off the snowpack.
Blay was the one working the pull, the male standing to the side, carefully monitoring and
controlling the speed of the draw so that no undue stress was put on the various mechanical
components of this automotive Good Samaritan production.
So careful. So controlled.
In order to seem casual, Qhuinn went over by Tohr and pretended that he, like the Brother, was
just monitoring the progress of the lift. Not. It was all about Blay, of course.
It had always been about Blay.
Trying to add to all the nonchalance, he crossed his arms over his chest—but had to drop them
down again as his bruised shoulder hollered. “Lesson learned,” he said to make conversation.
Tohr murmured something back, but damned if he heard it. And damned if he could see anything
but Blay. Not for a blink. For a breath. For a beat of the heart.
Staring across the swirling snow, he marveled at how someone you knew everything about, who
lived down the hall, who ate with you and worked with you and slept at the same time you did…
could become a stranger.
Then again, and as usual, that was about the emotional distance, not the same job, under-the-same-
roof shit.
The thing was, Qhuinn felt like he wanted to explain things. Unfortunately, and unlike his slut
cousin, Saxton the Cocksucker, he had no gift with words, and the complicated stuff in the center of his chest was making that mute tendency worse.
After a final grind, the Hummer was up off the ground on the bed, and Blay started running chain
in and out of the undercarriage.
“Okay, you three take this piece of junk back,” Tohr said as flurries started to fall again.
Blay froze and looked at the Brother. “We go in pairs. So I need to leave with you.”
Like he was beyond ready to bounce.
“Have you looked at what we got here? An incapacitated hunk of junk with two dead humans in it.
You think this is a play-it-loose situation?”
“They can handle it,” Blay said under his breath. “The two of them are tight.”
“And with you they’re even stronger. I’m just going to dematerialize home.”
In the stretch of silence that followed, the straight line that ran from Blay’s ass up to the base of his skull was the equivalent of a middle finger. Not to the Brother, though.
Qhuinn knew exactly who it was for.
Things moved fast from then on, the SUV getting secured, Tohr departing, and John hopping
behind the wheel of the flatbed. Meanwhile, Qhuinn went around to the truck’s passenger-side door,
cranked it open, and stood to the side, waiting.
Like a gentlemale might, he supposed.
Blay came over, stalking through the snow. His face was like the landscape: cold, shut down,
inhospitable.
“After you,” the guy muttered, taking out a pack of cigarettes and an elegant gold lighter.
Qhuinn ducked his head briefly in a nod, then shuffled inside, sliding over the bench seat until his shoulder brushed John’s.
Blay got in last, slammed the door, and cracked the window, putting the lit end of his coffin nail
right at the opening to keep the smell down.
The flatbed did all of the talking for a good five miles or so.
Sitting in between what used to be his two best friends, Qhuinn stared out the windshield and
counted the seconds between the intermittent swipes of the wipers…three, two…one…up-and-down.
And…three, two…one…up-and-down.
There was barely enough snow loose in the air to require the effort—
“I’m sorry,” he blurted.
Silence. Except for the growl of the engine in front of them and the occasional clang of a chain in back when they hit a bump.
Qhuinn glanced over, and what do you know, Blay looked like he was chewing on metal.
“Are you talking to me?” the guy said gruffly.
“Yeah. I am.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Blay stabbed the cigarette out in the dashboard’s ashtray.
And lit another. “Will you please stop staring at me.”
“I just…” Qhuinn put a hand through his hair and
Blay was the one working the pull, the male standing to the side, carefully monitoring and
controlling the speed of the draw so that no undue stress was put on the various mechanical
components of this automotive Good Samaritan production.
So careful. So controlled.
In order to seem casual, Qhuinn went over by Tohr and pretended that he, like the Brother, was
just monitoring the progress of the lift. Not. It was all about Blay, of course.
It had always been about Blay.
Trying to add to all the nonchalance, he crossed his arms over his chest—but had to drop them
down again as his bruised shoulder hollered. “Lesson learned,” he said to make conversation.
Tohr murmured something back, but damned if he heard it. And damned if he could see anything
but Blay. Not for a blink. For a breath. For a beat of the heart.
Staring across the swirling snow, he marveled at how someone you knew everything about, who
lived down the hall, who ate with you and worked with you and slept at the same time you did…
could become a stranger.
Then again, and as usual, that was about the emotional distance, not the same job, under-the-same-
roof shit.
The thing was, Qhuinn felt like he wanted to explain things. Unfortunately, and unlike his slut
cousin, Saxton the Cocksucker, he had no gift with words, and the complicated stuff in the center of his chest was making that mute tendency worse.
After a final grind, the Hummer was up off the ground on the bed, and Blay started running chain
in and out of the undercarriage.
“Okay, you three take this piece of junk back,” Tohr said as flurries started to fall again.
Blay froze and looked at the Brother. “We go in pairs. So I need to leave with you.”
Like he was beyond ready to bounce.
“Have you looked at what we got here? An incapacitated hunk of junk with two dead humans in it.
You think this is a play-it-loose situation?”
“They can handle it,” Blay said under his breath. “The two of them are tight.”
“And with you they’re even stronger. I’m just going to dematerialize home.”
In the stretch of silence that followed, the straight line that ran from Blay’s ass up to the base of his skull was the equivalent of a middle finger. Not to the Brother, though.
Qhuinn knew exactly who it was for.
Things moved fast from then on, the SUV getting secured, Tohr departing, and John hopping
behind the wheel of the flatbed. Meanwhile, Qhuinn went around to the truck’s passenger-side door,
cranked it open, and stood to the side, waiting.
Like a gentlemale might, he supposed.
Blay came over, stalking through the snow. His face was like the landscape: cold, shut down,
inhospitable.
“After you,” the guy muttered, taking out a pack of cigarettes and an elegant gold lighter.
Qhuinn ducked his head briefly in a nod, then shuffled inside, sliding over the bench seat until his shoulder brushed John’s.
Blay got in last, slammed the door, and cracked the window, putting the lit end of his coffin nail
right at the opening to keep the smell down.
The flatbed did all of the talking for a good five miles or so.
Sitting in between what used to be his two best friends, Qhuinn stared out the windshield and
counted the seconds between the intermittent swipes of the wipers…three, two…one…up-and-down.
And…three, two…one…up-and-down.
There was barely enough snow loose in the air to require the effort—
“I’m sorry,” he blurted.
Silence. Except for the growl of the engine in front of them and the occasional clang of a chain in back when they hit a bump.
Qhuinn glanced over, and what do you know, Blay looked like he was chewing on metal.
“Are you talking to me?” the guy said gruffly.
“Yeah. I am.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Blay stabbed the cigarette out in the dashboard’s ashtray.
And lit another. “Will you please stop staring at me.”
“I just…” Qhuinn put a hand through his hair and
Similar Books
