“Lube.”
He barks a laugh. “Look at you, cracking the jokes.”
I flush and stand up out of the chair. “It was a bit ribald.”
Although nothing close to what comes out of my mouth at my events. I think I’m the only author I know who’s called a reader a C*** (I WAS JOKING FYI)—and had the woman come to the following year’s event with a shirt that read: “The Warden called me a C***…and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”
Have I mentioned how much Ilovethe BDB readers and the fandom?
“He’s downstairs.”
I force myself back to attention. “I’m sorry?”
Rhage takes the pan off the heat. “V. He’s in his workshop.”
I look to the door to the lowest level. Of all the Brothers, Vishous is the one I least want to talk to, but I might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“Roger dodger.” I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles in that blinding way of his. “Now tell me what for.”
“I don’t know. Everything…I guess.”
He switches the spoon to the other grip and places his dagger hand over his heart. Inclining his head, he says, “Nice deflection on your favorite, by the way. But I can understand if you don’t want to play favorites.”
“Oh, come on. What am I supposed to say?”
“At least I know who you like theleast.”
As he looks pointedly at the door I’m about to put to use, I shake my head. “There are things I value about everyone. The Brotherhood is…”
“Like ice cream, right? Even the worst kinds are still ice cream?”
“I’d go with pizza, but Breyers works, too.”
“Ohhh, pizza. That’s my next stop.”
As I leave Hollywood doing a taste test on the stew and then tucking in with happy abandon, I realize I do adore him. In the midst of his complications, he is simple in his appetites, clear in his loyalty, and generous with his love. He’s also intuitive as hell. Vishous and I have never gotten along.
But I guess that’s been obvious to all of them.
Vishous, son of the Bloodletter
As I go down the steps to the basement, I put a hand on the uneven, whitewashed wall. There’s a banister, but it’s set low, and in my high heels, I want to help my balance out more at the sternum level, rather than down at my hip. The going is slow and I can’t decide whether that’s a mercy or a torture. When I bottom out, I don’t remember which way to head. There are choices, left, right, straight-ahead, and every direction looks the same. The stone walls and short, raftered ceiling are white, the poured cement floor is nautical gray. Everything is sparkling clean, nothing like the clutter in my own basement.
I’d almost question my life choices, but then again, I don’t have Fritz in my life.
Fuck AI. We need the brilliant minds of today to work on cloning thatdoggen.
Oh who am I kidding. I know which way to go.
I take the right-hand turn, and pass by storage rooms that are empty as move-out day, the doors sometimes closed, sometimes open, the spaces all the same: square, squat-ceiling’d, power-washed. Vacated. I even go by the nuclear fallout section where it’s all right angles and lead walls.
And then I swear I feel the heat.
I don’t. That’s not possible. But my skin prickles and I have a hot flash.
When I come up to the steel door, it’s the only one that’s painted red, and I guess it’s a warning that there’s flame inside?Or maybe the chromatic alarm is a be-careful with who’s in there.
