Fucking hell. "Did you guys plan that out?"
"Yeah, and if you don't fight us" - Hollywood bit down on his grape Tootsie Pop - "we'll do it again - only with the dance moves this time. "
"Spare me. "
"Fine. Unless you agree to home it, we will rock the dance moves. " To prove the point, the moron linked his palms behind his head and started doing something obscene with his hips. Which was backed up by a series of, "Uh-huh, uh-huh, ohhhh, yeeeeeeeaaaah, who's your daddy. . . "
The others looked at Rhage like he'd grown a horn in the middle of his forehead. Nothing unusual there. And Tohr knew that, in spite of this ridiculous diversion, if he didn't cave, the lot of them would crawl so far up his ass, he'd be coughing up shitkickers.
Also nothing unusual.
Rhage wheeled around, shoved out his butt, and started slapping his moneymaker like it was bread dough.
The only advantage? Whatever shit he was spouting was muffled.
"For the love of the Virgin Scribe," Z muttered, "put us out of this misery, and go the fuck home. "
Someone else chimed in, "You know, I never thought there were advantages to being blind. . . . "
"Or deaf. "
"Or mute," somebody added.
Tohr looked around the periphery, hoping that something that smelled like three-day-old sandwich meat would jump out of the shadows.
No luck.
And next thing you knew, Rhage would break into the robot. Or the Cabbage Patch. Or go Twist and Shout on their asses.
His brothers would never forgive him.
An hour and a half. . .
It took one hour and thirty cocksucking minutes to get back home.
As far as John could figure, the only way the trip could have taken longer was if Butch had detoured through Connecticut. Or maybe Maryland.
When they finally pulled in front of the great stone mansion, he didn't wait for the Escalade to get parked - or even slow down. He unlocked the door and leaped out while the SUV was still crusing. Landing in a flat-out run, he took the stone steps up to the front entrance in a single leap, and after ripping into the vestibule, shoved his face so tightly into the security camera, he almost broke the lens with his nose.
The massive bronze portal opened fairly quickly, but damned if he could have said who did the honors. And the incredible rainbow-colored foyer with its marble and malachite columns and its lofty painted ceiling made no impression at all. Neither did the mosaic tiles on the floor that he crossed at a dead run, or the calls of his name from who-the-fuck-knew.
Hitting the door that was tucked underneath the grand staircase, he plowed into the underground tunnel that connected to the training center, punching in pass codes so viciously it was a wonder he didn't break the keypads. Entering through the back of the office's supply closet, he vaulted around the desk, shot out through the glass door, and -
"She's being operated o
n now," V announced from fifty yards away.
The Brother was standing outside the main examination room's doorway, a hand-rolled between his teeth, a lighter in his gloved hand.
"It'll be another twenty minutes or so. "
As a shhhh-ch rose up, a little flame made an appearance, and V brought the heat to the tip of his cigarette. When he exhaled, the scent of Turkish tobacco wafted leisurely down the hall.
Rubbing his aching head, John felt like he'd been put in a metaphorical time-out.
"She's going to be fine," V said on a stream of smoke.
No reason to rush now, and not just because she was on the table. It was pretty damn obvious that V had been put out in the hall as a living, breathing doorstop: John wasn't getting in that room until the Brother let him.