Chapter 11
Quinn
I pull into the parking lot at El Fuego, memories of my teenage years spent in this parking lot, some of it with Cecily, running through my head.
This whole thing—taking her out, pretending like we're just two people on a date instead of a fucked-up married couple trying to figure our shit out—it's dangerous territory.
"God, I haven't been here in forever," Cecily says, adjusting the strap of her dress. It's this little black number that hugs every curve I remember and a few new ones I'm becoming acquainted with. "I used to come here all the time after long shifts. Maria always knew exactly what I needed."
I kill the engine and turn to look at her. "Figured you'd appreciate somewhere familiar. Somewhere that feels like home."
She smiles, and the expression hits me right in the chest. It's been too damn long since I saw her smile like that.
"It does feel like home. Plus, you've never seen me eat their nachos at two in the morning after a twelve-hour shift.
Hopefully my dignity doesn't take a trip out into the ocean after tonight," she laughs.
"Your dignity's intact, sweetheart. Trust me on that."
The way she looks at me when I say that, like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious or just feeding her a line, makes my hands itch to touch her. Instead, I get out of the truck and walk around to open her door. Old habits and all that.
"Such a gentleman," she teases, but there's something softer in her voice now.
"My grandma raised me right."
El Fuego is one of those places that looks like it might give you food poisoning from the outside but serves the best damn Mexican food in three counties.
The kind of hole in the wall that all of us who grew up here know about, but others drive right past. Perfect for what I'm hoping will be a quiet evening where we can just be Quinn and Cecily, not the mess we've made of our marriage.
The hostess seats us in a corner booth, and I'm grateful for the dim lighting. It makes everything feel more intimate, more like the dates we used to go on when we were kids and I'd scrape together enough money to take her somewhere nicer than the Dairy Dip.
"I've always loved the character this place has," Cecily says, sliding into the booth across from me.
"That's one way to put it." I pick up the menu even though I already know what I want. "You remember that place we went to in Lexington? Our senior year?"
"Casa Rodriguez. You ordered the spiciest thing on the menu and spent the entire night drinking milk." Her eyes light up with the memory, and she giggles slightly, her shoulders shaking. "I had to drive home because you were sweating so bad you couldn't see straight."
"I was trying to impress you." I firm up my gaze, but a smile slips through.
"You didn't need to try that hard. I was already impressed."
There it is—that thing that's hanging between us. The acknowledgment that what we had wasn't just some high school fling. It was real. It mattered. It still matters. I fucking hope we aren't divorced. I want to see where this goes. Even if we are, I'll just ask her to marry me again.
The waitress comes over, this tiny woman who looks like she could be somebody's grandmother but probably runs this place with an iron fist. "What can I get you folks to drink?"
"Corona for me," I say. "And whatever the lady wants."
"Margarita on the rocks, no salt," Cecily orders.
"Good choice, mija. You want to start with some queso?"
"Absolutely," Cecily answers before I can, and I grin at her enthusiasm.
When the waitress walks away, Cecily leans forward on her elbows. "So, Officer Carter, tell me about this new job of yours. You like being the guy who breaks up fights in the hallway?"
"It's more than that," I say, but I'm smiling. "Though I did have to separate two kids who were arguing about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie earlier today."
"It absolutely is."
"That's what I told them." I lean back in the booth, letting myself relax for the first time in weeks. "It's good, though. Working with kids, being part of the community. It's what I wanted when I came back."
"Is it what you expected?"
I think about it for a moment. "Yes and no. The job is what I thought it would be. Coming home..." I trail off, meeting her eyes. "That's been more complicated."
She nods, understanding without me having to spell it out. "Everything's changed."
"Not everything. It's just different than I expected it to be." The fact that we're still married is unspoken.
The waitress returns with our drinks and the queso, giving us a moment to step back from the edge of whatever we keep dancing around.
We order our food—chicken fajitas for her, carnitas for me—and settle into easier conversation.
She tells me about some of the characters she's dealt with in the ER, and I share stories about what I've done the last few years.
The ones that aren't full of pain and danger, anyway.
It's comfortable in a way I didn't expect, like we're remembering how to be friends before we were anything else.
"Remember when we used to talk about traveling?" Cecily asks, dipping a chip in the queso. "All those places we were going to see?"
"Still want to see them."
"Even after being deployed? I figured you'd had enough of foreign countries."
I shake my head. "That wasn't traveling. That was work. There's a difference between being somewhere because you have to be and being somewhere because you want to discover it."
"Where would you go first?"
"Italy. You always wanted to see Rome."
The fact that I remember surprises her. I can see it in the way her expression softens. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything, Cec." I say the words slowly and softly, hoping the reality of them hits her as much as it hits me.
That might be too much honesty for where we are right now, because she looks away, focusing on her drink.
I'm about to change the subject when I catch sight of someone at a table across the restaurant.
Blonde hair, sharp features, the kind of look that says she's got an attitude problem and isn't afraid to use it.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath.
"What?" Cecily follows my gaze and freezes when she sees what I'm looking at. "Is that…"
"Jenna Stevens. Yeah."
Jenna's sitting alone at a table for two, but she's not eating. She's watching us. Not even trying to be subtle about it. The look on her face could kill, and all of it's directed at Cecily.
"She's staring," Cecily says quietly.
"I see that."
"You think she's going to cause a scene?"
I consider it. Jenna's the type who thrives on drama, always has been. But this is a public place, and she's alone. "Nah. She's all bark, no bite. Besides, what's she gonna do? Make a scene because her boyfriend got arrested for being a piece-of-shit drug dealer?"
Cecily flinches slightly at my bluntness. "Quinn..."
"What? You did the right thing, reporting him. The fact that he was trafficking fentanyl and meth just proves you were right to be suspicious. He's a fuckin' dumbass and you finished what he started." I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. "You probably saved lives, you know that?"
"Tell that to her."
"I will if she gives me the chance."
But Jenna doesn't approach us. She just sits there, nursing what looks like a drink she's not actually drinking, shooting daggers in our direction. It's making Cecily uncomfortable, I can tell. Her shoulders are tense, and she keeps glancing over like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Hey," I say, squeezing her hand, forcing her attention away from Jenna. "Look at me."
She does, those green eyes that have been haunting my dreams focusing on my face.
"She can't hurt you. You know that, right? Whatever bullshit she's got brewing in her head, it doesn't matter. You're safe."
"I know you think that…" She swallows loudly.
"It's not what I think, it's what I know.
I'm a cop, Cec. Ex-military. I know how to handle myself, and I sure as hell know how to protect the people I care about.
" I lean forward, lowering my voice, cupping her cheek in the palm of my hand.
"Nobody's going to hurt you while I'm around.
Not her, not her piece-of-shit boyfriend if he gets out of jail, not anybody. You understand me?"
She nods, but I can see she's still scared. The rest of dinner passes quietly, both of us aware of Jenna's presence even though she never says a word. When we finally leave, I notice she's gone. Probably got up right after we did, which doesn't sit right with me.
"You know," I say as we walk to the truck, "I saw her earlier today. At the gas station on Third Street."
Cecily stops walking. "What?"
"Yeah, when I was getting coffee before work. Didn't think much of it at the time, but now..." I open the passenger door for her. "Could be a coincidence."
"Or she could be following us."
"Maybe. If she is, she's not very good at it." I wait for her to get in before closing the door and walking around to my side. "Don't worry about it. Like I said, I can handle whatever comes our way."
The drive home starts quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. But about halfway there, Cecily does something that catches me completely off guard. She reaches over and flips up the center console, creating one long bench seat.
"What are you doing?" I ask, even though the answer becomes obvious when she slides across the seat until she's pressed against my side.
"Getting comfortable," she says, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "This is how we used to ride, remember? Before everything got so complicated."
I remember. I remember the weight of her against my side, the way she'd curl into me like she belonged there. I remember thinking that if I could just keep driving forever, with her tucked against me like this, everything would be perfect.
"Cecily—"
"Shh." Her hand lands on my thigh, and I have to fight to keep my focus on the road. "Just drive."
For a few minutes, that's all there is. The hum of the engine, the occasional car passing in the other direction, and the warmth of her body pressed against mine. It's peaceful in a way I haven't felt since I got back. Maybe longer than that.
Then her hand starts moving.
It's subtle at first, just her thumb tracing small circles on my jeans. But then her palm flattens against my thigh, her fingers spreading wide, and I know we're heading into dangerous territory.
"Cec," I warn, but my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"What?" She tilts her head to look up at me, all innocence except for the heat in her eyes. "I'm just getting comfortable."
"That's not what you're doing."
"No? Then what am I doing?"
Her hand slides higher, and I have to grip the steering wheel tighter to keep from swerving into the ditch. "Playing with fire."
"Maybe I like getting burned, and just maybe I need a distraction."
Before I can respond, her fingers find my belt buckle. The metallic clink as she works it open seems unnaturally loud in the quiet cab of the truck.
"Jesus, Cecily."
"Keep your eyes on the road," she murmurs, and then her hand is inside my jeans, wrapping around me through my boxer briefs.
I'm hard as a fucking rock, have been since she slid across the seat. The feel of her hand on me, even through the cotton, is almost enough to make me pull over right here on the side of the highway and have my way with her.
"This is insane," I manage to get out.
"Probably." She works my jeans open, then my boxers, and suddenly there's nothing between her hand and my skin. "But I don't care."
Neither do I. That's the problem. I should care. I should be the responsible one and tell her to stop, tell her we need to talk about this first, figure out what it means. Instead, all I can think about is how good her hand feels wrapped around me.
When she leans down and replaces her hand with her mouth, I almost drive us into the guardrail.
"Goddamn it, Cec."
"Shh," she murmurs against me, the vibration of her voice adding another layer of sensation. "Just drive."
So I do. I keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel while she destroys every bit of control I thought I had. Her mouth is warm and wet and perfect, taking me deeper than I remember, using that little trick with her tongue that used to drive me crazy. Still does, apparently.
The last few miles home pass in a blur of sensation and desperate attempts to keep us alive.
By the time I pull into our driveway, I'm barely holding on.
The second I put the truck in park, I throw my head back against the seat and spill down her throat.
She pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand like she hasn't just blown my fucking mind.
"There," she says, settling back against the seat with a satisfied smile. "Now I'm comfortable."
I stare at her for a long moment, trying to process what just happened.
Trying to figure out what it means for us, for whatever the hell we're doing.
But all I can think about is how she looks right now.
Her lips swollen, hair mussed, eyes bright with mischief and something that looks a lot like affection.
She blew my dick the same way she's blown what I thought would be the rest of my life apart.