And then V’s voice was directly in front of him.
“You good?” the brother asked in his raspy voice. “Feeling back to normal?”
“Yeah. I’m back in working order except for my eyesight.” I’m sorry, too. And I’m scared. “You know, just a little tired—”
Whack!
The chin shot came out of nowhere, nailing him so hard, his head knocked back and nearly snapped off his spine.
“What the fuck!” Rhage blurted as he rubbed his jaw. “What—”
“That was for not fucking listening to me.”
Crack!
The second shot came from the opposite direction, which was a good thing—the swelling would be bilateral, so his face wouldn’t look as fucked up.
“And that is for going out early and fucking our strategy.”
As Rhage brought his brains to level for a second time, he held his jaw with both hands. ’Cuz there was a possibility the lower half of his skull was going to fall off.
The good news was that the double shots cleared his vision a little, the blindness receding enough so that he could make out the hazy blotches of his brothers’ bodies and clothes.
“We coulda justh talked thith out,” Rhage bitched. “Great, I’m talkin’ wif a lispth.”
“Where’s the fun in that, true?” V grabbed hold of him and hugged him hard. “Now don’t ever fucking do that again.”
Rhage waited for the others to start asking questions. When no one did, he had to guess that V had already told them about the vision thing. Unless . . . well, everybody had seen him run out into that field early and that kind of shit was grounds for a beat down.
“I can thee now,” he said.
“You can thank me for that later.”
There was a bunch of conversation at that point—which led him to ohhhh-snapping the fact that they had Xcor in custody.
“Tohr kill the fucker yet?” he asked.
“No,” came from all fronts.
Then there was a story about the Omega showing up and doing a Mr. Clean at the campus, and V saving the day with some mhis action.
“I’ll take a thift,” Rhage said. “Guarding the bastard, that ith.”
“Later.” V exhaled some Turkish smoke. “All cylinders first. Then we’ll place you.”
On that note, the group dispersed, some heading up to the mansion, others hitting the workout room. Rhage went along with the ones who took the tunnel to the main house, but as his brothers went for their beds, he walked through the dining room and into the mansion’s kitchen.
God, he wished Mary was with him.
The good news was that there were no doggen around, First Meal having not been served thanks to the number of injuries that had been sustained during the attack and all the drama with him. The household staff were no doubt having a rare and well-deserved rest before they resumed their cleaning and tending, and he was relieved not to be fussed over.
As he wandered around Fritz’s sacred space, however, he did feel like he should put out an offering or something so he didn’t get in trouble with the butler. And on that note, he decided no cooking. He was going to take whatever was readily available and not start thinking independently with the stove or the pantry.
He’d already been punched twice and the night was young.
But first, clothing. He’d been too blind down in the bathroom to see that anything had been left out for him, and he went into the laundry behind the pantry, using his half-assed eyesight and keen sense of touch to locate a set of loose black sweats and a huge sweatshirt with the American Horror Story logo on it. Then it was time to get serious about the calories.
Raiding the bread stash, he began to clean it out by putting bags of bagels and sourdough loaves on the counter—but then he thought, Fuck it. Reaching under the drawer, he took the thing off its track and carried the whole damn shebang over to the oak table. Step two was to double back to the fridge, get out a pound of unsalted butter and a package of cream cheese, and snag the toaster, unplugging it by pulling the body until the cord gave up the ghost.
A serrated knife and a cutting board later, along with the coffee pot, the sugar bowl, and a small carton of half-and-half, and he was in business. While the coffee percolated, he got to slicing, making mountains of butterable pieces off to the right. The bagels he set up on a Henry Ford, so he could process them through the toaster and into the Phillie zone.
Probably should have gotten a plate. And at least one other knife, but the bigger blade was going to be efficient for spreading.
When the coffee had finished brewing, he took the pot out from under, poured the entire sugar bowl into it, and followed that up with as much of the half-and-half as he could fit in. Then he took a test sip.
Perfect.
He put the thing back on the heat plate and started systematically working his way through the bagels—’cuz, hey, that was close to First Meal–type stuff, right? Next up was anything sourdough because that was as lunch-ish as his options allowed. Dessert was going to be a pecan coffee cake. Or two.
As he chewed along, his teeth were a little loose thanks to V. Mayweather’s bare knuckles, but it wasn’t a huge deal. And from time to time, he washed things down with drafts off the lip of the coffee pot.
About two thousand calories into the binge, the reality of how alone he was really hit him.
Then again, the room could have been filled with his brothers and he would have felt the same.
Worse, he had the sense that even his Mary’s presence couldn’t have fixed this isolation for him. hen V’s voice was directly in front of him.
“You good?” the brother asked in his raspy voice. “Feeling back to normal?”
“Yeah. I’m back in working order except for my eyesight.” I’m sorry, too. And I’m scared. “You know, just a little tired—”
Whack!
The chin shot came out of nowhere, nailing him so hard, his head knocked back and nearly snapped off his spine.
“What the fuck!” Rhage blurted as he rubbed his jaw. “What—”
“That was for not fucking listening to me.”
Crack!
The second shot came from the opposite direction, which was a good thing—the swelling would be bilateral, so his face wouldn’t look as fucked up.
“And that is for going out early and fucking our strategy.”
As Rhage brought his brains to level for a second time, he held his jaw with both hands. ’Cuz there was a possibility the lower half of his skull was going to fall off.
The good news was that the double shots cleared his vision a little, the blindness receding enough so that he could make out the hazy blotches of his brothers’ bodies and clothes.
“We coulda justh talked thith out,” Rhage bitched. “Great, I’m talkin’ wif a lispth.”
“Where’s the fun in that, true?” V grabbed hold of him and hugged him hard. “Now don’t ever fucking do that again.”
Rhage waited for the others to start asking questions. When no one did, he had to guess that V had already told them about the vision thing. Unless . . . well, everybody had seen him run out into that field early and that kind of shit was grounds for a beat down.
“I can thee now,” he said.
“You can thank me for that later.”
There was a bunch of conversation at that point—which led him to ohhhh-snapping the fact that they had Xcor in custody.
“Tohr kill the fucker yet?” he asked.
“No,” came from all fronts.
Then there was a story about the Omega showing up and doing a Mr. Clean at the campus, and V saving the day with some mhis action.
“I’ll take a thift,” Rhage said. “Guarding the bastard, that ith.”
“Later.” V exhaled some Turkish smoke. “All cylinders first. Then we’ll place you.”
On that note, the group dispersed, some heading up to the mansion, others hitting the workout room. Rhage went along with the ones who took the tunnel to the main house, but as his brothers went for their beds, he walked through the dining room and into the mansion’s kitchen.
God, he wished Mary was with him.
The good news was that there were no doggen around, First Meal having not been served thanks to the number of injuries that had been sustained during the attack and all the drama with him. The household staff were no doubt having a rare and well-deserved rest before they resumed their cleaning and tending, and he was relieved not to be fussed over.
As he wandered around Fritz’s sacred space, however, he did feel like he should put out an offering or something so he didn’t get in trouble with the butler. And on that note, he decided no cooking. He was going to take whatever was readily available and not start thinking independently with the stove or the pantry.
He’d already been punched twice and the night was young.
But first, clothing. He’d been too blind down in the bathroom to see that anything had been left out for him, and he went into the laundry behind the pantry, using his half-assed eyesight and keen sense of touch to locate a set of loose black sweats and a huge sweatshirt with the American Horror Story logo on it. Then it was time to get serious about the calories.
Raiding the bread stash, he began to clean it out by putting bags of bagels and sourdough loaves on the counter—but then he thought, Fuck it. Reaching under the drawer, he took the thing off its track and carried the whole damn shebang over to the oak table. Step two was to double back to the fridge, get out a pound of unsalted butter and a package of cream cheese, and snag the toaster, unplugging it by pulling the body until the cord gave up the ghost.
A serrated knife and a cutting board later, along with the coffee pot, the sugar bowl, and a small carton of half-and-half, and he was in business. While the coffee percolated, he got to slicing, making mountains of butterable pieces off to the right. The bagels he set up on a Henry Ford, so he could process them through the toaster and into the Phillie zone.
Probably should have gotten a plate. And at least one other knife, but the bigger blade was going to be efficient for spreading.
When the coffee had finished brewing, he took the pot out from under, poured the entire sugar bowl into it, and followed that up with as much of the half-and-half as he could fit in. Then he took a test sip.
Perfect.
He put the thing back on the heat plate and started systematically working his way through the bagels—’cuz, hey, that was close to First Meal–type stuff, right? Next up was anything sourdough because that was as lunch-ish as his options allowed. Dessert was going to be a pecan coffee cake. Or two.
As he chewed along, his teeth were a little loose thanks to V. Mayweather’s bare knuckles, but it wasn’t a huge deal. And from time to time, he washed things down with drafts off the lip of the coffee pot.
About two thousand calories into the binge, the reality of how alone he was really hit him.
Then again, the room could have been filled with his brothers and he would have felt the same.
Worse, he had the sense that even his Mary’s presence couldn’t have fixed this isolation for him.