Chapter Fifty-three

Sitting at the brotherhood’s table in ZeroSum’s VIP section, John Matthew was drunk off his ass. Drunk off his motherfucking ass. Totally shwasted.

So as soon as he finished whatever number beer he’d been working on for all of five minutes, he ordered a Jäger bomb.

Qhuinn and Blay, to their credit, were saying absolutely nothing.

It was hard to explain what was driving all the bottle pounding and the shot sucking. The only thing he kept coming back to was that his nerves were decimated. He’d left Tohr back at the house sleeping in that bed like the thing was a coffin, and though it was great that they had reunited, the Brother was not home free, not by any stretch.

John couldn’t go through losing him again.

And then there was that bizarre Lash sighting and the fact that John was kind of convinced he was losing his ever-loving mind.

When the waitress came over with the shot, Qhuinn said, “He’d like another beer.”

I love you, John signed to his buddy.

“Well, you’re going to hate both of us when you get home and throw up like a golf course sprinkler, but let’s just live in the here and now, shall we?”

Roger that. John threw back the shot and it didn’t burn, didn’t land in his stomach in a burning rush. But, then, really. Would a forest fire give two shits about a Zippo lighter?

Qhuinn was right: He was probably going to hurl. As a matter of fact-

John lurched to his feet.

“Oh, shit, here we are,” Qhuinn said, getting up as well.

I go alone.

Qhuinn tapped the chain around his neck. “Not anymore. ”

John planted his fists into the table, leaned across, and bared his fangs.

“What the fuck?” Qhuinn hissed as Blay frantically looked around at the other banquettes. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I go alone.

Qhuinn glared like he was going to argue, but then he parked his ass again. “Fine. Whatever. Just keep that grille to yourself.”

John walked away, amazed that no one else in the club seemed to notice that the floor was shifting back and forth like a funhouse. Just before he got to the hall of private bathrooms, he changed his mind, louied, and snuck out past the velvet rope.

On the other side, he navigated the packed crowd with the grace of a buffalo, sideswiping people, knocking into walls, pitching forward, then leaning back to keep from yard-sale-ing.

He took the stairs to the mezzanine floor and punched his way into the men’s bathroom.

There were two guys at the urinals, one by the sinks, and John met none of their eyes as he went all the way back to the end of the stalls. He opened the handicapped one, then pulled back because he felt bad, and stepped into the second-to-last one. As he locked the door, his stomach cement-mixered on him, churning like it was collecting a care package for immediate airmailing.

Shit. Why hadn’t he just used the private bathrooms in the back of the VIP section? Did he really need those three Joes hearing him tribute-band a plumber strong-arming a drain?

God… damn. He was wicked faced.

On that note, he turned and looked down at the toilet. The thing was black, as almost everything in ZeroSum was, but he knew it was clean. Rehv kept a clean house.

Well, except for the prostitution. And the drugs. And the booking.

Okay, it was clean by Spick-and-span standards, not according to the penal code.

John let his head fall back against the metal door and closed his eyes, the true reason for all the drinking bubbling up.

What the hell was the measure of a male? Was it fighting? Was it how much you could bench-press? Was it revenge carried out?

Was it staying in control of your emotions when the whole world seemed funhouse-unstable? Was it loving someone even when you knew there was a risk they could walk away from you forever?

Was it sex?

Okay, big mistake to close his eyes. Or start thinking. He cracked his lids and focused on the black ceiling with its recessed, starlike lights.

The sink shut off. Two urinals flushed. The door to the club opened and shut, then opened and shut.

There was a sniffing noise from a couple stalls down. And another. Then a whiffling and an ahhhhhh. Footsteps. Running water. Laughter of the manic kind. Another open and shut with the door to the outside again.

Alone. He was alone. Except it wouldn’t last long, because someone would come in again soon.

John looked down to the black toilet and told his stomach to get with the program if it wanted to spare him embarrassment.

Evidently it didn’t. Or maybe… yes. No? Shit…

He was staring at the toilet, waiting for his gag reflex to make up its mind, when he forgot about his stomach and realized where he was.

He’d been born in a toilet stall. Brought into the world in a place where people threw up after having had too much to drink… left to fend for his infant self by a mother he’d never known and a father who’d never known him.

If Tohr took off again…

John wheeled around and couldn’t make his fingers work the lever so he could get out. With increasing panic, he clawed at the black mechanism until finally it sprang free. Bursting into the bathroom, he beelined for the door and didn’t make it.

Over each of the six copper sinks, there was a gold-framed mirror.

Taking a deep breath, he picked the mirror that was the closest to the door and stepped in front of it, meeting his grown-up face for the first time.

His eyes were the same…his eyes were exactly the same blue and the same shape. Everything else he didn’t recognize, not the hard cut of the jaw or the thickness of the neck or the broad forehead. But the eyes were his.

He supposed.

Who am I, he mouthed.

Peeling his lips off his front teeth, he leaned in and looked at his fangs.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen those before?”

He spun on his boot. Xhex was standing against the door, effectively closing them in together.

She was wearing exactly the same thing she always did, but to him it was as if he’d never seen the tight muscle shirt or the leathers before.

“I saw you tumble in here. Just thought I’d make sure you were okay.” Her gray eyes didn’t waver, and he bet they never did from anything. The female had a stare like a statue’s, direct and unflappable.

An incredibly sexy statue’s.

I want to fuck you, he mouthed, not caring that he was making a fool out of himself.

“Do you.”

Clearly, she read lips. Either that or cocks, because God knew his had its hand raised and waving in his jeans.

Yeah, I do.

“Lot of women in this club.”

Only one you.

“I think you’d be better off with them.”

And I think you’d be better off with me.

Where the fuck the confidence was coming from, he didn’t care. Whether it was an ego-gift from God or just bottle-born stupidity, he was going with it.

Fact, I know you would.

He deliberately slipped his thumbs under the waistband of his jeans and gave the fuckers a slow jack up. As his arousal showed plain as siding on a house, her eyes dipped down, and he knew what she was seeing: He was hung fit for the size of his six-foot-seven body. And that was without an erection. With one, he was tremendous.

Ah, not so statuelike, are we, he thought as her stare didn’t return to his face, but flared ever so slightly.

With her eyes on him, and an electrical sizzle between them, he wasn’t his past anymore. He was just now. And now was her locking that goddamn door and letting him go down on her. Then the two of them fucking while standing up.

Her lips parted, and he waited for her words like he waited for God’s arrival.

Abruptly, she jerked her hand up to her earpiece and frowned. “Shit. I’ve got to go.”