by J. R. Ward
Jane hid the smile that popped up on her face by doing another dip/rinse routine. “Just rendering a medical opinion.”
pp. 171-172
“Sounds like you want a date, Lash,” Qhuinn barked. “Good deal, ’cause you keep that shit up, you’re going to get fucked, buddy.”
p. 196
Red Sox looked around Jane at the patient. “Your mind reading coming back?”
“With her? Sometimes.”
“Huh. You getting anything from anyone else?”
“Nope.”
Red Sox repositioned his hat. “Well, ah . . . let me know if you pick up shit from me, ’k? There are some things that I’d prefer to keep private, feel me?”
“Roger that. Although I can’t help it sometimes.”
“Which is why I’m going to take up thinking about baseball when you’re around.”
“Thank fuck you’re not a Yankees fan.”
“Don’t use the Y-word. We’re in mixed company.”
p. 199
Gimme an S! A T! An O! A C! Followed by a K-H-O-L-M! What’s it spell? HEAD FUCK.
The patient leaned down to her ear. “I can’t see you as the cheerleader type. But you’re right. We both would slaughter anything that so much as startled you.” The patient straightened again, one giant testosterone surge plugged into bedroom slippers.
Jane tapped him on the forearm and crooked her forefinger so he’d lean back down. When he did, she whispered, “I’m scared of mice and spiders. But you don’t need to use that gun on your hip to blow a hole in a wall if I run into one, okay? Havahart traps and rolled newspapers work just as well. Plus, you don’t need a Sheetrock patch and plaster job afterward. I’m just saying.”
She patted his arm, dismissing him, and refocused on the tunnel ahead.
pp. 199-200
Butch nodded as if he knew exactly what was doing. “Like I said, my man, it’s whatever. You and me? Same as always, no matter who you screw. Although . . . if you’re into sheep, that would be tough. Don’t know if I could handle that.”
V had to smile. “I don’t do farm animals.”
“Can’t stand hay in your leathers?”
“Or wool in my teeth.”
p. 211
“She is.” Butch headed for the door but then paused and looked over his shoulder. “V?”
Vishous raised his stare. “Yeah?”
“I think you should know, after all this deep conversatin’ . . .” Butch shook his head gravely. “We still ain’t dating.”
p. 213
Standing in front of his locker three hours later, John wished Qhuinn would shut his damn piehole. Even though the locker room was loud from sounds of metal doors banging shut and clothes flapping and shoes dropping, he felt like his buddy had a bullhorn stapled to his upper lip.
“You’re flippin’ huge, J.M. For real. Like . . . ginormous.”
That is not a word. John shoved his backpack in like he usually did and realized none of the clothes he was crushing would fit him anymore.
“The hell it isn’t. Back me up, Blay.”
Blay nodded as he pulled on his ji. “Yeah, you fill out? You’re going to be, like, Brother-sized.”
“Gigundous.”
Okay, also not a word, asshole.
“Fine, really, really, really big. How’s that?”
p. 301
Qhuinn smiled, baring his fangs. “Has anyone ever shown you the difference between good touch and bad touch? ’Cause I’d love to demonstrate. We could start right now.”
p. 303
“I came to see if you were dead.”
Jane had to smile. “Jesus, Manello, don’t be such a romantic.”
“You look like shit.”
“And now with the compliments. Stop. You’re making me blush.”
p. 360
V blinked a couple of times, horrified at what he was about to say. “God, you’re going for sainthood, you know that? You’ve always been there for me. Always. Even when I . . .”
“Even when you what?”
“You know.”
“What?”
“Fuck. Even when I was in love with you. Or some shit.”
Butch clasped his hands to his chest. “Was? Was? I can’t believe you’ve lost interest.” He threw one arm over his eyes, all Sarah Bernhardt. “My dreams of our future are shattered—”
“Shut it, cop.”
Butch looked out from under his arm. “Are you kidding me? The reality show I had planned was fantastic. Was going to pitch it to VH1. Two Bites Are Better Than One. We were going to make millions.”
“Oh, for the love.”
pp. 369-370
“You know I’m right.”
“Fuck you, Dr. Phil.”
“Good, I’m glad we agree.” Butch frowned. “Hey, maybe I could have a talk show, since you aren’t going to be my June Cleaver anymore. I could call it The O’Neal Hour. Sounds important, doesn’t it?”
“First of all, you were going to be June Cleaver—”
“Screw that. No way I’d bottom for you.”
“Whatever. And second, I don’t think there’s much of a market for your particular brand of psychology.”
“So not true.”
“Butch, you and I just beat the crap out of each other.”
“You started it. And actually, it would be perfect for Spike TV. UFC meets Oprah. God, I’m brilliant.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
p. 370
“Ten minutes,” Butch whispered into Marissa’s ear. “Can I have ten minutes with you before you go? Please, baby . . .”
V rolled his eyes and was relieved to be annoyed at the lovey-dovey routine. At least all the testosterone in him hadn’t dried up.
“Baby . . . please?”
V took a pull on his mug. “Marissa, throw the sap bastard a bone, would you? The simpering wears on my nerves.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Marissa packed up her papers with a laugh and shot Butch a look. “Ten minutes. And you’d better make them count.”
Butch was up out of that chair like the thing was on fire. “Don’t I always?”
“Mmm . . . yes.”
As the two locked lips, V snorted. “Have fun, kiddies. Somewhere else.”
p. 445
Lover Enshrined
Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda.
Cute rhyme. The reality was that one of the Ring-wraiths from The Lord of the Rings drove him to red smoke sure as if the bastard hog-tied him and threw him in the back of a car.
Actually, mate, you’d be the front bumper.
Exactly.
p. 5
. . . The thing had woken him up as usual, an alarm clock as reliable and stiff off the ground as Big Fucking Ben.
p. 19
The Brother Rhage’s voice boomed. “That bunch of self-serving, prejudicial, light-in-the-loafer—”
“Watch the loafer references,” the Brother Butch cut in. “I have some on.”
“—parasitic, shortsighted motherfuckers—”
“Tell us how you really feel,” someone else said.
“-can take their fakakta ball and blow it out their asses.”
The king’s laugh was low. “Good thing you’re not a diplomat, Hollywood.”
“Oh, you gotta let me send a message. Better yet, let’s have my beast go as an emissary. I’ll have him rip up the place. Serve those bastards right for how they’ve treated Marissa.”
“You know,” Butch announced, “I’ve always thought you had half a brain. In spite of what everyone else has said.”
p. 36
Not more than five blocks to the east, in his private office at ZeroSum, Rehvenge, aka the Reverend, cursed. He hated the incontinent ones. Hated them.
The human man dangling in front of his desk had just pissed in his pants, the stain showing up as a dark blue circle at the crotch of his distressed Z Brands.
Looked like someone had nailed him in the hey-nanny
-nannies with a wet sponge.
p. 49-50
“You got hair like a girl,” Mr. D said.
“And you smell like bubble bath. At least I can get a trim.”
p. 60
The king’s voice resonated through the wall she leaned against. “Not having fun tonight, Z? You look like someone’s shit on your front lawn.”
p. 73
You’re a freak. But I really can’t accept these—
“Were you raised in a barn? Don’t be ruuuuuuuuuuuuude, my boy. They’re a gift.”
Blay shook his head. “Take them, John. You’re just going to lose this argument, and it will save us from the theatrics.”
“Theatrics?” Qhuinn leaped up and assumed a Roman oratory pose. “Whither thou knowest thy ass from thy elbow, young scribe?”
Blay blushed. “Come on—”
Qhuinn threw himself at Blay, grasping onto the guy’s shoulders and hanging his full weight off him. “Hold me. Your insult has left me breathless. I’m agasp.”
Blay grunted and scrambled to keep Qhuinn up off the floor. “That’s agape.”
“Agasp sounds better.”
Blay was trying not to smile, trying not to be delighted, but his eyes were sparkling like sapphires and his cheeks were getting red.
With a silent laugh, John sat on one of the locker room benches, shook out his pair of white socks, and pulled them on under his new old jeans. You sure, Qhuinn? ’Cuz I have a feeling they’re going to fit and you might change your mind.
Qhuinn abruptly lifted himself off Blay and straightened his clothes with a sharp tug. “And now you offend my honor.” Facing off at John, he flipped into a fencing stance. “Touché.”
Blay laughed. “That’s en garde, you damn fool.”
Qhuinn shot a look over his shoulder. “Ça va, Brutus?”
“Et tu!”
“That would be tutu, I believe, and you can keep the cross-dressing to yourself, ya perv.” Qhuinn flashed a brilliant smile, all twelve kinds of proud for being such an ass. “Now, put the fuckers on, John, and let’s be done with this. Before we have to put Blay in an iron lung.”
“Try sanitarium!”
“No, thanks, I had a big lunch.”
pp. 121-122
Xhex offered him her arm without looking at him because she knew he was too much of a pride-filled dickhead to lean on her otherwise. And he needed to lean on her. He was weak as shit.
“I hate when you’re right,” he said.
“Which explains why you’re usually so short-tempered.”
p. 163
In spite of the exhaustion that was dragging at him, he shook his head. “Tell me.”
“You don’t—”
“You tell me . . . or I’m going to get up and start doing fucking Pilates.”
“Whatever. You’ve always said that was for pansies.”
“Fine. Jujitsu. Talk before I pass out, would you?”
p. 228
“Understood. And listen, I’m going to want to help Havers out. It’s too much for him to set up the new clinic and care for patients. Thing is, it’s going to involve some days off-site for me.”
“Vishous okay with that security risk?”
“Not his call, and I’m telling you only out of courtesy.” The female laughed dryly. “Don’t give me that look. I’m already dead. It’s not like the lessers can kill me again.”
“That is so not funny.”
“Gallows humor is part of having a doctor in the house. Deal with it.”
Wrath barked a laugh. “You are such a hard-ass. No wonder V fell for you.”
pp. 237-238
The hidden entrance to the escape tunnel was all the way in the far corner to the right and it was shielded by bookshelves that were on a slide. You simply reached out, pulled the copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight forward, and a latch released, causing the partition to retract and reveal—
“You are such a moron.”
Qhuinn jumped like an Olympian. There, in the tunnel, seated in an outdoor lounger like he was getting a tan, was Blay. He had a book on his lap, a battery-operated lamp on a little table, and a blanket over his legs.
The guy calmly lifted a glass of orange juice up in toast, then took a sip. “Hellllllllo, Lucy.”
“What the fuck? You’re like lying in wait for me or some shit?”
“Yup.”
“What was in your bed?”
“Pillows and my head blankie. I’ve had a nice little chill sesh hanging here. Good book, too.” He flashed the cover of A Season in Purgatory. “I like Dominick Dunne. Good writer. Great glasses.”
pp. 270-271
Hell, he expected a fleet of Dobermans to come trucking around the corner with their chompers showing.
Then again, the dogs were probably still gnawing on the bones of the last guest they’d turned into pulled pork.
p. 282
Hey, John signed.
“Hey.”
John stepped back, clearing the way. How are you doing?
“I wish I were a smoker.” Because then he could put this off for the duration of a cig.
No, you don’t. You hate smoking.
“When I face the firing squad, I may rethink that hard line.”
Shut up.
p. 283
In quick succession Qhuinn reviewed his answers: No, of course not, the knife was acting of its own volition, I was actually trying to stop it. . . . No, I only meant to give him a shave. . . . No, I didn’t realize that slicing open someone’s jugular was going to lead to death. . . . p. 284
“John wants you to stay here.”
Qhuinn’s eyes shot to the king. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Shit. You can’t approve that. No way can I stay here.”
