"Motherfucker. Bastard ass motherfucker. Cocksucking rat-bitch bastard mother fucker!"
Blay wasn't big into the swearing thing, but sometimes that was all you had to offer the ears of others: Xhex wasn't his female, but you didn't hurt the fairer sex as far as he was concerned. For any reason. . . and never, ever like that.
God, her pained expression hadn't been just worry for John. It had been about memories. Awful, hideous memories. . .
"John. . . I'm so sorry. "
Fresh drops fell from the guy's chin onto the treadmill's black band, and John wiped his eyes a couple of times before he looked over. In his face, anguish warred with the kind of fury that made your balls get tight.
Which made perfect sense. With his history, this was a crusher on so many levels.
I've got to kill him, John signed. I can't live with myself if I don't take him out.
As Blay nodded, the whys of the vengeance were obvious. Bonded male with a bad history?
Lash's death warrant had just had PAID stamped on it.
Blay curled up a fist and offered his knuckles. "Anything you need, anything you want, I'm with you. And I won't say a word. "
John waited a moment and then met fist with fist. I knew I could count on you, he mouthed.
"Always," Blay vowed. "Always. "
Chapter Forty-two
Eliahu Rathboone's house went fully silent again about an hour after Gregg's aborted trip to the third floor, but he waited long after that butler had gone back downstairs before he gave the ascension another shot.
He and Holly passed the time not by fucking, which was their old MO, but by talking. And the thing was, he realized the more they said, the less he knew about her. He didn't have a clue that her hobby was something as apple pie-ish as knitting. Or that her larger ambition was to segue into real television news--which wasn't a shocker on the face of things: Lot of bobble- headed females in the reality world had loftier ambitions than introducing amateur high-steppers or commenting on how cockroaches were eaten. And he even knew that she'd given local news a shot in the Pittsburgh market before getting fired from that entry-level position.
What he hadn't had a clue about was the real reason why she'd left that first job of hers. The married general manager had expected her to perform for a different, more private kind of camera, and when she'd told him no, he'd pink-slipped her after setting her up to fail on air.
Gregg had seen the tape of the reporting job where she'd butchered her words. After all, he did his homework, and though her audition for him had gone great, he always checked references.
Guess that was what had started him off with his assumptions about her: pretty face, great rack, nothing much else to offer.
But that wasn't the worst of his misconceptions. He'd never known she had a brother. Who was handicapped. Who she was supporting.
She'd shown him a picture of the two of them together.
And when Gregg had asked out loud how it was possible he hadn't known about the boy? She'd had the honesty to tell him the way it was: Because you'd laid out the lines and that was over the line.
Naturally, he'd had the normal male reaction to defend himself, but the fact was, she was right. He had drawn the boundaries pretty fucking clearly. Which meant no jealousy, no explanations, nothing permanent and nothing personal.
Not exactly the environment you wanted to make yourself vulnerable in.
That realization was what had had him pulling her up against his chest and putting his chin on her head and stroking her back. Right before she'd gone to dreamland, she'd mumbled something in a soft voice. Something like, it was the best night she'd ever had with him.
And this in spite of the monstrous orgasms he'd given her.
Well, given her when it suited him. There had been a lot of dates that he'd canceled at the last minute and phone messages that went unreturned and brush-offs both verbal and physical.
Man. . . what a shit he'd been.
When Gregg fianlly got up to go, he tucked Holly in, turned the motion-activated camera on, and slipped out into the hallway. Silence all around.
Padding down the corridor, he went back to the Exit sign and ducked into that rear stairwell. Up the steps, around the landing, another flight, and then he was at the door.
No banging this time around. He took out a thin screwdriver that was normally used on the camera equipment and got to work jimmying the lock. It was easier than he'd thought, actually. Just one poke and shift and the thing sprang loose.