Blood Kiss - Ward J. R. (чтение книг .txt) 📗

“I’m not taking you there. This is not up for discussion.”

“Yes, you are.” She slid off the stool and picked up the tray of food. “And if I find out you went by yourself? I’m going to consider it a betrayal of the highest order of our relationship—and that is not up for discussion.”

He tried to picture her standing next to a couple dressed in black latex getting it in the ass by a set of DD twins wearing matching purple strap-ons.

“Marissa. I’m not going to have time to handhold you,” he said roughly. “My focus is going to be on fitting in, figuring out where the staff is, finding the right people to talk to. Distraction is not going to help that dead girl.”

“Don’t you dare play that card. I am fully aware of why we’re going, and I’d like to point out that you’re my hellren, not my ghardian. So shelve the paterfamilias bullshit, and pop a couple of valium before we go if you have to. But I cannot make this clearer—I’m coming with you and I’m going to help figure this all out.” She leaned in. “Newsflash—just because I have a pair of ovaries doesn’t mean I don’t have a brain—or the right to think independently.”

In the silence that followed, all he could do was shake his head back and forth. The words that were on the tip of his tongue were not going to help this—and he couldn’t believe they were arguing again.

So much for the restart button they’d hit the night before.

“Or is that what you’re worried about?” she challenged.

“What?”

“That I might like it.”

With that little ditty dropping at his feet like a grenade, she walked off, head held high, shoulders back, a whole lot of get-over-yourself steeling her spine.

Bracing his palms against the granite countertop, he leaned into his arms and tried to keep from screaming in frustration.

At least the bottle of Lag was still three-quarters full.

He was going to need it.

Peyton exhaled a stream of smoke and let his head fall back onto his pillow. “Here.”

Passing the bong over to Anslam, he closed his eyes and felt himself float about a foot over his body. The familiar sense of relief reminded him that Parry was probably right; he probably needed to not do this. But shit, after the two nights they’d just had?

He needed a little vacay.

Fuck that—he’d earned it.

“So what do you think of them all?” he asked.

The sound of Anslam exhaling just like he had was like someone laughing at the same place in a movie that you did, or enjoying the same good meal. Comradery was a nice thing.

“Boone’s cool,” the guy said. “Axe is a fucking freak. I mean, get over yourself, asshole with the black clothes and the spiked hair and that bullshit tattooing crap.”

Peyton waited for the guy to continue. “And what about Novo.”

“She is fucking hot.”

For some reason, even though he agreed, he didn’t like the idea of Anslam walking around with that opinion—or worse, popping a chub because of it.

“I don’t know,” Peyton muttered. “She’s okay.”

“Did you see her doing sit-ups? I can’t believe Boone got to hold her feet. I wanted that fucking view.”

“She’ll break you in half.” Although if this kept up, Peyton might take care of that himself. “Besides, I don’t know if she does males.”

“I’ll turn her,” Anslam said in a low voice. “I’ll fucking set her right on that one—”

“What about Craeg,” Peyton cut in.

“He’s the guy to beat. No offense to Paradise coming in first at the end of night one, but Craeg’s probably going to go the full distance.”

“Yeah.” At least they could both agree on that—without a coffin coming between them. “Who are you taking to the ball at her father’s place?”

“Right now, no one. I like to keep my options open. Hey, before we crash, can we food up?”

Peyton opened his eyes and glanced over at the antique Cartier clock on his nightstand. “Yeah. Defo. Let me call Paradise first. I wanna make sure she got home.”

“You sure you two aren’t courting?”

“Nah. Friends only.”

“She’s a piece.”

Peyton wrenched around and glared at the guy. “Watch your mouth about her.”

Anslam shook his head and put his palm up. “You got some unresolved shit with her, my friend. Don’t kid yourself.”

Whatever.

Reaching for his phone, he called her contact out of his recent calls list and waited for her to pick up. As the connection rang, he looked around his room. His parents’ mansion was a newer one, with big arching windows running down the back side that overlooked the gardens. With high ceilings and good woodwork, he’d always thought his room was airy even with all the stuffy antique crap his mother insisted on making everyone live with whether they appreciated it or not—

“Hello!”

He frowned. “You okay, Parry?”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “It’s you.”

“Who the hell were you expecting?”

“Ah, no one. My aunt. My—her cousin. My aunt’s cousin. You don’t know him—her, I mean.”

“Have you been smoking up?” He smiled. “Because if you have, you need to put the pipe down now and start sleeping it off.”

“No, I haven’t been. But you have. I can hear it in your voice.”

“How?”

“Huskier than normal.”

For a split second, he wondered whether she found that sexy or not. Shaking himself, he said, “I just wanted to see if you made it home. Your dad there with you by now? He must be off work.”

“Yeah, we had Last Meal together. Now I’m just up here in my room.”

“Anslam and I are stoned out of our minds.” The guy gave a thumbs-up from the other end of the bed. “We’re going to carbo-load and crash. It’s going to be fabulous. Anyway, glad you’re tight.”

“Don’t eat too much ice cream. It makes you bloat and then you complain the next day that you’ve lost your girlish figure.”

“I have never done that.”

“Really. Really?”

“Okay, fine,” he muttered.

“And do I need to remind you about the cookie-dough incident.”

Peyton groaned. “I could have sworn I shit my internal organs out.”

“That’s right. I still say you might be lactose-intolerant. Just something to consider. I love you.”

He glanced at Anslam, and didn’t want to say the words back in front of the guy. “Me, too. See you tomorrow—”

“Oh, hey, listen, I found your photograph.”

“My what?”

“Photograph. On the bus. It fell out of your backpack or your pocket or something.”

“I don’t have any photographs to lose, sweet cheeks. But thanks for thinking of me—and if it involves anything naked and female, I’ll take it off your hands free of charge. Just because I’m a straight-up Good Sam like that.”

She laughed. “No. I don’t know what the image is, actually. I thought you dropped it, but guess not. It’s an old-fashioned Polaroid.”

“A Polaroid? Jesus, that’s an antique.”

“Well, anyway, I’ll hold on to it until someone claims it. Have a good day. And you really shouldn’t be smoking up.”

“So you keep telling me. Good day, too, baby.”

As he ended the call, he reached across and put his phone down by that clock. “That is one fine female.”

“What was she talking about? A photograph?”

“I don’t know. Some Polaroid she found on the bus.” He sat up. Stood up. Tried walking. “Wow. That’s some strong-ass shit. Let’s go down to the kitchen the back way so no one sees us bobbing and weaving.”

Chapter Thirty

As Paradise paced around her room in her bare feet, she was careful to go toe-heel, toe-heel, so that she made no noise—although considering how hard her heart was beating, she was surprised she wasn’t waking people up on the other side of the river with the pounding.

Quick stop. Check the time.

Six fifty-eight. Or maybe six fifty-nine—it was hard to be precise with the old clock on her bedside, especially from across the room.