Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [61]
“I believe the term is sharp dresser.”
With that Boston accent of his, the words came out shahhp dressah, and V found himself wondering if there’d ever been a time when he hadn’t heard that Southie twang in his ear.
“What are you going to do about Jane?”
V put the bottle on the floor, pulled a cashmere turtleneck over his head, and was pissed to find it barely covered his navel. “She’s got enough on her plate. No shellan needs to hear her male went out for a good beating—and I don’t want you to tell her.”
“How’re you going to explain your puss, smart-ass?”
“The swelling’s going to go down.”
“Not fast enough—you go to see Payne like this—”
“She doesn’t need the viewing pleasure, either. I’m just going to stay scarce for a day. Payne’s in recovery and is stable—at least, that’s what Jane told me, so I’m going to go to my forge.”
Butch held out his glass. “If you don’t mind?”
“Roger that.” V poured some for his boy, took another drink for himself and then yanked on some bottoms. Holding his arms out, he did a turn. “Better?”
“All I see are ankles and wrists—and FYI, you’re pulling a Miley-frickin’-Cyrus with that belly flash. Not attractive.”
“Fuck off.” As V grabbed another hit from the bottle, he decided that getting drunk was his new plan. “I can’t help it that you’re a goddamn midget.”
Butch barked a laugh and then got back to serious. “If you pull this shit again . . .”
“You asked me to take your clothes.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
V tugged at the turtleneck’s sleeves and got absolutely nowhere with them. “You’re not going to have to step in, cop, and I’m not going to get myself killed. That’s not the point. I know where the line is.”
Butch cursed, his face going grim. “You say that, and I believe you think it’s true. But situations can spiral—especially that kind. You can be riding that wave of . . . whatever it is you need . . . and the tide can turn against you.”
V flexed his gloved hand. “Not possible. Not with this—and I really don’t want you talking to my girl about this, true. Promise me. You need to stay out of this.”
“Then you have to speak with her.”
“How can I tell her . . .” His voice broke, and he had to clear his throat. “How the fuck can I explain this to her?”
“How can you not. She loves you.”
V just shook his head. He couldn’t imagine telling his shellan he wanted to be hurt physically. It would kill her. And he absolutely didn’t want her to see him like this. “Look, I’m going to take care of this myself. All of it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, V.” Butch swallowed the rest of his Scotch on a oner. “That’s . . . our biggest problem.”
Jane was watching her patient sleep when her cell phone went off in her pocket. It wasn’t a call, but a text from V: Am home & goin 2 forge 2 wrk. Hw P? & u?
Her exhale was not about relief. He’d come back about ten minutes before full-on sunrise, and he wasn’t seeing her or his sister?
Screw this, she thought, as she stood up and walked out of the recovery suite.
After doing a handoff to Ehlena, who was in the clinic’s exam room updating the Brothers’ files, Jane marched down the corridor, hung a left into the office, and went out the back of the supply closet. No reason to futz around with the lock codes; she just ghosted through—
And there he was, about twenty yards down the tunnel, walking away from her . . . having passed the training center on his way to go even deeper into the mountain.
The fluorescent ceiling lights illuminated him from over his head, hitting his huge shoulders and his heavy lower body. Going by the gloss, his hair looked wet, and the lingering scent of the soap he always used was the confirmation that he’d just showered.
“Vishous.”
She said his name once, but the tunnel was an echo chamber that batted the syllables back and forth, multiplying them.
He stopped.
That was the only response she got.
After waiting for him to say something, to turn around . . . to acknowledge her, she