both streets, but he was clearly being jerked around.
Waste of fucking time.
Chapter Thirty-two
Butch swirled the last inch of coffee around the bottom of the mug, thinking that the stuff was the color of Scotch. As he tossed the cold swill back, he wished it were some high-test Lagavulin.
He checked his watch. Six minutes till seven. God, he hoped the session was only an hour. If everything went smooth, he could drop John at Tohr and Wellsie's and be sitting on his couch with a shot glass at his elbow before CSI came on.
He winced. No wonder Marissa wouldn't see him. What a frickin' catch. High-functioning alcoholic living in a world that wasn't his own.
Yay. Let's beat feet for the altar.
As he pictured himself at home, he had a passing thought about V's warning to get away from the compound. Trouble was, being out at a bar or on the streets alone was not a good plan, not with the mood he was in. He was as raw as the weather.
A few minutes later, voices drifted down the corridor, and John came around the corner with an older woman. The poor kid looked like he'd been pulled through a ringer. His hair was standing up like weeds, as if he'd been shoving his hands into it, and his eyes were glued to the floor. That notebook was clutched to his chest as though the thing were a bulletproof vest.
"So we'll see about the next appointment, John," the female said softly. "After you've thought about it."
John didn't respond, and Butch forgot about all his own whiny crap. Whatever had come out in that office was still out, and the boy needed a buddy. He put his arm around the kid tentatively, and when John leaned into him, all of Butch's protective instincts reared up and snarled. He didn't care that the therapist looked like Mary Poppins; he wanted to yell at her for upsetting the little guy.
"John?" she said. "You'll get back in touch with me about the next - "
"I told him there was no rush. But I do think he should come again."
Butch glanced over at the woman, thoroughly annoyed... only to have her eyes scare the shit out of him. They were so damned serious, so very grave. What the hell had gone down in that session?
Butch looked at the top of John's head. "Let's go, J-man."
John didn't move, so Butch gave him a little push, and led the way out of the clinic, his arm still on the kid's thin shoulders. When they got to the car John climbed into the seat, but didn't put his belt on. He just stared straight ahead.
Butch shut his door and locked the SUV up tight. Then he turned and stared at John.
"I'm not even going to ask what's doing. The only thing I need to know is where you want to go. You feel like heading home, I'll take you to Tohr and Wellsie's. You want to hang at the Pit with me, we'll go over to the compound. You just want to drive, I'll take you to Canada and back. I'm up for anything, so you just say the word. And if you don't want to decide now, I'll tool around town until you figure it out."
John's little chest expanded and then contracted. He flipped open the notebook and took out his pen. There was a pause, and then he wrote something and flipped the paper around to Butch.
Seventh Street.
Butch frowned. That was a really shitty part of town.
He opened his mouth to ask why there of all places, but then shut his yap. The kid had clearly had enough questions thrown at him tonight. Besides, Butch was armed, and it was where John wanted to go. A promise was a promise.
"Okay, buddy. Seventh Street coming up."
But drive around for a while first, the kid wrote.
"No problem. We'll just chill."
Butch started the engine. Just as he put the Escalade into reverse, he saw a flash of something behind them. A car was pulling up to the back of the mansion, a very large, very expensive Bentley. He hit the brakes so it could pass and -
Forgot how to breathe.
Marissa came out of the house from a side door. Her hip-length blond hair blew in the wind, and she huddled into the black cape she was wearing. Moving quickly across the back parking lot, she dodged chunks of snow, leaping from asphalt spot to