’t need—”
“Thank you.” There was a moment’s pause. And then he leaned in and kissed her on the mouth.
Chapter Thirty-six
On the Other Side, Vishous stared down at Cormia and wanted to shoot himself in the foot. Following her wobbly revelation that she’d never seen a male before, he felt god-awful. It had never dawned on him that she’d known only females, but if she’d been born just after the last Primale died, how could she have ever met the opposite sex?
Of course she’d be terrified of him.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, drawing hard on his hand-rolled, then tapping on it. He was ashing on the amphitheater’s marble stage, but he didn’t give a fuck. “I totally underestimated how hard this would be for you. I assumed…”
He’d assumed she’d be hot to trot for him or some shit. Instead, she was no better off than he was.
“Yeah, I’m damn sorry.”
As her lids peeled back in surprise, the jade color of her eyes gleamed.
In what he hoped passed for a gentler tone, he said, “Do you want this…?” He moved the hand that held the cigarette back and forth between them. “This mating?” When she stayed quiet, he shook his head. “Look, I can see it in your eyes. You want to run from me, and not just because you’re scared. You want to run from what we’re going to have to do, right?”
She brought her hands to her face, the heavy folds of the robe riding down her thin arms and choking the crooks of her elbows. In a small voice she said, “I couldn’t bear to let down the Chosen. I…I will do what I must for the good of the whole.”
Well, wasn’t that the theme song for the both of them.
“As will I,” he murmured.
Neither of them said another word and he didn’t know what to do. He was no good with females to begin with, and he was even worse now that he was damaged goods from letting Jane go.
Abruptly he whipped his head around, aware that they were not alone. “You, behind the column. Come out. Now.”
A Chosen stepped into view, head bowed, body tense beneath her traditional white wrap. “Sire.”
“What are you doing here?”
As the Chosen stared meekly at the marble floor, he thought, Lord save him from the subservience. Funny, during sex he’d demanded it. Now the shit annoyed the hell out of him.
“You’d better have come to comfort her,” he growled. “If it’s anything other than that, you need to get the hell out of here.”
“It is for comfort,” the Chosen said softly. “I worry for her.”
“What’s your name?”
“Chosen.”
“For fuck’s sake!” As both she and Cormia jumped, he forced his temper deep into his gut. “What is your name?”
“Amalya.”
“Okay, then, Amalya. I want you to take care of her until I get back. That’s an order.” As the Chosen did some bowing and vowing, he took a last drag on the hand-rolled, then licked two of his fingers and pressed them to the tip. As he put the butt in the pocket of his robe, he wondered for no good reason why in the hell everyone had to wear fucking pajamas on the other side.
He glanced at Cormia. “See you in two days.”
V left without lookin
g back, walking up the white grass of the hill, avoiding the white silk path that had been laid out. When he came to the Scribe Virgin’s courtyard, he prayed like hell he didn’t run into her, and thanked God she wasn’t around. The last thing he needed was a postgame wrap-up with the likes of Momzilla.
Under the watchful eyes of all those songbirds, he launched himself back to the real world, but he didn’t go to the mansion.
He went exactly where he didn’t need to be: He took form across the street from Jane’s condo. It was a bad fucking idea on a skyscraper scale, but he was half-dead from sorrow and not thinking right, and besides, he didn’t give a shit about anything. Not even the lines that couldn’t be crossed between humans and his kind.
The night was cold, and he was barely dressed in the fakata ceremony clothes, but he didn’t care. He was so numbed-out and wrecked in the head, he could have been naked in a sleet storm and not noticed—
What the hell.
There was a car in her driveway. A Porsche Carrera 4S. Same one Z had, only Z’s was iron gray and this number was silver.
V hadn’t intended to get closer than across the street, but that plan was blown out of the water as he inhaled and caught the scent of a male emanating from the convertible. It was that doctor, the one who’d pulled the lothario shit with her in the hospital room.
V materialized to the maple in her front yard and looked in through the kitchen window. Coffeepot was on. Sugar was out. There were two spoons on the counter.
Oh, hell, no. Hell motherfucking no.
V couldn’t see much of the rest of the condo, so he jogged around the side, his bare feet screaming as he crunched through icy snow patches. As an old woman from the condo next door peered out her window as if she’d seen him, he threw some mhis around as a precaution—and because he figured he should do something that proved he had a brain.
This stalker routine sure as shit wasn’t going to get him on Jeopardy!
As he came up to the back windows and got a look-see into the living room, he saw the death of another as clearly as if he’d committed the murder in real time: That human male, that doctor, was on his knees and pressed up close to Jane as she sat on her sofa. The guy had one hand on her face, the other on her neck, and he was focused on her mouth.
V lost his concentration, dropped the mhis, and moved without thinking. Without reasoning. Without hesitation. He was nothing but screaming, bonded male instinct as he went for the French doors, prepared to kill—
From out of nowhere Butch stepped in front of him, derailing the attack by grabbing him around the waist and dragging him away from the condo. It was a dangerous move, even between best friends. Unless you were an eighteen-wheeler, you didn’t want to get in between a bonded male and the target of this kind of aggression: V’s attack instinct shifted its focus instantly. He bared his fangs, hauled off, and punched his nearest and dearest in the side of the head.
The Irishman dropped V like a beehive, whipped back his fist, and threw a low-higher that caught V on the underside of his chin. As his jaw slammed into his skull and his teeth sang like a choir of angels, he caught fire sure as a dry meadow, instantly into overburn.
“Mhis, you fucker,” Butch spat. “You mhis this place first before we do this.”
V slammed the visual block down and the two of them went at it hard-core, no holds barred, blood popping from noses and mouths as they pummeled the shit out of each other. Half way through, V realized this wasn’t just about Jane being lost. It was about him being utterly alone. Even with Butch around, it wouldn’t be the same without her, so it was as if V was left with nothing.
When it was all over, he and the cop lay flat on their backs side by side, chests heaving, sweat not so much drying on them as freezing. Shit, V could already feel the swelling: His knuckles and his face were going Michelin Man on him.
He coughed a little. “I need a cigarette.”
“I need an ice pack and some Neosporin.”
V rolled to the side, spat out some blood, then flopped back to where he’d been. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“No pr—” Butch groaned. “No problem. Damn, did you have to pound out my liver like that? As if the Scotch ain’t enough of a problem for the thing.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“Where else would you be? Phury came back alone and mentioned shit was going down, so I figured you’d eventually end up here.” Butch cracked his shoulder and cursed. “Let’s face it, the cop in me’s like a radio tower for stupid morons. And no offense, but you’re not winning any awards in the smarty division.”
“I think I would have killed that man.”
“I know you would have.”
V lifted his head. When he couldn’t see through Jane’s windows, he pushed himself up on his elbows to get a clear shot. The sofa was empty.
He let himself fall down onto the ground again. Were the two of them making love upstairs in her bed? Right now? As he lay ruined on her back fucking lawn?
“Shit. I can’t deal.”
“I’m sorry, V. I really am.” Butch cleared his throat. “Listen…it might be a good idea not to come here anymore.”
“Said the jackass who did drive-bys on Marissa for how many months?”
“It’s dangerous, V. For her.”
V glared at his best friend. “If you are going to insist on being reasonable, I’m going to stop hanging with you.”
Butch popped a misshapen smile—on account of the crack in his upper lip. “Sorry, buddy, you can’t shake me even if you tried.”
V blinked a couple of times, horrified at what he was about to say. “God, you’re going for sainthood, you know that? You’ve always been there for me. Always. Even when I…”
“Even when you what?”
“You know.”
“What?”
“Fuck. Even when I was in love with you. Or some shit.”
Butch clasped his hands to his chest. “Was? Was? I can’t believe you’ve lost interest.” He threw one arm over his eyes, all Sarah Bernhardt. “My dreams of our future are shattered—”
“Shut it, cop.”
Butch looked out from under his arm. “Are you kidding me? The reality show I had planned was fantastic. Was going to pitch it to VH1. Two Bites Are Better Than One. We were going to make millions.”
“Oh, for the love.”
Butch rolled over on his side and got serious. “Here’s the deal, V. You and me? We’re in this life together, and not just because of my curse. I don’t know if I’m all into divine providence and shit, but there’s a reason why we met. And as for that whole you-being-in-love-with-me thing? It was probably more about you just caring about someone for the first time.”
“Okay, stop right there. You’re giving me hives from this caring/sharing shit.”
“You know I’m right.”
“Fuck you, Dr. Phil.”
“Good, I’m glad we agree.” Butch frowned. “Hey, maybe I could have a talk show, since you aren’t going to be my June Cleaver anymore. I could call it the O’Neal Hour. Sounds important, doesn’t it?”
“First of all, you were going to be June Cleaver—”
“Screw that. No way I’d bottom for you.”
“Whatever. And second, I don’t think there’s much of a market for your particular brand of psychology.”
“So not true.”
“Butch, you and I just beat the crap out of each other.”
“You started it. And actually, it would be perfect for Spike TV. UFC meets Oprah. God, I’m brilliant.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Butch’s laughter was cut off as a gust of wind whipped through the backyard. “Okay, big guy, as much as I’m enjoying this, I don’t think my tan’s improving much, considering it’s pitch dark.”
“You don’t have a tan.”
“See? This is getting me nowhere. So how about we head home?” There was a long pause. “S
hit…you’re not coming with me, are you?”
“I don’t feel like killing anyone anymore.”
“Oh. Good. The idea that you might only cripple the guy makes me feel a fuck of a lot better about leaving you here.” Butch sat up with a curse. “Mind if I at least see if he’s left?”
“God, do I really want to know?”
“I’ll be right back.” Butch groaned and got up like he’d been in an accident, all creaky and stiff. “Man, this is gonna hurt for a while.”
“You’re a vampire now. Body’ll be fine and dandy before you know it.”
“Not the point. Marissa is going to kill us both for brawling.”
V winced. “Crap. That’s gonna leave a stain, true?”
“Yup, yup.” Butch hobbled off. “She’s going to knock our heads.”
V glanced up to the condo’s second story and couldn’t decide whether it was a good or a bad sign that there were no lights on. Closing his eyes, he prayed that the Porsche was gone…even though he had no expectation that it would be. Man, Butch was right. Him hanging here was a situation with police tape around it. This needed to be the last time—
“He’s gone,” Butch said.
V exhaled like he was a tire deflating, then realized he’d gotten a reprieve only for tonight. Sooner or later she was going to be with someone else.
Sooner or later she was probably going to be with that other doctor.
V lifted his head, then slammed it back down into the frozen ground. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can live without her.”
“Do you have a choice?”
Nope, he thought. No choice at all.
Come to think of it, that word shouldn’t be applied to people’s destinies. Ever. Choice should be relegated to TV and meals: You could choose NBC over CBS or steak instead of chicken. But take the concept any further than the stove or the remote control and the word just didn’t apply.
“Go home, Butch. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“Stupider, you mean.”
“Semantics are for shit.”
“As you’re someone who speaks sixteen languages, you know that’s a lie.” Butch took a deep breath and waited. “I guess I’ll see you back at the Pit, then.”