by J. R. Ward
Butch realized he'd stopped breathing only because his lungs began to burn--and inflating them with a ragged inhale did little to improve that sense of suffocation.
Marissa shook her head gravely. "This is not about whether or not you were ever with Xhex. It's about the fact that you didn't think I could handle you telling me. Isn't it. You didn't want to hurt my feelings, and that's noble, but don't couch what happened between the two of you in terms of being 'unimportant.' That's a copout." She shook her head sadly. "The whole sex-club thing is the same. So is your issue about blow jobs--which you also refuse to discuss with me. The bottom line is, you have a very flattering, but very limiting opinion of me. You want to caretake me, but you're putting me in a prison--and no offense, I grew up in the glymera being told all the things I couldn't do because of who and what I was. I'm not going to put up with that anymore."
God . . . he felt like he'd been shot. And not because anything in particular was hurting. It was more that sense of encroaching cold as your blood leaked out all over the place that he was dealing with. Same sense of dizziness and disassociation from reality, too.
"So what's it going to be, Butch?" she said softly. "What are you going to do."
*
As Marissa fell silent, she honestly had no idea where her hellren was, what he was thinking about, whether he'd even heard a word she'd said. And it was weird: Her heart wasn't even hammering, and her palms were not sweaty--which, considering the crossroads they'd gotten to, was a surprise.
Then again, she'd said her bit as calmly and kindly as she could. Now it really was up to him; their future was in his hands alone in so many ways.
When he shifted in the chair, she braced herself for him to walk out, but all he did was plug his elbows into his knees and rub that shadow of a beard on his jaw. His other hand took the giant gold cross he wore out of his black shirt.
Okay, wait, now her hands were getting a little sweaty.
"I, ah . . ." He cleared his throat. "That's a lot to take in."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"All right."
For some reason, the soft hum of the computer became very loud, as if her ears were trying so hard to pick up sound from her mate that they'd amplified everything else.
He cleared his throat again. "I didn't know I was so bad at this."
"Bad at what?"
"Our relationship."
"I'm still in love with you. I still want you. You haven't failed at everything--and I'm part of the problem. It's not like I've been so chatty-Cathy, either."
"Not so sure about that. The me failing part of it, that is."
Now she sat forward, too, and extended an arm across the desk even though she couldn't quite reach him--and wasn't there a metaphor in that. "Butch, don't . . . please don't beat yourself up about it. That's not going to help either one of us. Talk to me. You've got to talk to me--that's all I'm saying."
"You're saying a lot more than that."
She threw up her hands. "I don't have to go to the club if it's that horrific for you. I don't have to finish you off with a blow job if it really doesn't turn you on. All I'm saying is, you need to tell me why, and we need to talk things through--there has to be another kind of communication that goes on other than you going silent after you tell me it's because I'm a 'good girl and good girls don't do that, can't handle that.'"
Butch steepled his fingers and bumped the tips against his lips. "I didn't tell you about the nightmare stuff because I find it so fucking disturbing when it happens that the last thing I want is to bring it up when it's not on my mind. I get really fucking pissed off at the shit that's still haunting me, and I feel like . . . if I talk about it, it gives it more power over me."
She thought about her conversation with Rhage's shellan the night before last. "I'm pretty sure Mary would say the opposite. That the more you talk about it, the less power it has."
"Maybe. I wouldn't know."
Marissa found herself wanting to press, but dialed that back. She had the impression the door had been cracked, and the last thing she wanted to do was scare the damn thing closed.
"As for the blow jobs . . ." A flush hit his cheeks. "You're right. I don't want to talk to you about that because I'm ashamed of myself."
"For what?" she breathed.
"'Cause . . ."
Tell me, she thought at him as he struggled. You can do this . . . tell me.
His eyes flicked up to hers. "Listen, I'm not interested in you pulling some position paper on what I'm about to say next, okay? How I'm supposed to get over myself. Are we clear?"
Marissa's eyebrows popped. "Of course. I promise."
"You want me to talk, that's fine. But if you come back at me with some PC bullshit, I'm not gonna take it well."
As she had never before hit him with any "PC bullshit," she was very sure he was drawing boundaries because he felt vulnerable.
"I promise."
He nodded as if they'd struck a deal. "I was raised Catholic, okay? And that would be real Catholic, not casual Catholic. And I'm sorry--I got taught that only whores and sluts did that. And you . . . you're everything I could ever want in a female."
Abruptly, he dropped his eyes and couldn't seem to go on.
"Why are you ashamed?" she whispered.
He grimaced so hard his whole face nearly disappeared into his brows. "Because I . . ."
"Because you want me to finish?"
All he could manage was a nod. Then he looked up sharply. "Why is that a relief for you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You just exhaled like you're relieved."
She started to smile at him. "I thought you were never going to let me do it--and I've always wanted to find out what it's like."
Her hellren's face turned beet red. Beet. Red. "I just . . . I don't want to disrespect you. And that's what my background tells me happens when you do that in a girl's mouth--you don't like her, you don't love her, you don't respect her. And yeah, sure, I should throw all that hardwiring out, but it's not so easy."
Marissa thought about her struggles with what her upbringing had left her with. "Boy, do I get that one. I feel like I should stop being bitter and insecure about my brother and my years in the glymera. But it's like I learned too well that that stove burned, you know?"
"Totally." He smiled a little. Then rubbed his face. "Am I as red as I think I am."
"Yes. And it's adorable."
He laughed in a short burst--but then he got serious. And stayed that way. "There's another reason. Well, with the club thing, there's another reason . . . but it's crazy thinking. I mean, really crazy."
"I'm not afraid. As long as you're talking, I am honestly not afraid of anything."
Already she could feel the connection growing between them--and it wasn't the short-lived kind you got when you just had some good orgasms, but then had to return to everything that still hadn't been fixed.
This was the concrete kind. The bedrock kind.
The I-loved-my-partner-before-but-now-it's-even-more kind.
And she knew he was getting ready to talk about his sister because his entire body went still--to the point that he didn't appear to be breathing. And then a glaze of tears appeared across his beautiful hazel eyes.
When she went to get up and go to him, he slashed his hand through the air. "Don't you dare. Don't touch me, don't come over here. If you want me to talk, you gotta give me some space right now."
Marissa slowly lowered herself back into the chair. And as her heart thundered against her ribs, she had to part her lips to keep drawing breath.
"I've always been superstitious . . ." he said softly, like he was talking to himself. "You know, a superstitious thinker. I draw all kinds of connections that don't really exist. It's like what I was saying to Axe about the exam gloves. On a rational level, I understand that I'm not leaving any part of me in or on those bodies, but . . . it doesn't feel like that."
As he went quiet again, she
stayed right where she was.
"My sister . . ." More with the throat clearing. And when he finally did speak again, his naturally gravelly voice was nothing but rocks. "My sister was a good person. There were a lot of us in the family, and not everyone was nice to me. She was, though."
Mentally, Marissa recalled what she knew about the girl: the disappearance, the rape, the murder, the body being found a week later. Butch had been the last one to see her.
"But there was another side to her," he said. "She hung out with a lot of . . . goddamn, this is hard to say . . . but she went out with a lot of boys, you know what I mean?"
His face was pale now, the lips compressed, those hazel eyes heavy lidded as if he were replaying bad memories.
But then he just stopped. And when he didn't say anything further, she had to fill in the blanks.
"You think she was murdered," Marissa whispered, "because she wasn't being a good girl. You think maybe if she hadn't been having sex with those boys, she wouldn't have gotten into that car and they wouldn't have done what they did to her and she wouldn't have died."
Butch closed his eyes. Nodded his head once.
"And you hate yourself for thinking that because it puts the blame on her--and that's a betrayal. That's blaming the victim--and you would never, ever do that to anyone, especially not your own sister."
Now he nodded over and over again. Then wiped away a tear.
"Can I come hug you now?" she asked in a cracked voice. "Please."
When all he did was nod, she raced to him and put her arms around him, drawing him to her until she ended up sitting on the desk and he was collapsed into her lap.
Bending down over him, smelling his hair and his aftershave, stroking those huge shoulders, she felt more in love with him than ever before--in fact, what was in her heart at the moment was so tremendous, she didn't know how her body held it all in.
"It wasn't her fault," he said roughly. "And I know that. The fact that I even had that thought once--it's so fucking ugly. It's as bad as me not saving her--I might as well have put her in the car myself. Jesus, to believe her actions were the problem?" Butch sat up. "My head gets all fucked-up over it--if I had a daughter, and God forbid"--he made a quick sign of the cross over his heart--"something happened to her, and anyone tried to blame her short skirt, or the fact that she had one drink--or seventy-five, or consented to have sex and then changed her mind in the middle? Do you have any idea what I'd do to that misogynistic asshole?"
"You'd kill him, right after you murdered the perpetrator."
"Damn fucking straight. Fuck, yeah." He made a circular motion next to his head. "But then that old tape plays, and every once in a while, it spits out that horrible fucking thought--and I feel so guilty for having it that I want to vomit. In fact, right now I'm eyeing the wastepaper basket and wondering if I can make it there in time."
As his eyes locked off to the side, she wished Mary were in the room with her. Guess this was why people went to therapists--when the dam broke like this, it was probably best to have a trained professional around.
"And by the way," he tacked on, "I'm proud of my religion. The church isn't perfect, but neither am I--and it's brought a lot of good into my life. Without my faith, even with you, I'd be a shell of what I could be."
"I understand completely, and my belief system isn't any different to me."
After a period of quiet, Marissa took both of his hands. "If I go to the sex club tomorrow night, are you going to think less of me?"
"God, no."
She nodded. "And assuming you someday get comfortable with it, if I suck you off, are you going to look down on me?"
He laughed in a short burst. "I'd probably worship you even more."
"Will you still think I'm a good girl?"
"You know . . . actually, yes." He sounded relieved. "Yeah, I mean, I've never thought about it before . . . but I'll absolutely still love you."
"So you're able to get past the old thinking in regard to me, right?"
"Yes, I am."
"Like, you have a thought, you considered it, and you put it aside, right?"
"Yeah." He exhaled. "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm doing."
"So . . . why can't you do the same with your sister. Have the old thought. Consider it against everything you know about her and the way she was, and layer onto it your core belief that the blame never goes on the victim no matter what she's wearing or anything like that . . . and I'm willing to bet you'll reject the idea that your sister contributed in any way to what was a horrific, inexcusable crime against an otherwise innocent girl. I'll bet that you resolve that on your own, and probably never dwell on that part of the pain again."
He blinked once. Twice.
"Forget the blow job," he said.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Butch stared up at her with such complete devotion, it was as if she had put the world at his feet. "I think I just fell even more in love with you. And I didn't think . . . I couldn't fathom how that would even be possible."
Sure enough, his bonding scent became a roar in the room, and his hazel eyes got so full of emotion and reverence that she felt a little giddy.
Taking his face in her hands, she kissed him. "This is so much better than before."
"Before what?"
"If I'm going to be on a pedestal"--she pressed her mouth to his again--"I want to be there as your perfect partner, not because you think I'm the perfect good girl."
Her hellren started to smile. "You got it. And you got me."
As he kissed her back, she thought about what happily-ever-afters were about, and decided that true love didn't mean effortless, and ever-after wasn't about cruise control. You started with the attraction, and then you opened your heart and your soul--but all that, which was no small thing, just got you to first base.
There were many, many other trips to take to deeper levels of greater acceptance and understanding.
That was where you found the happy. And the ever-after was the work you were always willing to put in to stay close, to learn, and to grow as people together.
"I love you," he said as he wrapped his arms around her. "God, I love you."
Leaning away a little, she smiled and traced her fingertips over his face. She wanted to say those sacred words back to him, but somehow they didn't go far enough.
So she said the one thing that would mean even more to him. "Oh, honey . . . go, Sox."
Throwing his head back, Butch laughed so hard the sound rattled the glass door of the office. And as she smiled back at him, she thought, Yup, I love you could be said in many different combinations, couldn't it.
Chapter Thirty-six
It was amazing how a television could turn anything into a proper lounge.
Not that Craeg was watching The Big Bang Theory reruns that were on it. Still, he was glad a doggen had come in and set the thing up in the corner because without the pleasant chatter in the background? Sitting in the same room with both Axe and Paradise would have done his nut in completely.
He needed something, anything to keep his mind off of her.
Naturally, as he stared at the fan of cards in his hand, he had no idea what he was looking at. Across the table, however, Axe hadn't had that problem--which was why, after how many rounds of gin rummy, he owed the bastard fifty bucks.
"Well, I guess I'll head to bed," Paradise said from over on the couch.
Right. It was amazing how, when a certain female spoke a certain combination of words, it was a guaranteed fucking hard-on.
So yes, he was subtly rearranging himself under the table--before the circulation into his femoral artery was cut off completely by his erection.
Meanwhile, Paradise uncoiled herself from her tucked - in position and Craeg did a fantastic job of not watching her. At least not directly watching her: His peripheral vision tracked every step she took across the tiled floor to the door, and particularly noted the way she bent across one of the three round tables to grab her
satchel.
"Day," Axe muttered as he shifted cards around.
Craeg grunted.
When the door eased shut, he wondered exactly how long he had to wait before he could leave--
"You can go now," Axe said with a smirk. "I'm good with solitaire--and there's some porn I'm going to watch. Which is another, more fun version of solitaire."
"I'm not that tired."
"Yeah, I know." The guy tossed back a laugh. "And listen, do me a favor--don't disrespect me by trying to pretend. After that show you put on in the weight room, how stupid do you think I am?"
"I'm not with her."
"Then you're an idiot."
"Not why I'm here." And yet even as he said it, he collapsed his hand of cards and put them facedown on the pile. "I owe you fifty."
"Forty-five. But you were going to lose this hand."
"Probably. You want it now?"
"You're good for the cash."
As Craeg got to his feet, he looked at the piercing spacers that the male had put in the holes in his face and his ears--and abruptly, he wondered exactly how many more studs of metal the guy had in places you couldn't see. "Did those piercings hurt when you got 'em?"
"Yes, that's part of why I do it. The sex afterward is sharper."
"The tats, too?"
"Yup."
"Huh. Go fig. You know, you're smarter than I thought you would be. Better card player, too."
"Because I like ink and metal, you think that makes me dumb?"
"I've led a sheltered life, what can I say."
He was over at the door when Axe spoke up. "I thought you were an asshat."
Craeg frowned and looked over his shoulder. "Based on what?"
"You're the vampire equivalent of a redneck. I thought there was nothing remarkable about you except for your size--and frankly, that's what they make Mack trucks for."
"And now?"
"I still think you're an asshat." The Goth smiled a little. "But I don't mind asshats, as it turns out. Go figure, as you say. Besides, our fathers . . ."
As the male let that one hang, Craeg was glad the guy did. "Yeah. Anyway, good day."
"Have fun, you kids."
"That's not happening."