“You volunteering to do it for me, then? Because I’m going crazy and it needs out, Butch. For real. I’m dangerous over here. . . .” V took a pull on the booze and cursed as the slice in his lip made it feel like he’d sucked on the wrong end of a hand-rolled. “And I can’t think of any way to get it out of me—because I sure as fuck am not going to fall i
nto my old habits.”
“Not tempted at all?”
V braced himself and then went for another drink. Through his grimace, he said, “I want the release, but I’m not going to be with anyone except Jane. No way I’m coming back to our mated bed with the stank of some slut all over my cock—it would ruin everything, not just for her but for me. Besides, what I need right now is a Dom, not a sub—and there’s no one I can trust.” Except maybe Butch, but that would cross too many lines. “So I’m caught. I got a screaming harpy in my head and nowhere to go with it . . . and it’s making me fucking mental.”
Jesus . . . he’d said it. All of it.
Go, him.
And the reward was another suck on the bottle. “Goddamn, my lip hurts.”
“No offense, but good—you deserve it.” Butch’s hazel eyes lifted, and after a moment, he smiled a little, flashing that cap on his front tooth as well as his fangs. “You know, I was really getting into hating you for a minute there, I truly was. And before you ask, the turtlenecks are down at the far end of that rack. Take some sweatpants, too. Your legs look like they’ve been hit with a clawhammer, and that ball of yours is clearly about to explode.”
“Thanks, man.” V walked down the lineup of clothes that were suspended on fine cedar hangers. One thing you could say about Butch was that his wardrobe was full of options. “Never thought I’d be glad that you’re a clothes whore.”
“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.”