Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

play-it-loose situation?”
    “They can handle it,” Blay said under his breath. “The two of them are tight.”
    “And with you they’re even stronger. I’m just going to dematerialize home.”
    In the stretch of silence that followed, the straight line that ran from Blay’s ass up to the base of his skull was the equivalent of a middle finger. Not to the Brother, though.
    Qhuinn knew exactly who it was for.
    Things moved fast from then on, the SUV getting secured, Tohr departing, and John hopping behind the wheel of the flatbed. Meanwhile, Qhuinn went around to the truck’s passenger-side door, cranked it open, and stood to the side, waiting.
    Like a gentlemale might, he supposed.
    Blay came over, stalking through the snow. His face was like the landscape: cold, shut down, inhospitable.
    “After you,” the guy muttered, taking out a pack of cigarettes and an elegant gold lighter.
    Qhuinn ducked his head briefly in a nod, then shuffled inside, sliding over the bench seat until his shoulder brushed John’s.
    Blay got in last, slammed the door, and cracked the window, putting the lit end of his coffin nail right at the opening to keep the smell down.
    The flatbed did all of the talking for a good five miles or so.
    Sitting in between what used to be his two best friends, Qhuinn stared out the windshield and counted the seconds between the intermittent swipes of the wipers…three, two…one…up-and-down. And…three, two…one…up-and-down.
    There was barely enough snow loose in the air to require the effort—
    “I’m sorry,” he blurted.
    Silence. Except for the growl of the engine in front of them and the occasional clang of a chain in back when they hit a bump.
    Qhuinn glanced over, and what do you know, Blay looked like he was chewing on metal.
    “Are you talking to me?” the guy said gruffly.
    “Yeah. I am.”
    “You have nothing to apologize for.” Blay stabbed the cigarette out in the dashboard’s ashtray. And lit another. “Will you
please
stop staring at me.”
    “I just…” Qhuinn put a hand through his hair and gave the shit a yank. “I don’t…I…I don’t know what to say about Layla—”
    Blay’s head snapped around. “What you do with your life has nothing to do with me—”
    “That’s not true,” Qhuinn said quietly. “I—”
    “Not true?”
    “Blay, listen, Layla and I—”
    “What makes you think I want to hear one word about you and her?”
    “I just thought that you might need some…I don’t know, context or something.”
    Blay simply stared at him for a moment. “And why exactly do you think I’d want ‘context.’”
    “Because…I thought you might find it…like, upsetting. Or something.”
    “And why would that be?”
    Qhuinn couldn’t believe the guy wanted him to say it out loud. Much less in front of someone else, even John. “Well, because of, you know.”
    Blay leaned in, his upper lip peeling back from his fangs. “Just so we’re clear, your cousin is giving me what I need. All day long. Every day. You and me?” He motioned back and forth between them with the cigarette. “We work together. That’s it. So I want you to do us both a favor before you think I ‘need’ to know something. Ask yourself, ‘If I were flipping burgers at McDonald’s, would I be telling the fucking fry guy this?’ If the answer is no, then shut the hell up.”
    Qhuinn refocused on the windshield. And considered putting his face through it. “John, pull over.”
    The fighter glanced across. Then started shaking his head.
    “John, pull the fuck over. Or I’ll do it for you.”
    Qhuinn was vaguely aware that his chest was pumping up and down and that his hands had become fists.
    “Pull the fuck over!” he roared as he punched the dashboard hard enough to send one of the vents flying.
    The flatbed shot to the side of the road and the brakes squealed as their velocity slowed. But Qhuinn was already out of there. Dematerializing, he escaped through that crack in the window, along with Blay’s frustrated exhale.
    Almost immediately, he re-formed at the side of the road, unable to keep himself in his molecular state because his emotions were running way too high for that. Putting one shitkicker in front of the other, he trudged through the snow, his need to ambulate drowning out everything, including the ringing pain in both sets of knuckles.
    In the back of his head, something about the stretch of road registered, but there was too much noise in his