Qhuinn took out a twenty and didn't wait for change - murder was just a liiiiiittle too tempting. Nodding to John, who was also measuring the dear boy for a shroud, Qhuinn went to walk off.
"What about your change?" the man called out.
"I'm deaf, too. I can't hear you."
The guy yelled more loudly, "I'll just keep it then, yeah?"
"Sounds good," Qhuinn shouted over his shoulder.
Idiot was stage-five stupid. Straight up.
Stepping through the security bar, Qhuinn thought it was a miracle that humans like that got through the day and night at all. And the motherfucker had managed to get his pants on right and operate a cash register.
Would miracles never cease.
As he pushed his way outside, the cold slapped him around, the wind blowing at his hair, snowflakes getting in his nose -
Qhuinn stopped.
Looked left. Looked right.
"What the...where's my Hummer?"
In his peripheral vision, John's hands started flying around like he was wondering the same thing. And then the guy pointed down to the freshly fallen snow...and the deep treads of four monster tires that made a fat circle and headed out of the parking lot.
"Goddamn motherfucking shit!" Qhuinn gritted.
And he thought Mr. Observant was the stupid one?
Chapter Two
Back at the Brotherhood's mansion, Blaylock sat on the edge of his bed, his naked body flushed, a sheen of sweat across his chest and shoulders. Between his legs his cock was spent, and his hips were loose from all kinds of bump and grind. At the other end of the spectrum, his breath was squeezed, his flesh requiring just a little more oxygen than his lungs could provide.
So naturally he reached for the pack of Dunhill Reds he kept on his side table.
The sounds of his lover showering in the bath across the way, along with the spicy scent of hand-milled soap, were achingly familiar.
Had it been almost a year now?
Taking out one of the cigarettes, he picked up the vintage Van Cleef & Arpels lighter Sax had given him for his birthday. The thing was made of gold and marked with the firm's trademark Mystery Set rubies, a 1940s lovely that never failed to please the eye - or do the job.
As the flame jumped up, the shower turned off.
Blay leaned into the lick of fire, inhaled, and flicked the top back down. As always, the slightest hint of lighter fluid lingered, the sweetness mingling with the smoke that he exhaled -
Qhuinn hated smoking.
Had never approved of it.
Which, considering the number of outrageous things the guy made a regular habit out of, seemed downright offensive.
Sex with countless strangers in club bathrooms? Threesomes with males and females? Piercings? Tattoos in various places?
And this guy didn't "approve" of smoking. Like it was a vile habit no one in his right mind would bother with.
In the bathroom, the hair dryer he and Sax shared went on, and Blay could imagine that blond hair he had just grabbed onto and pulled back hard flowing in the artificial breeze, catching the light, shining with highlights that were natural.
Saxton was beautiful, all smooth skin and sinewy body and perfect taste.