The Black Dagger Brotherhood_ An Insider's Guide - J. R. Ward [62]
Zsadist:
Hey.
J.R.:
(wheels around) Hi—
Z:
Didn’t mean to spook you.
Zsadist makes a hell of an impression in person. He’s really big now, so very different than he was before he met Bella. If I were to put my hand on his chest? It might cover one of his pecs, but it would be a stretch. Along with his body, his face has filled out, and that scar, though very noticeable, as always, doesn’t seem as stark because his cheeks aren’t cut so sharply. Tonight he’s wearing low-slung jeans (Sevens, I believe) and a black TEAM PUNISHMENT shirt. He has shitkickers on his feet and holstered SIGs under each arm.
J.R.:
Didn’t mean to jump like I did.
Z:
You want to interview me?
J.R.:
If it’s okay with you.
Z:
(shrugs) Meh. I don’t have any real problem with it. As long as I can choose what to answer.
J.R.:
Of course you can. (Looks over balcony.) We could do it in the lib—
Z:
Let’s go.
When a male like Z says, Let’s go, you follow for two reasons: One, he’s not going to hurt you, and two, he’s not going to let anything hurt you. So there’s no reason not to go. Also no reason to ask about the whole where thing. Sure, he’s not going to hurt you, but do you really want to bug him? Nope.
We go down the grand staircase at a brisk pace, and when we hit the foyer, we cross over the depiction of the apple tree, heading in the direction of the vestibule. The doggen in the dining room look up, and though they are dressed in formal black-and-white butlers’ uniforms, their smiles are as easy and relaxed as a summer day. Z and I wave back at them as we pass.
Z holds both of the vestibule’s doors open for me.
Outside in the courtyard, I take a deep breath. Fall air in upstate New York is like ice-cold sparkling water. It gets into your sinuses and down to your lungs with a sizzle. I love it.
Z:
(Taking out car key from his pocket.) Thought we’d take a drive.
J.R.:
What a fabulous idea. (Follows him over to iron gray Porsche 911 Carrera 4S.) This car is . . .
Z:
My only possession, really. (Opens my door and waits as I slide into the passenger seat.)
As he comes around to the driver’s side and gets in, I have a serious case of the joneses. Porsches are luxury sports cars, but their roots are in racing, and you can tell. There’s no over-the-top gadgetry cluttering things up on the dash. No flabby seating. No fussy styling. It’s all about high-level function and power.
This truly is the perfect car for him.
Z starts the engine, and the calibrated vibration that comes from the back is a loud-and-clear about the number of horses in the trunk. As he K-turns on the pebbles, working neatly around the fountain which has been drained for the winter, he works the clutch and the gearshift seamlessly.
We head out past the compound’s gates, and the trip down whatever mountain we’re on is a blur to me because of the mhis. After we get level there are turns and straightaways, and when the landscape comes into focus again for me, we’re at one of the countless intersections on Route 22. Z hangs a left and floors it. The Porsche is psyched by the demand and digs into the pavement like its tires have metal spikes and its engine is powered by jet fuel. As we blast forward, my stomach pools in the cradle of my hips and I grip the door handle, but not from fear that we’ll crash—even though Z doesn’t have the headlights on and the dashboard isn’t lit. No, in the moonless night, there is nothing but the Porsche and the smooth road, and I feel like I’m flying. My grip is an attempt to ground myself against the weightlessness.
Except then I realize, I don’t want to be tied down. I release my hand.
J.R.:
This reminds me of Rhage and Mary.
Z:
(without taking his eyes off the road) How so?
J.R.: