Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood #7)(62)

Time was an endless source of days and nights only for the galaxy at large.

It made her wonder: What the hell was she doing with the time she had? Her job gave her a purpose, sure, and she took care of her father, which was what one did for family. But where was she going? Nowhere. And not just because she was sitting in this ambulance with hands that shook so badly she couldn’t work a key.

The thing was, it wasn’t that she wanted to change everything. She just wanted something for herself, something that made her know she was alive.

Rehvenge’s deep amethyst eyes came at her from out of nowhere, and like a camera pulling back, she saw his carved face and his mohawk and his fine clothes and his cane.

This time, when she reached forward with the key, the thing went in steadily, and the diesel engine came awake on a growl. As the heater blasted cold air at her, she turned down the fan, then put the gearshift in drive and left the house and the cul-de-sac and the neighborhood.

Which no longer seemed quiet to her.

Behind the wheel, she was driving and out of it at the same time, caught up in the image of a male she couldn’t have, but at the moment needed like crazy.

Her feelings were wrong on so many levels. For God’s sake, they were a betrayal of Stephan, even though she didn’t really know him. It just seemed disrespectful to be wanting another male while his body was being mourned by his blood.

Except she would have wanted Rehvenge anyway.

“Damn it.”

The clinic was all the way across the river, and she was glad, because she couldn’t face work right away. She was too raw and sad and angry at herself.

What she needed was…

Starbucks. Oh, yeah, that was exactly what she needed.

About five miles away, in a square that was home to a Hannaford supermarket, a flower shop, a LensCrafters boutique, and a Blockbuster store, she found a Starbucks that was open until two a.m. She pulled the ambulance around to the side and got out.

When she’d left the clinic with Alix and Stephan, she hadn’t thought to bring her coat, so she huddled into her purse and hotfooted it over the sidewalk and through the door. Inside, the place was as most of them were: red wooden trim, dark gray tile floor, with a lot of windows, stuffed chairs, and little tables. Over at the counter there were mugs for sale, a glass display of lemon squares and brownies and scones, and two humans in their early twenties manning the coffee machines. The smell in the air was hazelnut and coffee and chocolate, and the aroma wiped the lingering herbal bouquet of the death wraps from her nose.

“C’I help you?” the taller guy asked.

“Vente latte, foam, no whip. Double cup, double sleeve.”

The human male smiled at her and lingered. He had a dark brush-cut beard and a nose ring, his shirt splashed with graphics that spelled out TOMATO EATER in drops of what could have been blood or, given the band’s name, ketchup. “You like anything else? The cinnamon scones totally rock.”

“No, thanks.”

His eyes stayed on her as he worked her order, and to keep from having to deal with the attention, she went into her purse and checked her phone in case Lusie—

MISSED CALL. View now?

She hit yes, praying it wasn’t something about her father—

Rehvenge’s number came up, although not his name, because she hadn’t put him in her phone. She stared at the digits.

God, it was like he’d read her mind.

“Your latte? Hello?”

“Sorry.” She put her phone back, took what the guy held out to her, and thanked him.

“I double-cupped just like you wanted. The sleeve, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, you work at one of the hospitals around here?” he said, eyeing her uniform.

“Private clinic. Thanks again.”

She left quickly and didn’t waste time getting into the ambulance. Back behind the wheel, she hit the locks on the doors, started the engine, and turned the heater on immediately, because the air coming out was still warm.

The latte was really good. Superhot. Tasted perfect.

She got her phone again and went into the received-calls log and fired up Rehvenge’s number.

She took a deep breath and a long pull on the latte.

And hit send.

Destiny had a 518 area code. Who knew.





TWENTY




Lash parked the Mercedes 550 under one of Caldwell’s bridges, the black sedan indistinguishable from the shadows thrown by the mammoth concrete supports. The digital clock on the dash told him that showtime was getting close.

Assuming there had been no f*ckups.

As he waited, he thought about the meeting with the head of the symphaths. In retrospect, he really didn’t like the way the guy made him feel. He f*cked chicks. Period. No guys. Ever.

That kind of shit was for cock jockeys like John and his weak-ass crew.

Switching tracks in his mind, Lash smiled in the darkness, thinking he couldn’t wait to reintroduce himself to those motherf*ckers. In the beginning, right after he’d been brought back by his real father, he’d wanted to rush it. After all, John and his boys no doubt still hung out at ZeroSum, so finding them wouldn’t be a problem. But timing was everything. Lash was still figuring shit out with this new life of his, and he wanted to be solid when he crushed John and killed Blay in front of Qhuinn, then slaughtered the f*cker who’d murdered him.