J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [870]
She took out the key John had used to let them into the guy’s former house. “Just wanted to give this back to you and tell you there was a problem.”
The Brother’s emotional grid went black and vacant, everything lights-out. “What kind of problem?”
“One of your sliding glass doors is broken. It’s going to need a couple of sheets of plywood to cover it up. We were able to reengage the security alarm so the motion detectors inside are on, but you’ve got a hell of a draft. I’ll be happy to fix it today.”
Assuming John either finished off the rest of the exercise machines, ran out of running shoes, or fell over in a dead heap.
“Which . . .” Tohr cleared his throat. “Which door?”
“The one in John Matthew’s room.”
The Brother frowned. “Was it broken when you got there?”
“No . . . it just spontaneously busted.”
“Glass doesn’t do that without a good reason.”
And hadn’t she given John Matthew one. “True enough.”
Tohr stared at her and she looked right back at him and the silence grew thick as mud. The thing was, though, as nice a guy and as good a soldier as the Brother was, she had nothing to share with him.
“Who do I talk to about getting some plywood,” she prompted.
“Don’t worry about it. And thanks for letting me know.”
As the Brother turned and walked back into the office, she felt like hell—which she supposed was yet another connection she had with John Matthew. Except instead of setting a land/speed record, she just wanted to take a knife and cut her inner forearms to release the pressure.
God, she was such a crybaby emo sometimes, she truly was. But those cilices of hers not only kept her symphath side in check, they helped her dim down the things she didn’t want to feel.
Which was abooooooout ninety-nine percent of emotion, thank you very much.
Ten minutes later, Blaylock ducked his head out of the door. His eyes were locked on the floor and his emotions were in an upheaval, which made sense. No one liked to see a buddy self-destruct, and having to conversate with the person who’d sent the poor bastard into a free fall wasn’t exactly a happy-happy.
“Listen, John’s gone into the locker room to take a shower. I got him to quit the Running Man impression, but he’s . . . He needs a little more time, I think.”
“Okay. I’ll keep waiting for him here in the hall.”
Blaylock nodded and then there was this awkward pause. “I’m going to go work out now.”
After the door eased shut, she picked her jacket and her weapons up and wandered down toward the locker room. The office was empty, which meant Tohr had gone along his merry way, no doubt to set up some Tim the Tool Man Taylor time with a doggen.
And the resonant quiet told her there was no one in any of the classrooms, gym, or clinic.
Sliding down the wall, she let her ass bottom out on the floor and hung her arms off her knees. Letting her head fall back, she closed her eyes.
God, she was exhausted. . . .
“John’s still in there?”
Xhex snapped awake, her gun pointed right up at Blaylock’s chest. As the guy leaped back, she immediately flipped on the safety and lowered the muzzle.
“Sorry, old habits die hard.”
“Ah, yeah.” The guy motioned his white towel toward the locker room. “Is John still in there? It’s been over an hour.”
She flipped her wrist up and looked at the watch she’d snagged. “Christ.”
Xhex got to her feet and cracked the door. The sound of the shower running wasn’t much of a relief. “Is there any other way out?”
“Just through the weight room—which opens only into this hall.”
“Okay, I’m going to go talk to him,” she said, praying it was the right thing to do.
“Good. I’ll finish my workout. Call me if you need me.”
She pushed through the door, and inside, the place was standard-issue, all banks of beige metal lockers separated by wooden benches. Following the sound of falling water to the right, she passed