Didn’t mean the loss wasn’t a stinger.
“He’s still alive, by the way,” Butch says in a conversational tone. “He’s in his seventies. Retired to the Keys with his wife. He’s got grandkids. Things worked out okay for him, and I’m glad about it.”
Once again, time means nothing to the pictures in my head. They flow backwards into the seventeenth centuries for flashbacks like when I saw Wrath’s parents get slaughtered while he was shoved in that crawl space—or when V was forced by his father, the Bloodletter, to fight in the War Camp. They go forward, too, into this future era where the Brothers and their fully matured young are currently living. Straddling the divides of years and decades and centuries is easy for the mind.
It’s a mess if you’re the research assistant to an author who jumps around a lot. (Hi, Nath!)(P.S., He hasneverforgiven me for putting the date of Qhuinn’s back-of-the-neck tattoo on the page!)
“I’m glad he’s okay,” Butch murmurs. “He’s my one hanging chad as they say, now that my mom is gone.”
I don’t ask about his siblings. I do not bring up his sister who was raped and murdered when he was young. He’s alreadythinking about them all, especially the latter. I can tell by the silence. And his mind won’t stay there. He’ll leap into the present, and worry about his Brothers. Marissa.
His daughter.
Three…
Two…
One—
He slaps his thigh and smiles up at me. “So about those Sox.”
That’s the signal that he’s done with my pushing. “Best team in baseball.”
“And don’t ya forget it.”
“Never.”
“You talking to all of us?”
“That’s my plan.”
He chuckles as he throws back his glass. “So that’s why V looks like someone shaved his head with a Sawzall.”
I clear my throat. “Well, I guess I’ll just go to the main house.”
“I’ll walk you over.”
“Oh, I know the way—”
But he’s already getting to his feet. Old habits and good manners die hard. Even though we’re perfectly safe up here, there’s no way Brian O’Neal is going to let any woman walk across the pavement in the dark.
Bringing his glass with him, he opens the door wider and stands aside, bowing while he Vanna-Whites the exit. As I go by him, I smell the Gucci cologne and check out the cuff link that peeks out the sleeve of his beautiful suit jacket. It’s a miniature bottle of champagne, finely executed with the gold label and top, and the green glass is carved from nephrite, it looks like.
When I’m outside, I put my arms around myself for warmth.
That’s when a drape hits both my shoulders. His jacket. God, it’s warm and smells divine, and I know it’s offered out ofgallantry. I’ve always liked that dichotomy about him. The bare-knuckle bar fighter, and the gentleman.
Gentlemale, as it turned out.
“Marissa is a very lucky lady,” I murmur.
“Ha! I’m the lucky one, and you know that damn well.” He looks up to the sky. “I find it weird that you’re not asking about her or what it’s like being a father or the elephant in the room.”
“I’m NOT touching that.”
He chuckles and keeps staring upward. “I like being a dad just fine.”
No, he doesn’t. He hates it. But as we start walking, I let him lie to me because sometimes that’s what friends do. They respect boundaries that are drawn even if they’re stupid or not necessary or flat-out falsities.
