The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood #13) - J. R. Ward Page 0,4

Scribe Virgin’s, and he was a reformed sex addict with a life-in-prison-type sentence hanging over his head—and yet, according to his cock and balls, this was a recipe for true love.

Yup. There was some righteous math for you.

God, he was almost relieved he had a slayer leaking all over one of his sex rooms. At least it gave him a bomb to dismantle—which was better than staring out at that anonymous crowd of strangers who were feeding their own addictions thanks to the women and booze he supplied them with.

While he waited for the other shoe to drop back home.

At the s’Hisbe.

TWO

THE PIT, BROTHERHOOD MANSION

Rhage glared over the top of the Caldwell Courier Journal. From his vantage point on V and Butch’s leather sofa, he had more view than he wanted of a shirtless Lassiter playing with himself.

Foosball, that was.

The fallen angel was working V’s table like a pro, flashing back and forth between the two sides—and hurling insults at himself.

“Question,” Rhage muttered, as he rearranged his injured leg. “Are either of your personalities aware that you’re schizo-freakin’-phrenic?”

“Your mama’s so stupid”—Lassiter dematerialized and re-formed on the far side, spinning the rods—“she thinks a California dime is something you dial a phone with.”

V came over and took a load off. “That’s multiple personality disorder, Hollywood. Not schizophrenia.”

The Brother put a leather pouch of tobacco and a sheaf of rolling papers on the stack of Sports Illustrateds—just as Lassiter fired off a shout of triumph.

“Oh, look,” V said under his breath. “The idiot is finally winning.”

Rhage grunted as he tried to find a better position for his leg. He and V should both have been out fighting—except a lesser had gone Gordon Ramsay on him with a rusty knife and V had a gunshot wound through the left shoulder.

At least they’d both be back online in another twenty-four hours, largely thanks to Selena. Without her being so generous with her vein, they wouldn’t be able to heal so fast—especially given that neither of their mates were capable of meeting their nutritional needs that way.

But, man, this sucked, sitting around like a couple of cripples.

And then there was the Lassiter factor.

The Pit was mostly as it always had been: full of gym bags, stereo and computer equipment, that Foosball table, and a TV the size of a city park. SportsCenter was on, talking about college football along with the NFL; there were dead-soldier Grey Goose bottles everywhere; and Butch’s wardrobe was now spilling out into the hall. Oh, and yup, Schoolboy Q’s “Hell of a Night” was bangin’ on the speakers.

But it wasn’t exclusively a bachelor pad anymore. Lingering in the air was Marissa’s signature perfume—something Chanel?—and Doc Jane’s medical bag was on the coffee table. Those vodka deadies? Only from this afternoon and tonight, and V was going to pull a tidy-up before he crashed. And then there were the Journal of the American Medical Association and the People magazines.

Oh, and the kitchen was clean, with fresh fruit in a bowl and a refrigerator full of things other than Arby’s leftovers and soy sauce packets.

Rhage had dipped his toe into that Frigidaire pond as soon as he’d come in, snagging a half gallon of mint chocolate-chip ice cream. That was about a half hour ago, and he was feeling peckish again. Maybe it was time to head back to the main house—

As Jeezy’s “Holy Ghost” broke in, Lassiter started rapping.

Rapping.

“Why did you invite him over?” Rhage asked—just as V extended his tongue to lick one of his hand-rolleds shut. “And Jesus, when the hell did you pierce that?”

“I didn’t. He followed us across the courtyard. And a month ago.”

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

V shot an evil smile across the sofa, his lids falling low over his diamond eyes. “Jane likes it.”

Rhage went back to his newspaper. “TMI, my brother.”

“Like you wouldn’t do the same if Mary wanted it.”

“Doc Jane asked for that? Like your goatee ain’t enough shit going on with your piehole? Come on.”

All he got was another of those smiles.

“Moving on…” He focused on the horoscopes. “Okay, so what sign are you, Lassiter?”

“I’m fabulous”—the fallen angel flashed to the other side—“with the sun rising in the Kiss My Ass quadrant. And before you keep asking, I was made, not born, so I don’t have a birthday.”

“I’ll give you a funeral date,” V cut in.

“How about a shirt.” Rhage turned to the next page. “Just a shirt. Would it kill you to cover up, angel? No one needs to