by J. R. Ward
Hanging with him . . . plus not having to deal with the Hades Express to get back home?
Tohr smiled. “So I take it this is a yeah, right?”
John nodded. And kept nodding.
“You know how to get there?”
Same code? John signed.
“Yup.” Tohr squeezed his shoulder, the big palm transmitting all kinds of warmth and support. “Take care, son.”
John took off for the locker room and for once didn’t hesitate as he stepped inside the hot, humid maze of metal lockers and social hierarchy. As usual, he made no eye contact with anyone on the way to number nineteen.
Funny, both his locker and he were in the back and on the bottom.
When he grabbed his duffel and slung it over his shoulder, Blaylock, the red-head, who was one of only two who didn’t ride him with insults, frowned.
“Aren’t you changing for the van?” the guy asked while he rubbed his hair with a towel.
John couldn’t help smiling as he shook his head and turned away.
Which, of course, meant Lash had to step into his path.
“Looks like he’s going to go chase after the Brotherhood.” The blond guy made elaborate work out of strapping on a huge diamond watch that was “from Jacob and Co., you know.” “Bet he’s gonna polish daggers for them. What are you going to use on their blades, John?”
The urge to flip him off was so strong, John actually lifted his hand, but Christ, he didn’t want to dick-toss with the asshole. Not when he was Pit-bound and bus-free. Turning away, he took the long way out of the locker room, going down another whole aisle of benches and lockers to avoid the conflict.
“Have fun, Johnny,” Lash shouted. “Oh, and hit the equipment room on your way out. For those knee pads.”
As laughter echoed, John pushed open the door and went down to Tohr’s office . . . thinking he would give anything for Lash to know what it was like to get picked on.
Or maybe pounded into submission.
Going through the back of Tohr’s supply closet and coming out the other side in the underground tunnel was like walking into sunshine: a singing relief. Sure, there were only ten hours of freedom in front of him, but that was a lifetime under the right circumstances.
And being around Butch was definitely the break he needed.
John walked quickly toward the main house, and he paused when he got to the stairs that led up to the foyer. Tohr had said it was another hundred and fifty yards farther down to the Pit . . . so he kept going. When he found another set of stairs, he was relieved. The tunnel was dry and dimly lit, but he didn’t like being in it alone.
Sticking his face into the registry field of a video cam, he hit the summons button and resisted the urge to wave like an idiot.
“Hey, man.” Butch’s voice was clear as a bell as it came through the intercom. “Glad you made it.”
The lock was sprung and John took the stairs fast. Butch was standing in the doorway at the top in a black-and-gold smoking jacket.
The guy had the best clothes John had ever seen. He’d taught class in a pin-striped suit that looked like something out of a magazine.
“You can use my bathroom to shower in, because my roommate, who’s off rotation tonight, is micromanaging that goatee of his.”
“Whatever, cop,” a deep male voice called out.
“You know it’s true. You so suffer from OBD—” Butch glanced over. “That would be Obsessive Beard Disorder. Hey, listen, J-man, I was going to head into town, you cool with that?”
John so loved it when Butch called him J-man. And he really loved to be asked to go anywhere with a guy like him.
As he nodded, Butch smiled. “Good deal. I’m getting another tat. You have any?”
John shook his head.
“Maybe you’ll get one.”
A tattoo. With Butch? Man, this night was looking up.
While John nodded, Butch smiled and glanced around. “You ever been in our place, John?”
When John shook his head, the cop gave him a quick tour, and it was clear the Pit was Guy Central. There wasn’t a lot of furniture, but there were plenty of gym bags, and a legion of Scotch and vodka bottles. The foosball table was righteous sweet. So was the massive high-def TV and the incredible bank of computers in the living room. The place also smelled great, all smoke and leather and aftershave.
Butch led the way down a hall. “V’s in that bedroom.”
John glanced through the doorway and saw a huge bed with black sheets and no headboard. Weapons and thick books were all over the place, kind of like a library had been taken over by a squadron of Marines.
“And I’m in here.”
John walked into a smaller bedroom . . . that was choked with men’s clothes. Suits and shirts were hanging from racks with rollers on them. Ties and shoes were everywhere, and there were easily fifty pairs of cuff links on top of the bureau. It was like the inside of a department store. A very, very expensive department store.
“Bathroom’s all yours. Clean towel’s on the back of the toilet.” Butch took a squat crystal glass of Scotch off the bedside table and put it to his lips. “And you should also think about that tat. Place where I go’s top-notch. They’ll ink you right.”
“You trying to corrupt a youth there, cop?”
John looked to the doorway. A huge man with a goatee and tattoos on his face stood in the threshold. He had on a set of leathers and a black T-shirt and a glove on one hand, and his eyes were the diamond white of a husky’s, the rims around the irises superblue.
Staring at him, one word came to John’s mind: Einstein. The guy just oozed IQ—it was the eyes, those penetrating, icy eyes.
“This is my roommate, Vishous. V, meet John.”
“What’s doing? I’ve heard a lot about you.” The guy offered his palm and John shook it.
“And as for the tat,” Butch said, “he’s of age. Right? Twenty-something.”
“He should wait.” V turned to John and started signing. Perfectly. If you get one done before your transition by a human, it’s going to distort when you go through the change. Then it’s going to fade in a month or two. If you wait, though, I’ll ink whatever you want into you, and I’ll do it so it stays.
John could only blink. Then he dropped his duffel and signed, Wow. Are you deaf?
Nope. Heard from my man Tohr this is how you communicate, so I taught it to myself the other night. Figured we’d run into each other sooner or later.
As if learning an entire language took no notable effort.
“Hey, I’m feeling left out over here.”
“Just giving the man a little advice.”
John whistled to get V’s attention. Will you ask Butch what he’s going to get for a tattoo?
“Good question. Cop, what’re you getting done tonight, man? Tweety Bird on your ass?”
“I’m adding to an old one.” Butch went over and threw open the closet doors, taking off the robe so he was just in his black boxer-briefs. “What to wear . . .”
John tried not to stare and failed. The cop was built. Big shoulders. Thick, fan-shaped muscles flaring out from his spine. Arms that were cut. He wasn’t as immense as a vampire like Tohr, but he was easily one of the bigger human men John had ever seen.
And all across the small of his back was a tattoo. Done in black ink, the geometric pattern took up a lot of space. It was a series of lines—no, it was a numerical thing. Groupings of four lines with a diagonal slash. Five of them and one lone line. Twenty-six.
V pointed to John’s duffel. “Hey, man, your bag’s leaking. You got shampoo or some shit in there?”
John shook his head and then frowned when he saw the stain in one corner. He went over and pulled back the zipper. There was something on his clothes, something white, opaque . . .
“What the hell is that?” V said.
Oh, God . . . had someone . . . ?
Butch nudged John out of the way, put his hand right in there, then lifted his fing
ers to his nose.
“Conditioner. Hair conditioner.”
“Better than what I thought it was,” V muttered.
Butch’s hazel eyes lifted upward. “This yours, J-man?” When John shook his head, the cop asked, “You got problems at school you ain’t talking about?”
The man’s face was dark, as if he were prepared to go hunt down whoever was screwing with John and his stuff and pound them into the ground like a tent pole. And for a moment, John entertained a happy little picture of Butch popping Lash a good one and then stuffing the guy into a locker.
But he wasn’t about to have his problems solved by someone else.
As he shook his head, Butch’s eyes narrowed and he looked at V. Who nodded once.
Then Butch went all smiles, fronting real casual-like. “I’ll call Fritz and he’ll clean your clothes. And don’t worry, we’ll find you something to wear tonight. No problem.”
John looked at V, not falling for the no-big-deal on the cop’s face. Tell him it’s nothing. Tell him I can handle it.
V just smiled. “Butch already knows that, don’t you, cop?”
“That it’s no big deal and he’ll take care of it? Yeah, I know, J-man.”
I thought you didn’t understand sign language?
Butch shook his head. “Sorry, don’t read hands yet. But I know from assholes, son. Like I said, you don’t worry about a thing.”
The man kept grinning, his expression entirely pleasant. As if he were going to enjoy getting to the bottom of the problem.
John looked at V for help. Except the vampire just crossed his arms over his chest and nodded again at Butch. Totally onboard with the plan.
Whatever plan it might be.
Oh, crap.
The following scene is not really a deleted one, but something I edited a lot in the revisions of Lover Awakened, mostly because I didn’t like the vibe. (The scene in the book starts on p. 344.) Bottom line, I thought this came across as too rough for Z and Bella’s good-bye, but now I wish I’d gone with what I saw in my head. I think the scene in the printed book was good, but this is better:
Bella packed up her things in less than two minutes. She didn’t have much to begin with, and what little she did have she’d moved from Z’s room the night before. Fritz would be coming for her things soon and would drive them to Havers and Marissa’s. Then in another hour she would dematerialize to their house and Rehvenge would meet her there. With a guard.
Stepping into the dim bathroom, she turned on the lights over the sink and double-checked the counter to make sure she had everything. Before she stepped away, she looked at herself in the mirror.
God, she’d aged.
Under the pool of illumination, she lifted her hair off her neck and turned this way and that, trying to find some way to see her true self. When she gave up after God only knew how long, she let the weight fall and—
Zsadist appeared behind her in the shadows, taking shape from thin air, darkening the darkness with his black clothes and his weapons and his mood.
Or maybe he’d been there all along and only now chose to reveal himself.
She stumbled back, banging into one of the marble walls with her hip. As she cursed and rubbed the sore spot, she refiled through her vocabulary for all the ways to tell him to go to hell.
And then she smelled him. His bonding scent was strong.
Z stayed silent, but it wasn’t like he needed to say much. She could feel his eyes. Could see the golden glow out of the corner he was in.
She knew exactly why he was staring at her. And couldn’t believe it.
Bella backed even farther away, until she hit the shower door. “What do you want?”
Wrong words, she thought, as he stepped into the light.
As she saw his body, her mouth went lax.
“I want to mate,” he said in a low voice. And he was more than ready.
“You think . . . Christ, you think I’d lay with you now? You’re deranged.”
“No, I’m psychotic. At least, that’s the clinical diagnosis.” As he took off his dagger holster, the door shut behind him and the lock turned. Because he willed them to do so.
“You’re going to have to force me.”
“No, I won’t.” His hands went to the gun belt at his hips.
Bella stared at what was straining against his leathers. And wanted it.
God, she wished he would hold her down and not give her a choice. That way, she could be absolved of what she was about to do and hate him more deeply. She could . . .
Z came forward until he was right in front of her. In the straining silence between them, his chest lifted and compressed. “I’m sorry I’m a bastard. And I wouldn’t be pushing you at Phury if I didn’t think it was the right thing for both of you.”
“Are you apologizing just because you want to be with me right now?”
“Yes. But it’s true anyway.”
“So if you weren’t hard at the moment, you’d just let me go?”
“Think of this as good-bye, Bella. The last time.”
She closed her eyes and felt the heat coming off him. And when he put his hands on her, she didn’t jump. As his palms locked on her throat and tilted her head back, her mouth opened because it had to.
Or at least, that was what she told herself.
Z’s tongue pushed inside of her as his hips came up against her lower belly. As they kissed there was a ripping sound—her shirt as he tore it in half.
“Zsadist,” she said hoarsely when he went for the button on her jeans. “Stop.”
“No.”
His mouth dropped down to her breast and her pants hit the floor and then he lifted her up and carried her over to the counter. He was purring loudly now as he forced her knees apart with his head and knelt before her, his eyes fixated on her sex.
So he knew exactly how turned-on she was.
Bella put her hands between him and where he was going.
“Zsadist, if you do this, I will never forgive you.”
“I can live with that.” He moved her arms away easily, trapping her wrists. “If it means I can be with you this last time.”
“Why the hell do you care so much?”
He pulled her hands forward, flipping them around so they faced upward. When he stared downward, he shook his head. “Phury didn’t feed from you, did he. No marks on your neck. Your wrists.”
“There’s still time.”
“He said you couldn’t bear it.”
Great, that was the last thing she needed Zsadist to know.
“And this is my punishment?” she said bitterly. “You’re going to force me—”
Z dove down to her, his mouth going straight to her core. With all his demand, she expected him to eat at her, but instead the soft strokes of his lips were so loving they brought tears to her eyes. As he released her hands, her cheeks went wet, and she held on to his head, bringing him closer still.