J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4 - J. R. Ward [221]
When he was back in the living room, he rubbed his brow and felt sweat. Her house was warmer than he was used to, or maybe he was just pumped. Either way, he was hot, so he took off his jacket and put his weapons and the cell phone just inside the duffel bag.
As he rolled up his sleeves, he stood over her and measured her slow, even breaths. She was so small on that couch, smaller still with those strong, gray warrior eyes hidden behind lids and lashes. He sat down next to her and gently shifted her body so she was nestled in the crook of his arm.
Next to his brawn, she was tiny.
She stirred, lifted her head. “Rhage?”
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, urging her against his chest. “Just let me hold you. That’s all I’m going to do.”
He absorbed her sigh through his skin and closed his eyes as her arm went around his waist, her hand tucking into his side.
Quiet.
Everything was so quiet. Quiet in the house. Quiet out of doors.
He had a stupid impulse to wake her up and reposition her just so he could feel her ease against him once more.
Instead, he focused on her breathing, matching the draw and push of his own lungs to hers.
So…peaceful.
And quiet.
Chapter Twenty
As John Matthew left Moe’s Diner, where he worked as a busboy, he was worried about Mary. She’d missed her Thursday shift at the hotline, which was very unusual, and he hoped she was in tonight. As it was twelve thirty now, she had a half hour left before she took off, so he was sure to catch her. Assuming she’d showed.
Walking as fast as he could, he covered the six dirty blocks to his apartment in about ten minutes. And though the trip home was nothing special, his building was full of fun and games. When he came up to the front doorway, he heard some men arguing with the imprecision of drunks, their insults loose, colorful, and inconsistent. A woman yelled something over pounding music. The seething male response she got back was the kind he associated with folks who were armed.
John shot through the lobby and up the chipped stairs, locking himself in his studio with quick twists of his hands.
His place was small and probably five years away from being condemned. The floors were half linoleum and half carpet, and the two were trading identities. The linoleum was fraying to the point that it was developing a kind of nap, and the rug had stiffened into something close to hardwood.
Windows were opaque with grime, which was actually a good thing, because it meant he didn’t need shades. The shower worked and so did the basin in the bathroom, but the kitchen sink had been clogged since the day he’d moved in. He’d tried to get the thing open with some Drano, but when that didn’t work, he’d decided against getting into the pipes. He didn’t want to know what had been shoved down that throat.
As he always did when he got home on Fridays, he wrenched open a window and looked across the street. The Suicide Prevention Hotline offices were glowing, but Mary wasn’t at the desk she used.
John frowned. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. She’d seemed really exhausted when he’d gone to her house.
Tomorrow, he decided, he’d ride over to where she lived and check on her.
God, he was so glad he’d finally gotten the courage up to approach her. She was so nice, even nicer in person than over the phone. And the fact that she knew ASL? How was that for fate?
Shutting the window, he went over to the refrigerator and released the bungee cord that kept the door shut. Inside were four six-packs of vanilla Ensure. He took two cans out, then stretched the cord back into place. He figured his apartment was the only one in the building that wasn’t infested with bugs, and it was only because he didn’t keep any real food around. He just couldn’t stomach the stuff.
Sitting down on his mattress, he leaned against the wall. The restaurant had been busy, and his shoulders were aching something awful.
Cautiously sipping from the first can, and hoping his belly gave