by J. R. Ward
"When's our next night off?"
"Will you take me and show me around? So I don't embarrass the shit out of my buddy who gave the key to me?"
"You just told me you were happily mated."
Butch shot the guy a don't-be-stoopid. "I like to watch, asshole. It's not cheating if you don't get your hands, your tongue, or your dick involved."
Axe nodded like he respected that logic. "Yeah, I'll take you. But only on a masked night. If you fuck up or get a case of the pussies, I don't want it traced back to me."
Butch thought back to a certain night with Vishous, that night when there had been certain revelations made after Butch had . . . done some things that had needed doing to his best friend.
"I can handle myself," he said dryly. "Don't worry."
The sounds of heavy feet on the shallow steps to the side door announced Craeg's re-arrival.
"That was fast," Butch muttered as the male came in with only one ratty duffel.
"Told you," Craeg replied. "I don't have much."
*
Marissa came home early because she had a headache. And no, not one of Trez's migraines, just a dull thumper behind her eyes that made it difficult to concentrate, hard to read documents on paper, and impossible to focus on a computer screen.
Mounting the stone steps to the mansion's grand entrance, she figured out what was wrong: She'd skipped First Meal and had worked through the snack that was served every night at midnight at Safe Place.
"Dummy," she said as she entered the vestibule and looked into the security camera.
When the lock was sprung, she walked into the grand foyer and smiled at Fritz. "I'm awfully sorry to trouble you, but may I please have something to eat?"
The ancient doggen clasped his hands together and all but swooned, sure as if she had handed him a winning lottery ticket or the most perfect birthday present ever given to anybody.
"Oh, mistress, yes! May I get you eggs and toast? A sandwich? Soup? Something more substantial--"
She laughed a little. "Surprise me?"
"Right away! Yes, yes, right away!"
The speed with which he left and the bounce in that step suggested he had many more centuries left in him, and that was a good thing--
"Oh, heeeeey, gurl."
She turned to the billiards room. Lassiter was leaning against the open archway, a bowl of popcorn in his hand, a giant-bag, leopard-print Snuggie covering about seventy percent of his torso, his strong, bare forearms and bare legs showing at its hems.
"Hey there . . ." She frowned as something dawned on her. "Are you wearing anything under that?"
"Of course I am." He threw a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "You wanna watch some tube with me? Right now I got a whole lot of MacGyver on, but I'm willing to be flexible."
Marissa opened her mouth to say no, but then figured, What the heck. She was just going to have a little snack and wait for Butch to be done at the training center. She'd texted him that she was off work early, and he'd hit her right back, telling her to sit tight; he'd be back in twenty, thirty minutes, tops.
"Sure."
"Niiiiice." The angel straightened. "What's your poison, TV-wise?"
As he turned around, she let out a squeak.
Because she was staring at his bare ass.
"What's wrong?" he asked, all concerned.
Covering her eyes, she said, "You told me you had something on!"
"A jockstrap. Duh."
At that moment, Fritz appeared next to her with a tray laden with so many covered plates that he might as well have been feeding Rhage.
"Ah . . ." Marissa rubbed her eyebrows, that headache back in full force.
"She's eating in here," Lassiter called out. "And yes, Marissa, I'll put my damn jeans on."
"Thank you, baby Jesus," she muttered as she entered the game room.
As Fritz set the tray up on the bar to the left, Lassiter pulled the Levis on and flopped down on one of the sofas that faced the enormous screen mounted over the fireplace. "FYI, if I get chafed, it's on you."
She went over and took a seat on one of the padded stools. "FYI, my mate is due in here at any moment. So you just saved yourself a whoop-assing."
Lassiter pointed the remote at the TV and called up the cable schedule. "Psssh, whatever. I can take him."
"Doubt it."
"Actually, I got nothing better to do for the rest of tonight. Think he'll want to fight? I could use the exercise."
Marissa laughed at the hopeful tone as she sat back and let Fritz pop the cloches off the plates and describe, with all the precision and elegance of a Nobu waiter, what was being served.
"Thank you so much," she murmured as she picked up her fork and tried the rice pilaf. "Mmmmm."
She wasn't going to eat even half of it all, but that never seemed to bother the butler. Then again, to him, the joy of serving was the very best job satisfaction he had.
"Oh, my God," Lassiter said, jerking upright. "I can't believe it."
"What? And if it's a Beaches marathon again, you can forget it." She rubbed the center of her chest with her free hand. "I'm not watching anyone die even in two dimensions."
There had been more than enough of that. Dearest Virgin Scribe, what if they couldn't find out anything about--
"It's Melrose Place. I love this epi--it's where Kimberly went psycho."
"Wait, wasn't she always psycho?"
"Well, yeah, but this is where she takes the wig off and you see the scar. Easily one of the most significant and influential scenes in television history."
"And to think I assumed that was, like, the human lunar landing or something."
Lassiter glanced over. "Wait, those rats without tails made it to the moon? You're kidding me. They can't even decide what time it is, clocks always flipping back and forth from season to season. And then there's their health bullshit, eat this, you'll live longer--no, strike that, it'll kill you, so you need to do this. Internet trolls. Asshat preachers and politicians. And you know, don't get me started on potholes. Why don't they fix the roads?"
Marissa threw her head back and laughed. "You don't even drive. Or care about any of those things."
The fallen angel shrugged, his gold piercings and chains gleaming like sunshine with the shift. "Just repeating what they talk about on the evening news."
Marissa shook her head with a smile. And she was about to ask him what exactly he did aside from sunning himself each noontime if there was no cloud cover, and taking up space on that couch in front of the TV--but then his eyes flicked back to her and they were dead serious. As his gaze returned to the big screen, she realized he'd picked up on her mood and was doing his best to help her out of it.
"You're okay, Lass," she said softly. "You know that?"
"I'm more than okay. I'm amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing," he sang out. "So does this mean I can put you down for a dozen of my calendars?"
With any other person in the house, she might have been tempted to laugh it off as a joke. Him, though? "No, you can't. I don't even know what they're like, but the answer is no."
"Fine, half a dozen," he tossed back. "They're only five bucks. I have to cover printing costs. Good news? There was no photographer expense--I took the pics with my selfie stick."
She lowered a forkful of chicken back to her plate. "You actually made a calendar of yourself."
"Why do you think I had my pants off."
"Lass. Really. You took twelve naked pictures of yourself--"
"Jockstrap. I was in my jockstrap, remember. I just did December's by the fire. I am so hot, it is flat-out stupid."
Marissa passed an eye around the room and shuddered at the number of things he'd probably put his naked ass on before settling for the hearth in front of the banked fire. "What gave you this idea?"
He rolled his eyes. "We've only got how many nights left in this year? I need to get 'em back from Kinko's before December thirty-first."
From out of nowhere, she had an image
of some poor human in a FedEx Office branch getting an eyeful and a half of the mostly naked fallen angel.
Without warning, she started to laugh so hard, tears came to her eyes. The good kind of tears, that was.
And as she gave herself up to the angel's ridiculousness, Lass just sat there on the couch, staring up at Melrose Place, a sly, quiet smile on his beautiful, deranged face.
What an angel he was, she thought to herself. A total angel.
Chapter Twenty-nine
As Butch emerged out of the hidden door under the mansion's grand staircase, his only thought was of finding his mate.
And the sound of her laughter was both an instant locator and a source of high-octane relief. She'd been so distracted as soon as she'd woken up after a day of restless sleep, the weight of what was on her mind giving her the look of someone dragging a baby grand piano around after them. But he'd promised her he would get her something on the girl, somehow, and he was beyond ready to tell her he had an in.
Striding across the mosaic depiction of an apple tree in full bloom, he entered the billiards room, and--
Lassiter lifted both his hands up from his prone position on the couch. "I put my pants back on. I was a good boy."
Butch's fangs threatened to drop and his upper lip twitched. "Excuse me? And think carefully before you explain that one. You're wicked close to the line."
Marissa took a sip from a glass of water. "It's perfectly innocent."
"I'm doing a naked calendar," the fallen angel started.
"He had a jockstrap on."
"It was all done with a selfie stick."
As the pair of them talked over each other, Butch had a sudden urge to plug both his ears, shut his eyes, and go "la-la-la-la-la." "You know, I'm good. I'm really good not knowing anything more."
On any of Lassiter's antics, for that matter. Bitch had a way of making the ordinary complicated and the mundane insane.
It was a gift.
Just ask the fallen angel. He'd tell ya.
"Will you excuse us for a minute," Butch said as he walked over and gave Marissa a kiss on the forehead. God, her scent smelled good in his nose, and wow, could that female make slacks and a blouse look like a goddamn ball gown. "I've got to talk to my girl."
"NFW, I'm watching Melrose."
"That wasn't a request, angel."
"Is there something wrong?" Marissa asked as she wiped her mouth with a damask napkin. "Did someone get hurt in training?"
He pulled out a stool and sat next to her. "Lass, you were leaving."
"The fuck I was."
Butch grimaced and hated making the offer: "You can use the couch at the Pit."
"Will you make me change the channel when you guys get back there?"
"Will you leave now if I say no?"
"Are you saying no now?"
For godsakes, Lassiter was perfectly capable of playing a round of question tennis until dawn--or one of the parties involved kicked the bucket from dehydration and exhaustion. "Yes, I'm saying no."
"Wait, does that mean I can watch Melrose or not? The double negative confused--"
"Jesus Christ, will you just go!"
Lassiter was muttering as he got to his feet. "How many times do I have to tell you that is not my name."
"I need a drink." As the fallen angel left, Butch got back on his feet and went behind the bar. Pouring himself some Lagavulin, he didn't beat around the bush, because he knew his shellan wouldn't want him to. "So I think I have a lead."
"You do?" She put her fork down on her plate. "What? How?"
He put two pieces of ice in a rocks glass and gave them an amber-colored bath. "That piece of metal is a key, and it gets you entrance into a private club that's for humans only."
"Oh, my God, if we can get a membership list, maybe we can find her name."
Yeah, not a country club, my love, he thought as he took a deep drink.
"How did you find this out?" she asked.
"One of the trainees belongs to it. He's taking me there ASAP--I just have to check in with the other Brothers about the next couple of nights. I think if I switch some classes around, I can free up Friday."
"So we'll go! This is amazing!" As he froze with his glass halfway back to his lips, Marissa frowned. "Why are you looking at me like that. Butch. Seriously, I am going with you."
He shook his head and followed through on the swallow. "No, I'll handle this. Don't worry, I'll let you know what I find as soon--"
"I am going with you."
As he got a good look at the set angle of her jaw, he put his Scotch down on the bar. "Marissa, this is not the kind of place you need to even drive past, much less go into. It's a sex club."
"So."
He blinked. "Honey, it's not--"
"Need I remind you what we did after the movie? Four times?"
"Marissa."
"Butch," she echoed.
To keep himself from cursing, he tossed back his drink and poured another. "You're not up to something like that. There'll be people fucking all over the place, doing freaky shit to one another. You can't handle that."
"Or maybe it's more like you can't handle me being there."
He rolled his eyes. He couldn't help it. "You don't know what you're saying. Or what that kind of thing is like."
Marissa folded her napkin in slow, precise little squares and laid it beside her mostly full plate. "Well, we'll just find out when we go together, won't we."
"I'm not taking you there. This is not up for discussion."
"Yes, you are." She slid off the stool and picked up the tray of food. "And if I find out you went by yourself? I'm going to consider it a betrayal of the highest order of our relationship--and that is not up for discussion."
He tried to picture her standing next to a couple dressed in black latex getting it in the ass by a set of DD twins wearing matching purple strap-ons.
"Marissa. I'm not going to have time to handhold you," he said roughly. "My focus is going to be on fitting in, figuring out where the staff is, finding the right people to talk to. Distraction is not going to help that dead girl."
"Don't you dare play that card. I am fully aware of why we're going, and I'd like to point out that you're my hellren, not my ghardian. So shelve the paterfamilias bullshit, and pop a couple of valium before we go if you have to. But I cannot make this clearer--I'm coming with you and I'm going to help figure this all out." She leaned in. "Newsflash--just because I have a pair of ovaries doesn't mean I don't have a brain--or the right to think independently."
In the silence that followed, all he could do was shake his head back and forth. The words that were on the tip of his tongue were not going to help this--and he couldn't believe they were arguing again.
So much for the restart button they'd hit the night before.
"Or is that what you're worried about?" she challenged.
"What?"
"That I might like it."
With that little ditty dropping at his feet like a grenade, she walked off, head held high, shoulders back, a whole lot of get-over-yourself steeling her spine.
Bracing his palms against the granite countertop, he leaned into his arms and tried to keep from screaming in frustration.
At least the bottle of Lag was still three-quarters full.
He was going to need it.
*
Peyton exhaled a stream of smoke and let his head fall back onto his pillow. "Here."
Passing the bong over to Anslam, he closed his eyes and felt himself float about a foot over his body. The familiar sense of relief reminded him that Parry was probably right; he probably needed to not do this. But shit, after the two nights they'd just had?
He needed a little vacay.
Fuck that--he'd earned it.
"So what do you think of them all?" he asked.
The sound of Anslam exhaling just like he had was like someone laughing at the same place in a movie that you did, or enjoying the same good meal. Comradery was a
nice thing.
"Boone's cool," the guy said. "Axe is a fucking freak. I mean, get over yourself, asshole with the black clothes and the spiked hair and that bullshit tattooing crap."
Peyton waited for the guy to continue. "And what about Novo."
"She is fucking hot."
For some reason, even though he agreed, he didn't like the idea of Anslam walking around with that opinion--or worse, popping a chub because of it.
"I don't know," Peyton muttered. "She's okay."
"Did you see her doing sit-ups? I can't believe Boone got to hold her feet. I wanted that fucking view."
"She'll break you in half." Although if this kept up, Peyton might take care of that himself. "Besides, I don't know if she does males."
"I'll turn her," Anslam said in a low voice. "I'll fucking set her right on that one--"
"What about Craeg," Peyton cut in.
"He's the guy to beat. No offense to Paradise coming in first at the end of night one, but Craeg's probably going to go the full distance."
"Yeah." At least they could both agree on that--without a coffin coming between them. "Who are you taking to the ball at her father's place?"
"Right now, no one. I like to keep my options open. Hey, before we crash, can we food up?"
Peyton opened his eyes and glanced over at the antique Cartier clock on his nightstand. "Yeah. Defo. Let me call Paradise first. I wanna make sure she got home."
"You sure you two aren't courting?"
"Nah. Friends only."
"She's a piece."
Peyton wrenched around and glared at the guy. "Watch your mouth about her."
Anslam shook his head and put his palm up. "You got some unresolved shit with her, my friend. Don't kid yourself."
Whatever.
Reaching for his phone, he called her contact out of his recent calls list and waited for her to pick up. As the connection rang, he looked around his room. His parents' mansion was a newer one, with big arching windows running down the back side that overlooked the gardens. With high ceilings and good woodwork, he'd always thought his room was airy even with all the stuffy antique crap his mother insisted on making everyone live with whether they appreciated it or not--
"Hello!"
He frowned. "You okay, Parry?"
"Oh." There was a pause. "It's you."
"Who the hell were you expecting?"
"Ah, no one. My aunt. My--her cousin. My aunt's cousin. You don't know him--her, I mean."
"Have you been smoking up?" He smiled. "Because if you have, you need to put the pipe down now and start sleeping it off."