Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(12)

Jesus Christ. Was it possible his best friend was thinking like he was?

Except then Qhuinn pulled the woman's upper body against his chest.

After he whispered something in her ear, she laughed and turned her head to 41

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the side so he could kiss her. Which he did.

You stupid f*ck, Blay thought to himself. You stupid motherf*cker.

The guy knows precisely who he's doing . . . and who he's not.

Shaking his head, he muttered, "John, you mind if I go have a

cigarette outside?"

When John shook his head, Blay got to his feet and put the clothes on the seat. To the tattoo guy he said, "I just flip the lock?"

"Yup, and you can leave it open if you're just outside the door."

"Thanks, man."

"No prob."

Blay walked away from the buzz of the tattoo gun and the symphony

of groans behind that curtain, slipping out of the shop and leaning against the building right next to the entrance. Palming up a flat pack of Dunhill reds, he withdrew a cigarette, put it between his lips, and lit the thing with his black lighter.

The first drag was heaven. Always the best out of all that followed.

As he exhaled, he hated that he read into things, saw connections that weren't there, misinterpreted actions and stares and casual touches.

Pathetic, really.

Qhuinn hadn't been looking up as he'd been getting blown to meet

Blay's eyes. He'd been checking on John Matthew. And he'd spun that

woman around and taken her from behind because that was how he liked it.

Fuckin' A . . . hope didn't so much spring eternal as it drowned out

common sense and self-preservation.

Inhaling hard, he was so tangled in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the shadow at the head of the alley across the street. Unaware he was being watched, he smoked along, the chilly spring night eating up the puffs that rose from his lips.

The realization that he couldn't keep going like this anymore was a

deep freeze that went right into his bones.

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FOUR


"Okay, I think we're done."

John felt a last dragging pull across his shoulder and then the Otattoo gun went silent. Sitting up from the rest he'd been curled against for the last two hours, he stretched his arms over his head and pulled his torso back into shape.

"Gimme a sec and I'll clean you up."

As the human male sprayed some paper towels with antibacterial

wash, John settled his weight on his spine once again, and let the tingling hum from the needle's work reverberate through his whole body.

In the lull, an odd memory came to him, one he hadn't thought of for

years. It was from his days of living at Our Lady's orphanage, back when he hadn't known what he truly was.

One of the church's benefactors had been a rich man who owned a big

house on the shores of Saranac Lake. Every summer, the orphans had been invited to go up for a day and play on his football-field-size lawn and go for rides on his beautiful wooden boat and eat sandwiches and watermelon.

John had always gotten a sunburn. No matter how much goo they

slathered on him, his skin had always burned to a crisp--until they finally relegated him to staying in the shade on the porch. Forced to wait things out on the sidelines, he'd watched the other boys and girls do their thing, listening to the laughter roll across the bright green grass, having his food brought to him and eating alone, playing witness instead of being a part of it.

Funny, his back felt now as his skin had then: tight and prickly,

especially as the tattoo artist hit the raw spots with the wet cloth and made circles over the fresh ink.

Man, John could remember dreading that annual ordeal at the lake.

He'd wanted so badly to be with the others . . . although if he was honest, that had been less about what they were doing, and more because he was desperate simply to fit in. For f*ck's sake, they could have been chewing on glass shards and bleeding down the front of their shirts and he still would have been all sign-me-up.

Those six hours on that porch with nothing but a comic book or

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maybe a fallen bird's nest to inspect and reinspect had seemed as long as months. Too much time to think and yearn. He'd always hoped to be adopted and in lonely moments like that the drive had consumed him: Even more than being among the other little boys, he'd wanted a family, a real mother and a father, not just guardians who were paid to raise him.

He'd wanted to be owned. He'd wanted someone to say, You're mine.

Of course, now that he knew what he was . . . now that he lived as a

vampire among vampires, he understood that "owning" thing much more clearly. Sure, humans had a concept of family units and marriage and all that shit, but his true kind were more like pack animals. Blood ties and matings were far more visceral and all-consuming.

As he thought about his younger, sadder self, his chest ached--

although not because he wished he could reach back in time and tell that little kid that his parents were coming for him. Nope, he ached because the very thing he'd wanted had nearly destroyed him. His adoption had indeed come, but the "owning" hadn't stuck. Wellsie and Tohr had waltzed into his life, told him what he was, and shown him a brief glimpse of home . . . and then disappeared.