So it irritated the shit out of him.
"Yeah, well, they're supposed to be like that, true?" He stabbed the hand-rolled out in an ashtray, crushing the fragile glow at its tip. "No sense you going out in the field with a set of Ginsus."
"Thank you."
"Whatever."
"V, seriously-"
"Make that fuck you." When there was no slappy comeback, he looked up.
Shit. Butch was standing right in front of him, the cop's hazel eyes dark with a knowledge V wished the guy didn't have.
V dropped his stare to his lighter. "Whatever, cop, they're just knives."
The black tip of the dagger slid under V's chin and angled his head up. As he was forced to meet Butch's stare, V's body tensed. Then trembled.
With the weapon linking them, Butch said, "They're beautiful."
V closed his eyes, despising himself. Then he deliberately leaned into the blade so that it bit into his throat. Swallowing the flare of pain, he held it in his gut, using it as a reminder that he was a fucked-up freak, and freaks deserved to get hurt.
"Vishous, look at me."
"Leave me alone."
"Make me."
For a split second V almost launched himself at the guy, prepared to punch the bastard out cold. But then Butch said, "I'm just thanking you for doing something cool. No BFD."
No big fucking deal? V's eyes flipped open and he felt his stare glow. "That's bullshit. For reasons you are very fucking aware of."
Butch removed the blade, and as the male's arm dropped, V felt a trickle of blood ease down his neck. It was warm… and soft as a kiss.
"Don't say you're sorry," V muttered into the silence. "I'm liable to get violent."
"But I am."
"Nothing to be sorry for." Man, he couldn't take living here with Butch anymore. Make that Butch and Marissa. The constant reminder of what he couldn't have and shouldn't want was killing him. And Christ knew he was already in bad shape. When was the last time he'd slept through the day? Weeks and weeks.
Butch sheathed the blade in the chest holster, handle down. "I don't want you to hurt-"
"We are so not discussing this further." Putting his forefinger to his throat, V caught the blood he'd drawn with the blade he'd made. As he licked it off, the hidden door to the underground tunnel opened and the scent of the ocean filled the Pit.
Marissa came around the corner, looking Grace Kelly-fine as usual. With her long blond hair and her precision-molded face, she was known as the great beauty of the species, and even V, who didn't go for her type, had to show love.
"Hello, boys-" Marissa stopped and stared at Butch. "Good… Lord… look at those pants."
Butch winced. "Yeah, I know. They're-"
"Could you come over here?" She started backing down the hall to their bedroom. "I need you to come back here for a minute. Or ten."
Butch's bonding scent flared to a dull roar, and V knew damn well the guy's body was hardening for sex. "Baby, you can have me for as long as you want me."
Just as the cop left the living room, he shot a look over his shoulder. "I'm so feeling these leathers. Tell Fritz I want fifty pairs of them. Stat."
Left by himself, Vishous leaned over to the Alpine and cranked up MIMS's Music Is My Savior. As the rap pounded, he thought about how before, he'd used the shit to drown out the thoughts of others. Now that his visions had dried up and that whole mind-reading thing had gone poof!? He used the bass beats to keep him from hearing his roommate making love.
V rubbed his face. He really had to get out of here. For a while he'd tried to get them to move out, but Marissa maintained that the Pit was "cozy" and that she liked living in it. Which had to be a lie. Half the living room was eaten up by the foosball table, ESPN was on mute twenty-four/seven, and hard-core rap was always playing. The refrigerator was a demilitarized zone marked with decaying casualties from Taco Hell and Arby's. Grey Goose and Lagavulin were the only drinks in the house. Reading material was limited to Sports Illustrated and… well, back issues of Sports Illustrated.
So, yeah, not a whole lot of duck-and-bunny-adorable going down. The place was part frat house, part locker room. With decor by Derek Jeter.
As for Butch? When V had suggested a little U-Haul action to the guy, the cop had shot a level stare across the couch, shook his head once, and gone into kitchen for more Lagavulin.
V refused to think they stayed because they were worried about him or some shit. The very idea made him mental.
He got to his feet. If there was going to be a separation, he was going to have to be the one who initiated it. The trouble was, not having Butch around all the time was… unthinkable. Better the torture he had now than an exile.
He checked his watch and figured he might as well hit the underground tunnel and head over to the big house. Even though the rest of the Black Dagger Brotherhood lived in that rock-faced monster of a mansion next door, there were plenty of extra rooms. Maybe he should just try one on for size. For a couple of days.
The thought made his stomach churn.
On his way to the door, he caught the bonding scent wafting from Butch and Marissa's bedroom. As he thought about what was happening, his blood heated even as shame made his skin go Popsicle.
With a curse, he walked over to his leather jacket and took out a cell phone. As he dialed, his chest was warm as a meat locker, but at least he felt as if he was doing something about this obsession of his.
When the female voice answered, V sliced through her husky hello. "Sundown. Tonight. You know what to wear, and your hair will be off your neck. What do you say to me?"
The reply was a purr of submission. "Yes, my lheage."
V hung up and tossed the cell phone on the desk, watching as it bounced and came to rest against one of his four keyboards. The submissive he'd chosen for tonight liked things especially hard-core. And he was going to deliver.
Fuck, he truly was a pervert. Down to the marrow. A confirmed, unrepentant sexual deviant… who was somehow famous within the race for what he was.
Man, it was absurd, but then, the tastes and motivations of females had always been bizarre. And his fancy reputation was no more significant to him than his subs were. All that mattered was that he had volunteers for what he needed sexually. What was said about him, what the females needed to believe about him, was just oral masturbation for mouths that needed to be otherwise occupied.
As he went down into the tunnel and headed for the mansion, he was thoroughly bitched. Thanks to that stupid rotation schedule the Brotherhood was on, he wasn't allowed in the field tonight, and he hated that. He'd much rather be hunting and killing the undead slayers who went after the race than be parked on his ass.
But there were ways to burn off a case of the eye-splitting frustrates.
That was what restraints and willing bodies were made for.
Phury walked into the mansion's industrial-sized kitchen and froze the way you did when confronted with an accidental injury of the bloody variety: The soles of his feet got stuck to the floor, his breath stopped, his heart skipped then scrambled.
Before he could back out through the butler's door, he got caught.
Bella, his twin's shellan, looked up and smiled. "Hi."
"Hello." Leave. Now.
God, she smelled good.
She waved the knife in her hand over the roasted turkey she was working on. "Would you like me to make you a sandwich, too?"
"What?" he said like an idiot.
"A sandwich." She pointed the blade at the bread loaf and the almost empty jar of mayonnaise and the lettuce and tomatoes. "You must be hungry. You didn't eat much at Last Meal."