The doors open on their own, and it’s then I notice what he’s wearing even though I’ve been looking at him. He has a black muscle shirt on and a pair of loose black baller shorts. His shoes are black and white Michael Jordans that are tied up properly because they’re not fashion or a collector’s piece. They’re functional.
He’s never grown out his hair, the skull trim what he’s always kept it in. And the scar on his face, that S-curve that runs down the center and distorts his lip, remains the first thing that you see when you look at his face. Yet the impact fades quickly because there is much more to him than that. His eyes are a ringing yellow, like sunshine, and there is warmth in their depths. He also offers me a small smile, another kind of sunrise.
You know how when you are with an old, dear friend, whose secrets are all known to you, and who you accept exactly the way they are, that all the distances of time and place disappear? Well, Z and I have, in our own ways, both traveled far in the last twenty years. And here we are, back in this gym, with a basketball rolling to a stop off in the far corner.
I am so glad he and Bella found their way. I am so grateful Nalla was born safely, and Z has seen her future with Nate. I ambeyond relieved that the happily ever after stuck and that he’s stayed doing his therapy with Mary.
He felt like the luckiest male alive at the end of his book.
And he still feels that way.
Given how much I feel for him, people have asked me why he doesn’t show up in a lot of stories, unlike, say, V or Rhage or Wrath. The answer to that is I find it’s hard for me to have him on the page because I can’t help but trip and fall into his past, and I barely got through that while drafting his book. There’s a privacy to him that I like to respect—and yes. I realize I’m talking about a “fictional” person. As I said, though, my brain doesn’t recognize that footnote, and I’ll keep things just as they are, thank you very much.
God, I really want to tell him how much I love him—
His arms open, and for a second, I have no clue what he’s doing. Then I realize…
Some gifts cannot be wrapped. They don’t even change hands, really. But the sentiment has weight and breadth, and as much substance as something that can be picked up.
And more worth than anything that’s ever come in a little blue box.
I’ve heard on people’s deathbeds, it’s not stuff they talk about. It’s about the people. While I hug my favorite hero, I amsothankful that I met him and he’s in my life.
I’ve kept Zsadist close to my heart since the moment I first met him, and I’m going to keep him there. Always. It’s what you do when you treasure something. When it’s precious to you.
When it’s of inestimable value.
As we stand together, I think that he might feel a little for me, too.
Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath
I’m back in the grand foyer, standing on the mosaic depiction of that apple tree in full bloom. As I look up the blood red carpet, I contemplate slipping off the heels and going barefoot. Resolving not to be a pussy, I go to the right and use the gold-leafed balustrade for balance. On the rise, I spend most of the time looking over my shoulder. Those marble and malachite columns have always caught my eye.
I love rocks, and the way the towering cylinders are polished to a high shine, you can really see every vein of color.
Up at the top, I find that the study’s double doors are open, and yeah, wow, hello, Versailles. I remember the first time I saw the Black Dagger Brotherhood squeezed into the pale blue room, their huge bodies perched on the French antique furniture, their subtle distaste of the frilly confines mostly hidden. I believe after that session, Fritz hurried in and shored up all the seats.
Stepping into the study, I bend over and look through a forest of spindly legs. Yup, the settee has a block under it that runs the length and width of the thing. Good idea, for when it was keeping over six hundred pounds off the floor. The other bergères and side chairs have the same, proof that the butler finishes whatever he starts.
But there’s at least one piece of furniture that requires no buttressing.
The ancient throne looms like something expelled from Bram Stoker’s universe, dwarfing even the big, also-out-of-place desk that Wrath brought in to match it. Its wood has darkened from age, and I picture a craftsman almost a thousand years ago, chipping away at the oak to create the repeating dagger and warhorse pattern that covers every inch of every surface except for the flat seat.
I can’t help but contrast it with the chair I sat in while I typed outDark Lover.
I’ve always had my desk in the bedroom. I know this is frowned upon by all kinds of professional advisers:Your workspace must be distinct from where you try to sleep.
Fuck ’em. It was fine for me in prep school, college and law school. No reason to change now.
The bedroom where I first outlined the series and wrote those first sixty-nine pages had the best windows. Coming from up north, I was used to four or six paners that filled the wall space from the ceiling to about halfway down. These ran all the way to the floor. They literally had a clearance of three inches at the bottom. I loved opening them all the way up so that the breeze would go through the space.
My desk was against the wall on the left, and I could stare out at the treetops. Everything in Louisville turns green in the spring and stays like that through the color change in October. I felt like I was writing outside, and all those leaves meant there was no glare from direct sunlight.
My chair was a bog standard office one from Staples. I had to take the rollers out so I could put my feet up on the edge of my table and type in my lap—
Someone is looming behind me.
Just like it was back then.
