They were right, too: He did want to be with her—although “making love” was a far better term.
And those moments with her were so worth whatever they gave him.…
Up at the mansion, Tohr sat on the bottom step of the grand stairwell, his elbows on his bent knees, his chin on a fist, his cell phone faceup next to him.
His ass was numb.
In fact, after having sat where he had for the last—how long? five hours?—he was probably going to have to get Doc Jane to surgically remove the carpet fibers from his caboose—
The security check-in station let out a beep, and he burst up, striding over to the panel, double-checking the screen, releasing the door lock.
Lassiter came in alone, likely because Doc Jane had returned to the Pit. And the angel was naked as a jaybird… and just frickin’ fine. No bullet holes, no scars, no contusions.
“You keep looking at me like that and you’d better buy me dinner afterward.”
Tohr glared at the angel. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Lassiter shook his finger. “You, of all people, do not need to ask me that. Not about last night.”
On that note—and utterly unconcerned about the nakey—Lassiter sauntered into the billiards room and headed for the bar. The good news was that at least when he was behind the thing pouring liquor, his longshoreman and those two buoys were not in full view.
“Scotch? Gin? Bourbon?” the angel asked. “I’m having an Orgasm.”
Tohr rubbed his face. “Can you never say that word around me when you’re buck-ass nekkid?”
That set off a round of, “Orgaaaaasmmm, orgaaaaasmmm, orgaaaasmmm,” to the tune of Beethoven’s Fifth. Fortunately, the fruity bullshit the fucker put into his glass cut the chorus off as he swallowed it on a oner.
“Ahhhhh…” The angel smiled. “Think I’ll have another. Care for one? Or did you have enough this afternoon.”
A quick mental picture of No’One’s breast in his hand made his cock hop all over that plan. “Lassiter, I know what you did.”
“Outside? Yeah, the sun and I get along. Best doctor there is—and no copay. Woo-hoo.”
More with the drinking. Which suggested that bravado might just be a little forced.
Tohr parked it on one of the stools. “Why the hell did you put yourself in front of me?”
The angel went about making himself number three. “I’ll tell you the same thing I did Doc Jane—I got no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Those were bullet wounds all over you.”
“Were they?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you prove it?” Lassiter did a little turn with his arms up. “Can you prove I was even hurt?”
“Why deny it?”
“This isn’t a denial if I have no fucking clue what you’re going on about.”
With another charmer of a smile, he bottomed up again. And then immediately started making number four.
Tohr shook his head. “If you’re going to get plastered, why can’t you do it like a real man.”
“I like the taste of fruit.”
“You are what you drink.”
The angel glanced up at the clock. “Shit. I missed
Lassiter went over and stretched out on the leather couch—and Tohr counted himself lucky that the bastard at least had the decency to wrap a throw blanket around his naughty bits. As the television came on, and Ellen DeGeneres danced down a row of housewives, it was obvious that conversation was not on the angel’s to-do list.
“I just don’t get why you did it,” Tohr muttered.
It was so unlike the guy, always out for himself.
At that moment, No’One appeared in the arches of the room. She was in her robe with the hood in place, but Tohr saw her naked and undone, and his body juiced to life.
As he slid off the stool and went to the female, he could have sworn Lassiter murmured, “That’s why.”
Approaching the female, he said, “Hey, did you get the food?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “But I was worried when you didn’t come back. What happened?”
He glanced back at Lassiter. The angel appeared to have passed out, his breathing even, the remote resting on his chest in a lax hand, the drink beading up with condensation on the floor beside him.
But Tohr didn’t trust the out-cold appearance.
“Nothing,” he said roughly. “It’s… nothing. Let’s go upstairs and have a rest.”
As he turned her away with a subtle touch on her shoulders, she said, “You sure?”
“Yeah.” And they really were going to rest. He was suddenly exhausted.
He spared one last glance over the shoulder as he headed into the foyer. Lassiter was exactly where he’d been… except there was the smallest hint of a smile on his face.
Like everything had been worth it, as long as Tohr and No’One were together.
THIRTY-FOUR
As the night wore on, Throe walked the streets of Caldwell by himself, unarmed, dressed in hospital scrubs… and stronger than he’d been since he’d arrived in the New World.
His beating at the hands of those two Brothers had healed up almost immediately, and the Brotherhood had released him shortly after that second feeding.
He still had a number of hours before he was due to meet Xcor, and he passed the time with his own thoughts, walking in running shoes that had been a gift from the enemy.
During his stay with the Brotherhood, he had learned nothing about where their facilities were located. He had been unconscious when brought into their compound—and locked in a van with no windows when he’d left. After a drive of some time, no doubt due to a circuitous route, he’d been deposited by the river, and left to his own devices.
Naturally, the van had had no license plate, and no distinguishing features. And he’d had the sense that he was being watched—as if they were waiting to see if he tried to follow it as it departed from him.
He did not. He stayed where he was until it had driven off… and then he had started upon his walkabout.
Xcor’s brilliant maneuver had succeeded in gaining naught. Well, aside from likely saving Throe’s life. What little he had discovered about the Brotherhood was nothing that couldn’t have been guessed at: Their resources were extensive, judging by the amount and sophistication of the medical equipment he’d been treated with; the number of people he’d seen or heard walking in the hall was just as impressive; and security was taken very seriously. Indeed, theirs appeared to be an entire community, hidden from human and
Everything had to be underground, he thought. Well guarded. Camouflaged to appear as if it were nothing in particular; for even during the raids, when so many of the race’s homes had been found and wiped out, there had been no rumor that the king’s household had been hit.
So Xcor’s plan had yielded little on Throe’s part but animosity.
And for a moment, he questioned whether he would show up to meet his former leader or not.
In the end, he knew such rebellion would remain unrealized. Xcor had something Throe wanted—the only thing, really. And as long as those ashes were retained by the male, there was naught to be done but grit one’s teeth, duck one’s head, and push onward. It was, after all, what he had been doing for centuries.
Except he would not make the same mistake twice. Only an idiot would not recall this visceral reminder of
