Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8) - J.R. Ward Page 0,37

hole.

Blay was calmer when he turned around. Even met those eyes. "I'm going down to dinner."

He was feeling quite proud of himself as he walked by-Qhuinn's hand snapped out and latched onto his forearm, stopping him dead. "We have a problem. You and me."

"Do we." Not a question. Because this was one convo he had no interest in encouraging.

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

Blay blinked. What was wrong with him? He wasn't the one fucking anything with a hole.

No, he was the pathetic fidiot who pined for his best friend. Which put 89

him into wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home territory. Any closer to chicking out and he'd have to carry Kleenex tucked into his sleeve to catch his tears. Unfortunately, the flash of anger deflated fast and left him hollow.

"Nothing. There's nothing wrong."

"Bullshit."

Right. Okay. This was unfair. They'd already been over this territory and Qhuinn might be a slut, but the guy's memory was perfectly functional.

"Qhuinn . . ." Blay shoved a hand into his hair. On cue, that fucking Bonnie Raitt song shot into his brain, her rich voice singing . . . I can't make you love me if you don't. . . . You can't make your heart feel something it won't. . . .

Blay had to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Is it possible to be castrated without being aware of it?" Now Qhuinn was doing the blink. "Not unless you're really fucking drunk."

"Well, I'm sober. Dead sober. As usual." And on that note, maybe he needed to take a page from John's book and start liquoring it up. "I think I might have to change that, however. Excuse me--"

"Blay--"

"No. You do not get to 'Blay' me like that." He stuck his finger in his best friend's face. "You just do your thing. It's what you're best at. Leave me alone."

He walked out, his head tangled but his feet mercifully on the ball. Taking the hall of statues down to the grand staircase, he passed by the Greco-Roman masterpieces, and ran his eyes over those male bodies. Naturally, he Photoshop'd Qhuinn's head on top of each one-"You don't have to change anything." Qhuinn was right on his tail, the words low.

Blay got to the head of the stairs and looked down. The yawning, resplendent foyer before him was like a gift you opened with your body as you entered it, each step forward bringing you into a visual embrace of color and gold.

Perfect place for a mating ceremony, he thought for no particular reason.

"Blay. Come on. Nothing has changed."

He glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn's pierced brows were tight, his eyes fierce. But as much as it was clear the guy wanted to keep talking, Blay was so done.

He started down the steps, moving fast.

90

And was not at all surprised when Qhuinn stuck with him--and the conversation. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Oh, right, like they needed to do this in front of the people in the dining room. Qhuinn was fine with audiences for all sorts of things, but Blay did not find peanut galleries helpful in the slightest. He marched back up two steps, until they were face-to-face. "What was her name?"

Qhuinn recoiled. "Excuse me?"

"The receptionist's name."

"What receptionist?"

"From last night. At the tat shop."

Qhuinn rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on--"

"Her name."

"God, I have no fucking clue." Qhuinn went palms-up, the universal language for whatever. "Why does it matter?" Blay opened his mouth, on the verge of spelling out that what had meant nothing to Qhuinn had been hell to watch. But then he knew it would sound possessive and stupid.

Instead of talking, he reached into his pocket, took out his Dunhills, and fingered one up. Popping it into his mouth, he lit the thing while staring into those mismatched eyes.

"I hate that you smoke," Qhuinn muttered.

"Get over it," Blay said, turning away and heading downward. 91

ELEVEN

"Where you going, John?"

Down in the mudroom at the back of the mansion, John froze with his hand on one of the doors that led into the garage. Goddamn it . . . a house this big, you'd think you could leave without an audience. But no . . . eyes everywhere. Opinions . . . everywhere.

It was like the orphanage in that respect.

He turned and faced Zsadist. The Brother had a napkin in one hand and a baby bottle in the other, having obviously just gotten up from the dining room table and come in through the kitchen. And gee, guess what . . . next person through the door was Qhuinn,