and Qhuinn was going to end. On his deathbed? God, he didn’t
think he could last that long, assuming he had a normal life span ahead of him.
Maybe he needed to move out of the mansion. Before Wellsie had been killed, she and Tohr had
been able to live in a house of their own. Hell, if he did that, he wouldn’t have to see Qhuinn except during meetings—and with so many people in and around the Brotherhood, it was easy to get out of
eyeshot.
He’d been doing that for a while now, actually.
In fact, under that construct, the pair of them wouldn’t have to cross paths at all—John was
always partnered with the guy because of the whole ahstrux nohtrum thing, and between the rotation schedule, and the way territory was divided up, he and Qhuinn never fought together except in an
emergency.
Saxton could go back and forth to work—
Blay stopped dead at the entrance to the weight room. Through the glass window he saw a set of
weights going up and down on the reclining squat machine, and he knew by the Nikes who it was.
Goddamn it, he couldn’t get a break.
Leaning in, he hit his head once. Twice. Three—
“You’re supposed to do reps on the machines—not on the door.”
Manny Manello’s voice was as welcome as a steel-toed kick in the ass.
Blay straightened up, and the world went wheeeeee a little—to the point that he had to
surreptitiously put his free hand on the jamb just so that the balance issue didn’t show. He also tucked his nearly done drink out of sight
The doc probably wouldn’t think working out while under the influence was a good thing.
“How are you?” Blay asked, even though he didn’t really care—and that wasn’t a commentary on
Payne’s hellren . He didn’t give a crap about much at the moment.
Manello’s mouth started to move and Blay passed the time watching the man’s lips form and
release syllables. A moment later, a good-bye of some sort was exchanged, and then Blay was alone
with the door again.
It seemed like a planker move to just stand there, and he’d told the good doctor he was going in.
And besides, there were, what, twenty-five machines in the room? Plus barbells and free weights.
Treadmills. StairMasters, ellipticals…plenty to go around.
I’m not in love with Layla.
With a curse, Blay pushed his way in and braced himself for an awkward oh-hey-it’s-you. Except
Qhuinn didn’t even notice the arrival. Instead of going with the overhead music, the guy was wearing headphones that went all around his ears, and he’d moved over to the chin-up bar so he was facing
away, into the concrete wall.
Blay stayed as far back as possible, hopping on a random machine—pecs. Whatever.
After putting down his glass and adjusting the pin on the stack of weights, he settled onto the
padded seat, gripped the double handles, and started pushing out from his chest.
All he had to look at was Qhuinn.
Or maybe that was more because his eyes refused to go anywhere else.
The male was wearing a black wifebeater that put those tremendous shoulders of his on full
display…and the muscles along them flexed up hard as he reached the apex of the pull, the ridges and contours those of a fighter…not a lawyer—
Blay stopped himself right there.
It was unfair to the point of nausea to make any comparison like that, ever. After the past year or so, he knew Saxton’s body nearly as well as his own, and the male was beautifully built, so lean and elegant—
Qhuinn ground out another lift, the weight of his heavy lower body straining the strength in those
arms and that torso. And, thanks to his exertions, sweat had broken out all over his skin, making him glow under the lights.
The tattoo on the back of his neck shifted as he released and descended to hang from his grip, and
then it was up again. And down. And up.
Blay thought about the way the male had looked as they’d turned over the Hummer: powerful,
masculine…erotic.
This was not happening.
He was not,
think he could last that long, assuming he had a normal life span ahead of him.
Maybe he needed to move out of the mansion. Before Wellsie had been killed, she and Tohr had
been able to live in a house of their own. Hell, if he did that, he wouldn’t have to see Qhuinn except during meetings—and with so many people in and around the Brotherhood, it was easy to get out of
eyeshot.
He’d been doing that for a while now, actually.
In fact, under that construct, the pair of them wouldn’t have to cross paths at all—John was
always partnered with the guy because of the whole ahstrux nohtrum thing, and between the rotation schedule, and the way territory was divided up, he and Qhuinn never fought together except in an
emergency.
Saxton could go back and forth to work—
Blay stopped dead at the entrance to the weight room. Through the glass window he saw a set of
weights going up and down on the reclining squat machine, and he knew by the Nikes who it was.
Goddamn it, he couldn’t get a break.
Leaning in, he hit his head once. Twice. Three—
“You’re supposed to do reps on the machines—not on the door.”
Manny Manello’s voice was as welcome as a steel-toed kick in the ass.
Blay straightened up, and the world went wheeeeee a little—to the point that he had to
surreptitiously put his free hand on the jamb just so that the balance issue didn’t show. He also tucked his nearly done drink out of sight
The doc probably wouldn’t think working out while under the influence was a good thing.
“How are you?” Blay asked, even though he didn’t really care—and that wasn’t a commentary on
Payne’s hellren . He didn’t give a crap about much at the moment.
Manello’s mouth started to move and Blay passed the time watching the man’s lips form and
release syllables. A moment later, a good-bye of some sort was exchanged, and then Blay was alone
with the door again.
It seemed like a planker move to just stand there, and he’d told the good doctor he was going in.
And besides, there were, what, twenty-five machines in the room? Plus barbells and free weights.
Treadmills. StairMasters, ellipticals…plenty to go around.
I’m not in love with Layla.
With a curse, Blay pushed his way in and braced himself for an awkward oh-hey-it’s-you. Except
Qhuinn didn’t even notice the arrival. Instead of going with the overhead music, the guy was wearing headphones that went all around his ears, and he’d moved over to the chin-up bar so he was facing
away, into the concrete wall.
Blay stayed as far back as possible, hopping on a random machine—pecs. Whatever.
After putting down his glass and adjusting the pin on the stack of weights, he settled onto the
padded seat, gripped the double handles, and started pushing out from his chest.
All he had to look at was Qhuinn.
Or maybe that was more because his eyes refused to go anywhere else.
The male was wearing a black wifebeater that put those tremendous shoulders of his on full
display…and the muscles along them flexed up hard as he reached the apex of the pull, the ridges and contours those of a fighter…not a lawyer—
Blay stopped himself right there.
It was unfair to the point of nausea to make any comparison like that, ever. After the past year or so, he knew Saxton’s body nearly as well as his own, and the male was beautifully built, so lean and elegant—
Qhuinn ground out another lift, the weight of his heavy lower body straining the strength in those
arms and that torso. And, thanks to his exertions, sweat had broken out all over his skin, making him glow under the lights.
The tattoo on the back of his neck shifted as he released and descended to hang from his grip, and
then it was up again. And down. And up.
Blay thought about the way the male had looked as they’d turned over the Hummer: powerful,
masculine…erotic.
This was not happening.
He was not,
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