J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [89]
It was his father, wasn’t it?
Blay hesitated. Then nodded once.
Chapter Eighteen
Okay, this was either cool as hell or scary as fuck.
As Jane walked along, it was like she was going through an underground tunnel in a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. This setup was straight out of high-budget Hollywood: steel, dimly lit from inset fluorescent lights, infinitely long. At any minute Bruce Willis circa 1988 was going to come running by on his bare feet wearing a ratty muscle shirt and a machine gun.
She glanced up at the fluorescent panels in the ceiling, then down to the polished metal floor. She was willing to bet that if she took a drill to the walls they’d be half a foot thick. Man, these guys had money. Big money. More than you could get if you were dealing prescription drugs on the black market or servicing coke, crack, and crank addictions. This was government-scale money, suggesting vampires weren’t just another species; they were another civilization.
As the three of them went along, she was surprised they’d left her unrestrained. Then again, the patient and his buddy were armed with guns—
“No.” The patient shook his head at her. “You’re not in cuffs because you won’t run.”
Jane’s mouth about fell open. “Don’t read my mind.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, it just happened.”
She cleared her throat, trying not to measure how great he looked standing up. Dressed in Black Watch plaid pajama bottoms and a black muscle shirt, he was moving slowly, but with a lethal confidence that was a knockout.
What had they been talking about? “How do you know I won’t run for it?”
“You won’t bail on someone who requires medical attention. It’s not in your nature, true?”
Well…shit. He knew her pretty well.
“Yeah, I do,” he said.
“Cut that out.”
Red Sox looked around Jane at the patient. “Your mind reading coming back?”
“With her? Sometimes.”
“Huh. You getting anything from anyone else?”
“Nope.”
Red Sox repositioned his hat. “Well, ah…let me know if you pick up shit from me, k? There are some things that I’d prefer to keep private, feel me?”
“Roger that. Although I can’t help it sometimes.”
“Which is why I’m going to take up thinking about baseball when you’re around.”
“Thank fuck you’re not a Yankees fan.”
“Don’t use the Y-word. We’re in mixed company.”
Nothing else was said as they continued through the tunnel, and Jane had to wonder whether she was losing her mind. She should have been terrified in this dark, subterranean place with two huge escorts of a vampire nature. But she wasn’t. Oddly, she felt safe…as if the patient would protect her because of the vow he’d given her, and Red Sox would do the same because of his bond with the patient.
Where the hell was the logic in that, she wondered.
Gimme an S! A T! An O! A C! Followed by a K-HO-L-M! What’s it spell? HEAD FUCK.
The patient leaned down to her ear. “I can’t see you as the cheerleader type. But you’re right, we both would slaughter anything that so much as startled you.” The patient straightened again, one giant testosterone surge plugged into bedroom slippers.
Jane tapped him on the forearm and crooked her forefinger so he’d lean back down. When he did, she whispered, “I’m scared of mice and spiders. But you don’t need to use that gun on your hip to blow a hole in a wall if I run into one, okay? Havahart traps and rolled newspapers work just as well. Plus, you don’t need a Sheetrock patch and plaster job afterward. I’m just saying.”
She patted his arm, dismissing him, and refocused on the tunnel ahead.
V started to laugh, awkwardly at first, then more deeply, and she felt Red Sox staring at her. She met his eyes with hesitation, expecting to find some kind of disapproval thing going on. Instead, there was only relief. Relief and approval as the man…male…Christ, whatever…looked at her and then his friend.
Jane flushed and glanced away. The fact that the guy was obviously not pulling a best-friend pissing contest with her over V should not have been a bonus. Not at all.
A hundred yards later they came up to a set of shallow