As he stepped back, part of Butch wanted to get on the bed and hold on to his friend. But he hadn’t done this for himself—and besides, if he didn’t get out of here and get drunk fast, he was going to lose his motherfucking mind.
When he was sure V was settled, he grabbed his jacket, which he’d had to shove off onto the floor—
Wait, the bloody towels and the mess under the hanging unit.
Moving quickly, he swiped over the floor and then grabbed the load of damp-and-weighty and took it in to the hamper in the bathroom—which made him wonder who the hell did the housekeeping here? Maybe it was Fritz . . . or maybe V did the Merry Maids routine himself.
Back in the main room, he took a second to double-check that all the evidence was gone except for the glass and the spoon . . . and then he went over to see if V was still asleep . . . or in that semicoma.
Stone. Cold. Out.
“I’m getting you what you really need,” Butch said softly, wondering if he was ever going to breathe right again—his chest seemed as constricted as V’s had just been in reality. “Hold tight, my man.”
On his way to the door, he got out his cell phone to dial—and dropped the damn thing.
Huh. Looked like his hands were still shaking. Go fig.
When he eventually hit send, he prayed that the call would be—“It’s done,” he said roughly. “Come over here. No, trust me—he’s going to need you. This was for the two of you. No . . . yeah. No, I’m leaving now. Good. Okay.”
After he hung up, he locked V in and called for the elevator. As he waited, he tried to put his coat on and fumbled with the suede so badly, he gave up and slung it over his shoulder. When the doors dinged and opened, he stepped inside, hit the button that had a P on it . . . and went down, down, down, falling in a controlled, seamless way thanks to the little metal box of the elevator.
He texted his shellan instead of calling her for two reasons: He didn’t trust his voice, and in truth, he wasn’t ready to answer the questions she would inevitably and fairly have.
All ok. Am going home 2 rest. I love you xxx B
Marissa’s response was so fast, it was pretty clear she’d had her phone in her hand, and been waiting to hear from him: I love you too. Am at Safe Place but can come home?
The elevator opened and the sweet smell of gasoline told him he’d reached his destination. As he went over to the Escalade, he texted back: No, really am fine. You stay and work—I’ll be there when you’re done.
He was taking out his keys as his phone went off. Okay, but if you need me, you are the most important thing.
God, she was such a female of worth.
Right back at you xxx, he typed out.
Canning the SUV’s alarm and unlocking the driver’s side, he got in, shut the door, and relocked.
He was supposed to get driving. Instead, he put his forehead down on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.
Having a good memory was an overrated skill set. And as much as he didn’t envy Manello and all the erasing, he would have given almost anything to get rid of the pictures in his head.
Not V, though. Not that . . . relationship.
He would never give the male up. Ever.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“ Here, thought you might like some coffee.”
As José de la Cruz put the Starbucks venti latte on the desk of his partner, he parked his ass in the seat across the way from the guy.
Veck should have looked like roadkill, considering he was in the same clothes he’d had on when he’d Mission Impossibled that car hood the night before. Instead, the SOB somehow managed to seem rugged instead of ratty.
So José was willing to bet the six other cups of half-drunk java around the computer had been brought by various ladies in the department.
“Thanks, man.” As Veck palmed up the newest offering of hotand-steamy, his eyes didn’t budge from the Dell monitor—fair guess that he was searching the missing persons files and pulling out women aged seventeen to thirty.
“Whatchu doin’?” José asked anyway.