J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [251]
The place smelled like stale air and plastic strawberries.
Holy shit, he was in the mall.
John Matthew couldn’t fricking believe that he was in the mall. Talk about your trippy full circles.
The place had been given a surface upgrade since he’d last seen it, the shades of beige having been replaced with a pink and ocean green Jamaican theme. Everything from the floor tiles to the garbage cans to the fake potted plants and the fountains screamed, We be jammin’.
It was kind of like a Hawaiian shirt on a fifty-year-old man. Cheerfully and unattractively out of whack.
God, how things changed. The last time he’d been here, he’d been a scrawny orphan tagging along behind a bunch of other unwanted kids. Now here he was, with fangs in his mouth and size-fourteen shoes and a big body that people didn’t want to get in the path of.
He was still an orphan, though.
And speaking of orphans, man, he could remember so clearly those field trips here to the mall. Every year, St. Francis had taken its charges to the Galleria before Christmas. Which had been kind of cruel, as none of the kids had had money to buy any of the shiny, pretty stuff that was for sale. John had always been afraid that they’d get kicked out or something, because no one carried any shopping bags to validate the group’s use of the bathrooms.
But that wasn’t going to be a problem tonight, he thought, as he patted his back pocket. In his wallet was four hundred dollars he’d earned working in the training center’s office.
What a relief to have green to burn and to belong amid the strolling masses.
“You forget your wallet?” Blay asked.
John shook his head. Got it.
Up ahead by a number of feet, Qhuinn was in the lead and moving quickly. He’d been in a rush since they’d walked in, and as Blaylock paused in front of Brookstone, the guy looked at his watch with bracing impatience.
“Let’s hustle it, Blay,” he snapped. “We’ve only got an hour before closing time.”
“What is your damage tonight?” Blay frowned. “You’re tight as hell, and not in a good way.”
“Whatever.”
They walked faster, passing groups of tweens that hung together like schools of fish, each by species and sex: Girls and boys didn’t mix; Goths and preps didn’t mingle. The lines were very clear, and John remembered exactly how all that worked. He’d been on the outside of every group, so he’d been able to watch all of them.
Qhuinn stopped in front of Abercrombie and Fitch. “Urban Outfitters’ too core for you. We’re going to A-and-F your flow.”
John shrugged and signed, I still don’t think I need a ton of new clothes.
“You have two pairs of Levi’s, four Hanes T-shirts, and a set of Nikes. And that fleece.” Fleece was pronounced with the same enthusiasm as fresh roadkill.
I also have workout sweats.
“Which will abso put you on the cover of GQ. My b.” Qhuinn headed into the store. “Let’s do this.”
John followed along with Blay. Inside, the music was loud and the clothes were crowded in tight and the pictures of the models on the walls showed lots of perfect people in black and white.
Qhuinn started flipping through rows of hanging shirts with vague disgust, like the shit was something his grand-mother would wear. Which made sense. He was definitely an Urban Outfitters man, with a thick chain swinging from the blue-black jeans and the Affliction T-shirt with the skull and wings on it and the black boots that were big as your head. His dark hair was spiked up, and he had seven gunmetal studs in his left ear running from lobe to upper cartilage.
John wasn’t entirely sure where else he was pierced. Some things you just didn’t need to know about your buddies.
Blay, who fit in at the store, branched out and went over to the distressed-jeans section, which he seemed to approve of. John hung back, less concerned with the clothes than the fact that people were looking at them. As far as he was aware, humans couldn’t sense vampires, but