J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [286]
Whistling softly to get her attention, he nodded down toward the front. Cormia followed, seemingly fascinated by the inset lights that went down the low stairs. Once he got her situated in one of the loungers, he jogged up the stairs and tried to figure out what the hell to put on.
Okay, straight horror was out, both because of her delicate sensibilities and because of the real-life nightmare he’d been in earlier. Of course . . . that eliminated about fifty percent of the collection, because Rhage was usually the one who put in movie requests to Fritz.
John bypassed the Godzilla section because it reminded him of Tohr. Raunchy comedies like American Pie and Wedding Crashers weren’t classy enough for her. Mary’s collection of deep, meaningful foreign films was . . . yeah, way too valid for John to sit through even on a good night. He was looking for escapism, not a different kind of grinding torture. Action flicks? Somehow he didn’t think Cormia would grasp the subtleties of Bruce Willis, Sly Stallone, or Ahnold.
That left chick flicks. But which one? There were the John Hughes classics: Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club. The Julia Roberts section with Mystic Pizza, Pretty Woman, Steel Magnolias, My Best Friend’s Wedding . . . Jennifer Aniston’s layer upon layer of forget-table. All the Meg Ryans from the nineties . . .
He slid a case free.
As he turned the thing over in his hand, he thought of Cormia dancing over the grass. Bingo.
John was just turning around when his phone went off. The group text was from Zsadist, who was evidently still at Havers’s clinic: Lash doesn’t luk gud. Treatment ongoing. Will keep all posted.
The message was a blast to everyone in the house, and as John reread it, he wondered if he should forward it to Blay and Qhuinn. In the end, he put the phone back in his pocket, figuring the two of them had enough to deal with without flip-flopping reports about Lash’s condition. If the guy died, then John would get in touch with his friends.
He paused and looked around. It was utterly surreal to be doing something as normal as copping a movie, and it felt vaguely inappropriate. But right now was all about waiting. He and everyone else involved were in neutral.
As he went over to the DVD player and put the disk on the machine’s black tongue, all he could see was Lash down on that tile, fear in his eyes, blood running out of his neck.
He started to pray that Lash would make it.
Even if it meant he had to live in fear of his secret being exposed, better that than having Qhuinn condemned as a murderer, and a death on John’s conscience.
Please, God, let Lash live.
Chapter Sixteen
Downtown at zerosum, Rehv was having a bad fucking night, and his chief of security was making it worse. Xhex was standing in front of his desk with her arms crossed, looking down her nose at him like he was dog shit on a hot night.
He rubbed his eyes, then glared back at her. “And why are you telling me to stay in here?”
“Because you’re toxic and the staff are scared of you.”
Which proved they had half a brain, he thought.
“What happened last night?” she asked softly.
“Did I tell you I bought that lot four blocks down?”
“Yes. Yesterday. What happened with the Princess.”
“This town needs a Goth club. I think I’ll call it the Iron Mask.” He leaned in toward the glowing screen of his laptop. “Cash flow here is more than strong enough for me to cover a construction loan. Or I could just cut a check, although that would get us audited again. Dirty money is so fucking complicated, and if you ask me about last night one more time, I’m going to kick you the fuck out of here.”
“Well, aren’t we feeling precious.”
His upper lip twitched as his fangs shot out into his mouth. “Don’t push me, Xhex. I’m so not in the mood.”
“Look, you can keep your yap shut, that’s fine, but don’t take your head fuck out on the staff. I’m not interested in cleaning up the interpersonal debris— Why