Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [165]
“I’m not sure any of us are,” I said.
He gave me an unfriendly look. “We are stronger than this, ma petite.”
“Strong, yes, but tired. I guess, I can only speak for myself, but if Musette comes up to me one more time and asks me about Asher, I’m going to smack her.”
“That is against the rules, ma petite.”
“What would make her stop nagging us about Asher? Does she have to see us fucking in front of her to back off?”
Damian was stroking my hand in his. I jerked back from him. “I don’t want to calm down. I’m pissed, and I have a right to be pissed.”
“A right, oui, but not the luxury, ma petite.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Anger without purpose is luxury tonight, ma petite, and we cannot afford it. We do not wish to give Musette any reason to cross the boundaries that we have so carefully negotiated.”
He was right, and I hated it. “Fine, fine, you’re right, you’re always fucking right about the political shit. But then what are we going to do to make Musette stop asking about Asher?”
“I have one possible solution,” Jean-Claude said.
The solution had to wait, because Micah came through the curtain with Nathaniel and Merle in tow.
Nathaniel’s outfit was mostly cream colored strips of leather that covered almost nothing. A white thong covered his front, but left his buttocks bare. He had cream colored boots that were over the knee but open in back, so you got glimpses of his legs to mid-calf when he walked away from you. There was a three-inch heel on the boots, and Nathaniel knew how to make the heel work for him. I knew he wore less than this almost every night at Guilty Pleasures, but it bugged me, until Nathaniel assured me he was fine with it. Stephen had styled Nathaniel’s auburn hair, looping it back and over itself, to form the largest French braid I’d ever seen. French braids just aren’t meant to hit the knees. The delicate eye makeup was almost overwhelming to his violet eyes, making them almost painfully, shockingly beautiful. Lipstick had shaped his mouth and made it kissable, even from a distance. He would have looked like a girl, except that the outfit left no doubt that the body it was almost covering was very male.
Merle was wearing a variation of what all the bodyguards would be wearing: black leather. Black leather pants over black boots with silver points, a black T-shirt under a black leather jacket. Merle had had his own outfit. He was six feet plus with gray-streaked hair that fell to his shoulders and a mustache and partial beard that were both a darker gray than his hair. He looked like what he was—a longtime biker and hard case. At the moment he was livid, so angry that his beast was rolling in the air around him like an almost visible presence.
“What happened?” I asked.
Merle growled, “If that bastard touches my Nimir-Raj one more time, I’m going to tear off his arm and shove it up his ass.”
Jean-Claude and Asher said in unison, “Paolo.”
“Yes,” Merle growled.
Micah looked amused. I don’t think it bothered him, but not much bothered Micah. He was one of the most easygoing people I’d ever met. I guess he had to be to survive as my boyfriend.
“It isn’t bothering me, Merle.”
“That’s not the point,” the big man said. “It’s insulting. It shows he has no respect for us.”
“It’s Paolo,” Asher said, “he has no respect for anyone, except Belle.”
“Let me guess,” I said, “Paolo’s pawing Nathaniel, too.”
Merle gave a low, skin-crawling growl.
The curtains opened, and Bobby Lee stuck his head and shoulders in. “Unless we can just start tearing people up, you better get back in here.”
We exchanged a look, sighed almost as a group, and we got back in there.
45
THERE WAS A wall of our black leather-clad bodyguards—wererats, werehyenas, wereleopards—so that we couldn’t see who was making a high piteous noise.
“Make a hole,” I said. I was ignored.
Merle yelled, “Make a hole, people,” and the bodyguards parted like a black leather ocean.
It