Blood Kiss - Ward J. R. - Страница 43
- Предыдущая
- 43/85
- Следующая
“Okay, but you know where the call button is, don’t you? Just let us know if you feel woozy.”
“Yup. Thanks.”
He waited a moment longer to see if there was anything further coming at him. When there was only blissful, no-more-questions, he picked up the bar of soap—but he didn’t go for his cock and balls. Running the thing over his chest and shoulders, his neck and face, his legs and feet, he gave his body a chance to get over the bright idea.
Nope. If anything, the smooth feel of the suds over his flesh made him think about sitting on the floor in front of Paradise and stroking her fine skin.
The shampooing didn’t help, either. And as the air in the bathroom became dense with humidity, and he ran out of places to wash, he conceded defeat, ended the negotiation, resigned himself to the inevitable.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned as he gripped himself.
Putting one arm up on the tile wall, he leaned in until his forehead was on his forearm. The stroking was too damn good—he couldn’t remember, actually, the whole jerking-off thing feeling this incredible before. It was … paradise.
Or, Paradise, as the case was.
Harder, faster, until he dropped his other arm and squeezed his balls with a twist—
In a series of lightning bolts, his cock kicked against his hold and he ejaculated onto the wall of the shower over and over again.
And when he finally sagged, he cursed over and over again.
After everything he’d been through, why now. Why did he have female-on-the-brain now?
It was just stress, he told himself. This attraction thing was just a reaction to the stress he was under, a wormhole for him to focus on so that he didn’t implode.
Out. Towel off. There was a razor so he shaved, and deodorant for his pits, and a comb for his hair, short though it was.
Shit, he needed clothes.
Stepping out …
He found another loose shirt and pants uni on the bed as well as a pair of running shoes that, yup, were in his size. Absently, he wondered how many sets they had on hand for the candidates. The whole height/weight/shoe-size thing had been part of the check-in process, but still.
A couple of minutes later, he was out the door, down the corridor, and walking into the cafeteria room.
Talk about a spread. The first thing he saw as he entered was a table with enough food on it to feed an army. Plates were lined up, ready to be filled, damask napkin rolls held sterling silver forks and knives, and the “bar” had about every kind of non-alcoholic anything you’d like—including a milkshake machine.
Clearly, the Brothers were refining things as they went along.
“None of it is tampered with,” a male voice said behind him.
Craeg wheeled around and put his fists up like he was going to be attacked. The Brother Butch was sitting at the corner round table, legs propped up on an empty chair, a plate of food by his side. With careful, precise movements, he shifted scrambled eggs to his mouth without dropping anything off his fork.
“G’on,” he said around chewing. “Get food. Sit with me. I’m not gonna fuck with you.”
Craeg nodded once and hit the lineup. He wasn’t shy about portions—he had no idea what was in store for all of them, but he could guess an energy reserve was the best way to prepare for the evening.
Picking a seat two over from the Brother, he had a good view of the door, something he regularly found himself requiring: Always know your escape. That was how he had lived through the slayers coming to his home.
“Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush,” the Brother said before Craeg had gotten a fork load even close to his lips.
Great. So the guy had planned this, knowing that Craeg was in house and likely going to eat early.
Lowering the hash browns, Craeg forgot about the food and focused on the door. “What.”
“I think you need to stay here in the training center.”
“Excuse me?” He shifted his eyes back to the Brother. “I got a place.”
The guy put his boots down on the floor and moved around so they were face-to-face. “I know where you live.”
There was something about that direct stare that freaked him out, so he made a show of eating. “Yeah. I didn’t lie about my address.”
“It’s not safe.”
“Been there since the raids.”
“That tenement barely has plumbing. And there’s no shelter from the sun.”
“I’m in the basement.”
“A fire would cure that quick, putting you in the position of having to choose incineration by flame or noonday light.”
Craeg cut a breakfast sausage in two and put half of it in his mouth. “I’m not moving.”
“You got food and water here—and a good bed to crash on. No rent, either.”
“I don’t need charity.” Okay, now he was beginning to get pissed off. “I came here to learn how to fight, not make you guys feel good about yourselves.”
Butch leaned in. “You think we want to wipe your ass every time you take a shit? Really, you think that’s where we’re coming from?”
“Look, I don’t need this—”
“Asshole,” Butch snapped. “We are about to invest over the next year a couple hundred thousand dollars into you free of charge—you think we want that up in smoke ’cause your pride has a hard-on? This is not charity and it is not negotiable. I will take you home tonight after class, watch you pack up your shit, and then I will drive your miserable carcass back here or you can fuck off. What’s it going to be, tough guy.”
Craeg cursed long and hard, but it was under his breath.
Talk about by the short hairs.
“Fine,” he muttered.
Butch clapped him on the shoulder. “And to show there’s no hard feelings from you being a douche just now, I’ll set you up with a good TV, Internet and a twelve-month calendar of Rhage so you have something pretty to look at.”
With that, the Brother got up from the table, taking his still-full plate with him.
So that “meal” of his had just been to prove that it was safe to eat.
“See you in class,” Butch said by the door after he’d bused his dishes at the sink. “Classroom tonight. Bombs, detonation systems, defusing. Fun stuff.”
Left by his little lonesome, Craeg put his head in his hands.
Plans, he’d had plans for all this, people.
WTF.
“And then what transpired?”
As her father asked the question and spread more marmalade on his crust-less toast, Paradise tried to formulate another lie. Which, considering she had gotten about two hours of sleep and was still in physical recovery from everything, was like trying to button up a shirt in the dark.
“Ah…” She broke off a piece of her croissant and put some strawberry jam on it. “Well, after we checked in, there was a cocktail hour of sorts.” Vomitorium. “We milled around the gym getting to know one another.” Nearly were electrocuted in the dark. “Went for a swim.” Had a drowning party. “At the end, we took a walk.” Dickensian death march. “And then everybody had a physical exam.” Cardiac resuscitation. “It was a long evening, so that was why they wanted us to stay.” Half-dead and barely breathing. “And that’s it.”
Great. She was channeling Mr. Subliminal.
Her father nodded. “The Brotherhood was most kind in calling me—Peyton as well. They said you did a wonderful job—that you were at the top of your class.”
“I surprised myself.”
And was still lost in her own home. Sitting with her father in the same seats they always did, under the same crystal chandelier, with the same porcelain plates and cups and saucers, watched over by the same oil paintings of ancestors, she felt like she was in a nice hotel that was furnished like a castle, and had a staff so well trained they were able to anticipate everything she wanted … and was in a foreign land.
Then there was her father … God, her dad.
As Abalone sat at the head of the long, glossy table, his handsome face was aglow with relief and pride—mostly relief—and didn’t that make her feel even worse. The fact that her fabrications were having their desired, de-escalating effect distanced her even further from him … plus there was the added layer of her guilt.
- Предыдущая
- 43/85
- Следующая
