Blood Vow (Black Dagger Legacy #2)(133)

“What I say?” the angel demanded as he Vanna-White’d the three of them. In zebra-striped leggings that were clearly out of Steven Tyler’s wardrobe. “Have faith. Believe. And all will be well. What. Did. I. Say.”

Rhage had to laugh. “Fantastic. Another reason for you to be full of it.”

“Greatness is as greatness does.” The angel pivoted in a circle and then pulled a Michael Jackson, moonwalking backward until he popped up onto the toes of his shoes. “And I am awwwwwwesommmme.”

Mary and Bitty started laughing, too, and Rhage just sat back and smiled.

Then he started to think. Okay, so if Ruhn hadn’t even seen Jaws, where did they start?

Probably not there. Or with Jason. Michael. Freddy. The guy wasn’t a pussy by any stretch, but for godsakes, you didn’t want to make him crap in his pants, either.

“What’s the matter?” Mary asked.

Rhage rubbed his face and looked at Bitty. “You know, your uncle? We might need to start him off slow with the movies. I don’t want to scare the sh—er, crap out of him.”

“Die Hard?” his daughter suggested.

“Too much.”

“Really, that bad?”

“Really.”

There was a pause. And then they both said, at the same time, in the same tone of voice: “The Goonies.”

You want to talk about fatherly pride? Rhage mused as he held his hand out for another high five and Bit slapped him a good one.

There you had it.





FIFTY-TWO


There was something about New Year’s Eve that made you want to start fresh.

Nights later, as Peyton sat on the foot of his bed, in his going-to-get-laid club clothes, he found himself scrolling through his texts. So many invitations, from his boys in the glymera, humans who thought they knew him from the Caldie club scene, females, females … more females.

And the pings just kept coming through.

Paradise and Craeg were going to be chilling at her house, and she’d invited him to join them—but also tacked on that she knew he’d be busy painting the town red. Boone was going over there. No one knew where Novo was at.

Axe certainly hadn’t checked in with any updates.

Peyton put his phone aside and stared across his room. He was uncomfortably sober at the moment, and had every intention of fixing that shit.

Yup.

Any moment, he was going to hit the bottle or one of his bongs, and float away in the inside of his skull—just … leave behind the mess that had been stewing in his head for the last while.

He thought back to him and Axe and the others out on the streets the previous evening, working the blocks of abandoned buildings, instincts prickling, weapons up and ready to go, Brothers with them.

It was a new phase.

They were now not trainees, really. More like soldiers in training. If that made sense.

And Axe always kept it on the DL, never giving a hint of emotion away about anything, strung tight as a piano wire around someone’s throat. But man, you could tell he was hurting. He’d lost weight. The bags under his eyes were so big you could have packed for overnight in ’em. And the grim mood was a tangible weight he brought with him into every room, every alley, every bus ride to and from.

It didn’t take a genius to realize Elise was in no better straits. Peyton had seen what she’d looked like when she’d come to him.

Time and the breakup surely was not improving that.

Shit, he thought as he rubbed his face. Just … shit.

His phone rang. For like the fiftieth time. Another random calling to get him to come out.

When he finally picked up his phone, he went into his contacts and dialed a number he’d only phoned once before.

One ring. Two rings. Three—

“Hello?”

He cleared his throat. “Novo? Look—don’t hang up, okay?” There was a pause. “Hello?”

“What?”

“Listen, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Unless it involves hitting you somewhere with a frying pan, I’m not sure I’m interested.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Nothing with you.”

He flexed his LV loafers. “I need your help.”

“If you’re looking for a personality replacement, try eBay. You won’t have to be too picky. Anything but Serial Killer would be an improvement.”

Peyton stared at the blank, dark screen of his TV.

“Hello?” she said.

“I need you to help me right a wrong. And I’m not fucking with you, I really … I can’t do this alone.”

Something in his voice or … he didn’t know what … must have gotten through to her. “Are you drunk?”

“No, and I’m not high, either.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Fuck me, maybe it’s part of my problem. But I need to fix this first and then … yeah, whatever.”

“Where are you?”

“My house.”

“Go down and open your front door.” She sounded annoyed. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Peyton left his phone behind. Frankly, he was sick to death of the people in it. And as he went to leave his suite, he passed by a mirror. Checking out his reflection, he saw the same features, same hair, same good looks he had every night of his life.