Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [192]
Butch glanced over, a whole lot of “gotcha” glowing on his puss. “I’m just that good. Sorry, sucker.”
The cop took a drink from his Lag and repositioned himself on the other side of the table. As he sized up the balls, his smart-ass smile was right where it should be: front and center, revealing that slightly off porcelain cap.
V had been keeping his eye on the guy. After they’d spent hours alone together, they’d parted awkwardly and taken separate showers. Fortunately, though, the hot water had been a reset for them both, and when they’d met up again in the Pit’s kitchen, it had been business as usual.
And shit had remained that way.
Not that there wasn’t the temptation to ask the guy whether all was still cool. Like, every five minutes. It felt like they had fought a battle together, and were sporting the stress fractures and the fading black-and-blues to prove it. But V was going with what was in front of him: his best friend whipping his ass at pool.
“And that’s game over,” the cop announced as the eight ball circled and got good and sunk.
“You beat me.”
“Yup.” Butch grinned and raised his glass. “You want another round.”
“You bet your balls.”
The scent of melted butter and the buckshot sound of kernels going apeshit announced Rhage’s arrival—or maybe Fritz’s? Nope, it was Hollywood over by the machine with his Mary.
V leaned back so he could look through the archway, across the foyer and into the dining room, where the butler and his staff were setting up Last Meal.
“Man, Rhage is playin’ with fire,” Butch said as he started to rack up the balls.
“I give Fritz thirty seconds before he’s—Here he comes.”
“I’m going to pretend I’m not here.”
V took a swig of his Goose. “Me too.”
While they got busy grabbing balls, Fritz came steaming across the foyer like a missile seeking a heat source.
“Watch your ass, Hollywood, true?” V muttered as Rhage came over with a basket of popped-and-fluffy.
“It’s good for him. He needs the exercise—Fritz! How are you, buddy?”
While Butch and V rolled their eyes, Rehv came in with Ehlena under his mink-clad arm. The Mohawked motherfucker was bundled up, as usual, and he was as always relying on his cane, but his matedmale perma-grin was in place, and his shellan was glowing at his side.
“Boys,” he said.
Various grunts greeted him as Z and Bella came in with Nalla, and Phury and Cormia arrived because they were spending the day. Wrath and Beth were likely still up in the study—maybe looking at paperwork; maybe putting George briefly at the head of the stairs so they could have some “private time.”
When John and Xhex came down with Blay and Saxton, the only people not in attendance were Qhuinn and Tohrment, who were likely in the gym, and Marissa, who was at Safe Place.
Well, those three and his Jane, who was down in the clinic restocking the supplies that had been drained from the other night.
Oh, and of course his twin, who was no doubt . . . “um, yeahing” . . . with that surgeon of hers.
With all the new arrivals in the room, the sound of deep voices multiplied and exploded as people poured drinks and passed the baby around and copped handfuls of popcorn. Meanwhile, Rhage and Fritz were opening a fresh load of kernels. And someone was changing the channels on the TV—likely Rehv, who was never satisfied with whatever was on. And another person was poking at the roaring fire.
“Hey. You still all right?” Butch said softly.
V camouflaged his startle routine by taking a hand-rolled out of the pocket of his leathers. The cop had spoken so quietly there was no way anyone else had heard it, and this was a good thing. Yeah, he was trying to ditch the ultrareserved shit, but he didn’t want anyone to know how far he and Butch had gone. That was private.
Flicking up a light, he inhaled. “Yeah. I really fucking am, true.” Then he glanced into the hazels of his best friend. “And . . . you?”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
Heeeeeeeeeeey, check his shit out with the relating. Any more of this and he was going to get a gold