Lover Revealed (37 page)

The waitress, bless her heart, came over with more Scotch.

As he picked up the second glass, he lectured himself:

O 'Neal, get your sack together and grow some pride. Have some faith in her, too. She would never sleep with another man. She just wouldn't.

But the sex was just part of it.

As he downed the Scotch, he realized there was another dimension to the nightmare. She was going to have to feed regularly, wasn't she. They were going to have to do this over and over again.

Fuck
. He'd like to think he was a big enough man, a confident enough man, to handle all this, but he was possessive and selfish. And the next time she fed, they would be back where they were now, her in another man's arms, him drinking in a club alone on the verge of hanging himself. Only it would be worse. And the time after that, even more so. He loved her so much, so deeply, that he would destroy them both and it wouldn't take long.

Besides, what kind of future could they have? With the way he'd been pounding the Scotch lately, he probably only had another ten years left in his liver and her kind lived for centuries. He'd just be a footnote in her long life, a pothole on the road to her eventually finding a mate who was right for her, who could give her what she needed.

When the waitress brought him a third double, Butch held up his forefinger to keep her by his side. He downed the glass while she waited, gave it to her, and she went back to the bartender.

As she returned with number four, that scrawny blond Euro-trasher with his trio of thick-necked bodyguard types started waving for her attention from two tables over.

Christ, seemed like every damn night the kid was in this place. Or maybe it was just a little of the idiot went a long way.

"Hey!" the kid called out. "We need service over here. Get the lead out."

"I'll be right over," the waitress said.

"Now," the ass snapped. "Not later."

"I won't be gone long," she murmured to Butch.

As she went over to the punk, Butch watched as she got majorly harassed. Goddamned bigmouthed show-offs, all of them. And they weren't going to improve as the night went on.

Then again, neither was Butch.

"You look a little aggressive there, Butch O'Neal."

He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the female with the man's hair and the man's body was still in front of him.

"We going to have trouble with you tonight, Butch O'Neal?"

He wished she'd stop saying his name. "Nah, I'm good."

Her eyes flashed with an erotic light. "Oh, I know that. But let's get real. You going to be a problem tonight?"

"No."

She stared at him long and hard. Then smiled a little. "Well… I'll be watching you. So keep that in mind."

Chapter Twenty-five

Joyce O'Neal Rafferty met her husband at the door with the baby on her hip and a glare on her face. As Mike stood on the cold side of the welcome mat, he was clearly tired after pulling double shifts on the T, but she couldn't have cared less. "I got a telephone call today from my brother. Butch. You told him about the baptism, didn't you."

Her husband kissed Sean, but didn't try it with her. "Come on, honey—"

"This is not your business!"

Mike shut the door. "Why do you all hate him so much?"

"I am
not
going there with you."

As she wheeled away, he said, "He didn't kill your sister, Jo. He was twelve. What could he have done?"

She shifted her son in her arms and didn't turn around. "This is not about Janie. Butch turned his back on the family years ago. His choice, got nothing to do with what happened."

"Maybe all of you turned your back on him."

She glared over her shoulder. "Why are you defending him?"

"He was my friend. Before I met and married you, he was my friend."

"Some friend. When was the last time you heard from him?"

"Doesn't matter. He was good to me when I knew him."

"You are such a bleeding heart." She headed for the stairs. "I'm going to feed Sean. I left you some dinner in the fridge."

Joyce marched up to the second floor, and when she hit the top landing, she glared at the crucifix that hung on the wall. Turning away from the cross, she went into Sean's room and sat down in the rocker by his crib. Baring her breast, she brought her son up and he latched on, his hand squeezing the flesh that was next to his face. As he fed, his little body was warm and pudgy with health, his lashes down on his rosy cheeks.

Joyce took a number of deep breaths.

Crap. Now she felt bad for yelling. And for forsaking the Savior's cross. She said a Hail Mary and then tried to calm herself by counting Sean's perfect toes.

God… if anything happened to him, she would die, her heart would literally never beat the same way again. How had her mother done it? How had she lived through the loss of a child?

And Odell had lost two, hadn't she. First Janie. Then Butch. Thank God the woman's mind was going soft. The relief from bad memories must be a blessing.

Joyce stroked Sean's fine dark hair and realized that her mother had never even gotten to say good-bye to Janie. The body had been too ruined to fix up for an open casket and Eddie O'Neal, as the father, had done the ID at the morgue.

God, on that horrible fall afternoon, if only Butch had followed through and run into the house and told a grown-up that Janie had just left… maybe they could have saved her. Janie hadn't been allowed to get in cars with boys and everyone knew the rules. Butch knew the rules. If only…

Ah, hell. Her husband was right. The whole family hated Butch. No wonder he'd taken off and all but disappeared.

With a whiffle, Sean's mouth went slack and his little hand eased up. But then he jerked awake again and got back with the program.

Talk about disappearing… Good Lord, her mother wasn't going to get a good-bye with Butch, either, was she? Her lucid moments were so few and far between. Even if Butch showed up at the church this Sunday, she might well not even recognize him.

Joyce heard her husband coming up the stairs, his footfalls slow.

"Mike?" she called out.

The man she loved and had married appeared in the doorway. He was developing a middle-aged belly, and he was losing the hair at the crown of his head even though he was only thirty-seven. But as she stared at him now, she saw his younger self: The high school jock. The friend of her older brother Butch. The hotshot football player that she'd had a crush on for years.

"Yeah?" he said.

"I'm sorry. For getting so pissed off."

He smiled a little. "It's some tough stuff. I understand."

"And you're right. Butch probably should have been invited. I just—I want the day of the baptism to be pure, you know? Just—pure. It's Sean's beginning and I don't want any shadows. Butch… he carries that shadow around and everyone would get tense, and with Mother being so sick, I don't want to deal."

"Did he say he was coming?"

"No. He…" She thought about the conversation. Funny, he'd sounded the same. Her brother had always had the strangest voice, so husky and hoarse. Like either his throat was deformed or there was too much that he wasn't saying. "He said he was happy for us. Thanked you for the call. Said he hoped Mom and Dad were okay."

Her husband glanced down at Sean, who had melted into sleep again. "Butch doesn't know your mother's ill, does he?"

"No." In the beginning, when Odell had just been forgetful, Joyce and her sister had decided to wait until they knew what was wrong to tell Butch. But that had been two years ago, hadn't it. And they knew what was wrong, didn't they. Alzheimer's.

God only knew how much longer Mother was going to be around. The disease was progressing relentlessly.

"I am a thief not to tell Butch," she said softly. "Aren't I."

"I love you," Mike murmured.

Her eyes watered as she looked from her son's face up to his father's. Michael Rafferty was a good man. A solid man. He was never going to be Hugh Jackman handsome or Bill Gates rich or King of England powerful. But he was hers and he was Sean's and that was more than enough. Especially on nights like tonight, during conversations like this. "I love you, too," she said.

Vishous materialized behind ZeroSum and walked down the alley to the front of the club. When he saw the Escalade curbed on Tenth Street, he was relieved. Phury had said Butch had split from the mansion like Jeff Gordon and not because he was a happy guy.

V went into the club and headed straight for the VIP section. But he didn't make it.

That female head of security stepped in front of him, her jacked body blocking his way. As he gave her a quick onceover, he wondered what it would be like to tie her up. She'd probably leave scars in the process, and wouldn't that be a fun way to kill an hour or two.

"Your boy needs to leave," she said.

"He at our table?"

"Yeah, and you better get him out of here. Now."

"What's the damage?"

"None yet." They both took off for the VIP area. "But I don't want things to get that far, and we're right on the edge."

As they weeded in and out of the crowd, V glanced at those muscled arms of hers and thought about the job she had in the club. Hard-core for anyone, but especially a female. He had to wonder why she did it.

"Do you get off cracking males?" he said.

"Sometimes, but with O'Neal I prefer the sex."

V stopped dead.

The female glanced over her shoulder. "There a problem?"

"When did you do him?" Though he somehow knew it had been recently.

"The question is when I'll be with him again." She nodded toward the VIP checkpoint. "But it won't be tonight. Now go get him and haul him out of here."

V narrowed his eyes. " 'Scuse the old-school, but Butch is OPP."

"Oh, really? Is that why he's in here almost every night getting faced? His mate must be a real darling."

"Don't go near him again."

The female's expression hardened. "Brother or not, you do
not
tell me to do anything."

V leaned in close and bared his fangs. "Like I said, you stay away from him."

For a split second, he thought they were going to go at it, he really did. He'd never thrown hand to hand with a female before, but this one… well, she didn't really seem female. Especially as she eyed his jaw like she was measuring her uppercut reach.

"You two want a room or a boxing ring?"

Vishous turned to see Rehvenge standing not three feet away, the male's amethyst eyes glowing in the dimness. Under the floodlights, that mohawk was as dark as the floor-length sable coat he wore.

"Do we have a problem?" Rehvenge glanced back and forth as he took off his fur and handed it to a bouncer.

"Not at all," V said. He glanced at the female. "Nothing doing, right?"

"Yeah," she drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. "Nothing."

V pushed past the bouncers in front of the velvet rope and went straight for the Brotherhood's table—
oh… man
.

Butch looked totally wasted and not just because he was drunk. His face was drawn in grim lines, his eyes half-closed. His tie was out of whack, his shirt partially unbuttoned… and there was a bite mark on his neck that had bled a little onto his collar.