"No one likes you, John. Why don't you just leave? Oh, wait. That would mean you couldn't chase after the Brothers. Then what would you do all day?"
The guy's laughter cut off abruptly as a deep voice snarled, "You don't move, blondie, except to breathe."
A huge hand appeared in John's face and he looked up. Zsadist was standing over him. dressed in full war gear.
John grabbed hold of what was in front of him out of reflex and was pulled up easily from the floor.
Zsadist's black eyes were narrow, shimmering with anger. "The bus is ready, so get your shit. I'll meet you outside of the locker room."
John hustled across the mats, thinking that when a male like Zsadist told you to do something, you did it fast.
When he got to the door, though, he had to glance back.
Zsadist had Lash around the neck and had lifted the guy off the mat so his feet dangled. The warrior's voice was graveyard cold. "I saw you put him on the ground, and I'd kill you right now for it, except I'm not interested in dealing with your parents. So listen good, boy. You ever do something like that again, I'm going to thumb out your eyes and feed them to you. We clear?"
In response, Lash's mouth worked like a one-way valve.
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Air went in. Nothing came out. And then he pissed in his pants.
"I'll take that as a yes." Zsadist dropped him.
John didn't stick around. He ran to the locker room, grabbed his duffel, and was out in the hall a moment later.
Zsadist was waiting for him. "Come on."
John followed the Brother out into the parking lot to the van, all along wondering how he could thank the male. But then Zsadist paused by the bus and all but shoved him inside. Then he boarded the thing himself.
Every one of the trainees cringed back into their seats. Especially when Zsadist unsheathed one of his daggers.
"We sit here," he said to John, pointing the weapon's black blade to the first bench seat.
Yeah, okay. Right. Here is good.
John squeezed up against the window as Zsadist took an apple out of his pocket and lowered himself down.
"We're waiting for one more," Zsadist told the driver. "And John and I will be your last stop."
The doggen bowed low behind the wheel. "Of course, sire. As you wish."
Lash slowly came into the van, the red streak around his throat a stain on his pale skin. When he saw Zsadist, he stumbled.
"You're wasting our time, boy," Zsadist said while sliding the knife under the apple's skin. "Sit your ass down."
Lash did as he was told.
As the van took off, no one said a thing. Especially as the partition closed and they were all locked in the back together.
Zsadist peeled the Granny Smith in one long strip, the skin inching down until it reached the floor of the van.
When he was finished, he draped the green ribbon over his knee, then cleaved off a slice of white flesh and held it out to John on the blade. John took the piece with his fingers and ate it while Zsadist cut a hunk for himself and carried it to his mouth on the knife. They alternated until the apple was nothing but a skinny core.
Zsadist took the skin and what was left and threw them in the little trash bag by the partition. Then he wiped the blade on his leathers and started to flip it into the air and catch it. He kept this up the whole ride to town.
When they got to the first dropoff, there was a long hesitation after the partition opened. And then two of the guys shuffled by quickly.
Zsadist's black eyes followed them, and he stared hard, as if he were memorizing their faces. And all the time with the blade, up and down, the black metal flashing, the big palm catching it in the same place on the handle after every toss-even when he was looking at the guys.
This happened at each stop. Until John and he were alone.
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As the partition closed, Zsadist slid the dagger into his chest holster. Then he moved to the seat across the aisle and leaned back against the window, shutting his eyes.
John knew better than to think the male was asleep, because his breathing didn't change and he didn't relax at all. He just didn't want to interact.