Free Lover Revealed by J. R. Ward Page B

something about that hand of V's, that glowing thing used to take out a vile piece of—
    Butch lurched over onto his side and gagged just from the memory. There had been evil in his belly. Pure, undiluted malice, and the black horror had been spreading.
    With shaking hands, he grabbed the hospital johnny he was wearing and yanked it up. "Oh… Jesus…"
    There was a stain on the skin of his stomach, like the scorch mark of a fire that had been snuffed out. In desperation, he weeded through his sloppy brain, trying to remember how the scarring had gotten there and what it was, but he just came up with a big fat zero.
    So like the detective he'd been before, he examined the scene—which in this case was his body. Lifting one of his hands, he saw that his fingernails were a mess, as if something like a file or some small nails had been hammered under a number of them. A deep breath told him his ribs were cracked. And going by his swollen eyes, he had to assume his face had partied with a lot of knuckles.
    He had been tortured. Recently.
    Reaching into his mind again, he panned for memories, trying to get back to the last place he'd been. ZeroSum. ZeroSum with… oh, God, that female. In the bathroom. Having hardcore, who-cares sex. Then he'd gone out and… lessers . Fighting with those lessers . Getting shot and then…
    His recollections came to the end of their train track at that point. Just shot off the edge of reasoning into a pit of huh, what ?
    Had he squealed on the Brotherhood? Betrayed them? Had he given his nearest and dearest away?
    And what the hell had been done to his belly? God, he felt like there was sludge in his veins thanks to whatever had festered there.
    Letting himself go limp, he breathed through his mouth for a while. And found there was no peace to be had.
    As if his brain didn't want to stop working, or maybe because it was showing off, the thing kicked up random visions from the distant past. Birthdays with his dad glaring at him and his mom tense and smoking like a chimney. Christmases where his brothers and sisters got presents and he didn't.
    Hot July nights that no fan could cool off, the heat driving his father into the cold beer. The Pabst Blue Ribbon driving his father into fist-cracking wake-up calls just for Butch.
    Memories he hadn't thought of for years came back, all unwanted visitors. He saw his sisters and brothers, happy, shouting, playing on bright green grass. And remembered how he'd wished he could be among them instead of hanging back, the oddball who'd never fit in.
    And then—Oh, God, no… not this memory. Too late. He pictured himself as the twelve-year-old he'd been, scrawny and shaggy, standing at the curb in front of the O'Neal family row house in South Boston. It had been a clear, beautiful fall afternoon when he'd watched his sister Janie get into a red Chevy Chevette that had rainbow stripes down the side. With perfect recollection he saw her waving at him through the window in the back as the car drove off.
    Now that the door to the nightmare was open, he couldn't stop the horror show. He recalled the police coming to the door that night and his mother's knees going out when they finished talking to her. He remembered the cops questioning him because he was the last person to see Janie alive. He heard his younger self telling the badges that he hadn't recognized the boys and had wanted to tell his sister not to get in.
    Mostly, he saw his mother's eyes burning with a pain so great she had no tears.
    Then flash forward twenty-plus years. God… when was the last time he'd spoken to or seen either of his parents? Or his brothers and sisters? Five years? Probably. Man, the family had been so relieved when he'd moved away and started missing holidays.
    Yeah, around the Christmas table, everyone else had been part of the O'Neal family fabric and he'd been the stain. Eventually he'd stopped going home altogether, leaving them only phone numbers to reach him, numbers they