Chapter 2
2
Quinn
H is voice is deep and even, but it still shocks me. I wasn’t sure he was real until I heard him ask me for coffee as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
There’s a fresh pot ready, but I can’t move. Who is this guy who is committed to caffeine yet blasé about a gunshot wound? There can be no good answer to a question like that, surely.
The sheen of his shirt speaks volumes. He has money—heaps of it. I wonder if he’ll be able to get the blood out. It might be okay if he got it to soak with an excellent biological stain remover.
No matter; he probably has a closet crammed with beautiful bespoke tailoring. The resale value of my entire worldly possessions wouldn’t cover the cost of his shoes alone. And I doubt he does his own laundry.
“I asked for coffee.” He nods at the machine. “Strong and short. What else is hot?”
You. The thought comes unbidden to my mind, but it’s true. His bone structure is the kind that Renaissance sculptors loved to immortalize, crowned by thick wavy hair that’s shorn close at the sides. A touch of salt and pepper at his temples sets off those ridiculously intense eyes, and the edge of a chest tattoo crests the loosened neckline of his shirt.
He’s still smiling. His face embodies a confidence I can’t muster at the best of times, and certainly not in these circumstances.
I blink, remembering he asked me a question. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I want to know what’s fresh out of the oven,” he says. That smirk again. “I assume you know, seeing as you’re doing the baking. So calm down and go about your business.”
“Oh!” I glance at the cooling racks behind me. “The cinnamon buns are wonderful when they’re warm. The frosting has pistachio and cardamom in it?—”
“Shhh.” The stranger holds his finger to his lips. “You’re talking too fast. I understand this situation is unusual for you, but you need to get a grip. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“Good girl,” he cocks his head to see my badge, “Quinn. Pretty name.” He takes this week’s New Yorker from the rack on the counter. “If you think the pistachio and cardamom cinnamon buns are good, that’s what I’ll have. Take a few deep breaths, pour the coffee, and get one for yourself. You won’t have any more customers today.”
I turn away, my hand shaking as I shake beans into the grinder. Something about this man’s demeanor demands my obedience.
Pretty name. Well, that’s all I’ve got. I’m here with my hair sticking to my face, flushed cheeks, and a filthy apron. My face is just as scary; I’m pale and tired, with dark rings around my eyes.
Even with his injury, the interloper is from another world, a wealthy, sophisticated world where losers like me are only allowed in to serve. There’s more to it, though; he’s been shot, yet he’s in no hurry to go to the hospital.
Let’s not contemplate the implications of that . Just get his food.
The counter on the customer side is little more than a ledge with two stools. Jeanette thinks it gives the place a European feel; apparently, firing down an espresso and a pastry in half a minute is a mood for Italian commuters. I’m not used to having anyone hanging around, and this man has been here too long by far. What if he… doesn’t leave?
I put the cinnamon bun and coffee down in front of the stranger but don’t see him move until it’s too late. His hand wraps my wrist, and I yelp.
“Tell me something,” he murmurs. His grip is insistent yet painless, and I freeze. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“O-of course,” I say, stuttering.
“Excellent.” He releases me. “Go get it.”
I hurry into the back. The phone is beside the stand mixer, tempting me to use it.
Call 911. Call 911. Why aren’t I doing it?
“ Now , Quinn,” the man shouts. “Otherwise, I might wonder what you’re up to.”
I grab the kit and return to the shop, sliding it over the counter to him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He unlocks his cell and hands it to me, and I notice Cyrillic letters tattooed on his knuckles. “Go ahead and call them. I’m not an idiot. Do you think I’d have locked myself in here if I thought you could cause me any problems?”
I make the call, watching him the whole time as I relay the address. The dispatcher says she’ll send officers, but the stranger doesn’t pay much attention; he sips his coffee, eats the cinnamon bun, and reads the magazine like any other customer.
“Did they give you an ETA?” the man asks as I hang up.
“Um, no. She said a few minutes.”
“I doubt they’ll hurry.”
He gets to his feet, lifts the flip-top, and walks behind the counter. I retreat, bumping into the wall behind me, and he chuckles.
“Excuse me.” He presses his body to mine for a moment as he squeezes past, but he’s careful not to get blood on me. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he unbuttons his shirt.
This guy is ripped. He’s not overly bulky, but his chest is solid and covered in inked designs. He takes a clean rag and runs the faucet, sluicing warm water over his torso as he leans over the basin. His muscles glisten as blood gurgles down the drain.
I’ve never seen a half-naked man in the flesh before. I’ve never even been kissed unless I count Mickey Potnik in third grade, and that was only because someone bet him he wouldn’t. He won a dollar, and I lost faith that a boy might like me.
This is ridiculous . I’m being held captive in my workplace, and I’m distracted less by the mortal danger and more by this man’s pecs.
I dart out from behind the counter, desperate to put some space between us, and he laughs, returning to his seat.
He rummages through the first aid kit. “Come here, Quinn.”
I make my way gingerly toward him. The gouge in his shoulder is angry-looking but shallow, and he tips iodine over it, gritting his teeth as a deep growl emanates from his chest. He rips a paper packet and takes a sterile needle, threading it and tying a knot.
“It’s a graze,” he says. “I need you to hold the wound closed. Right here.” I reach out, and he moves my hands, guiding me. “Pinch it together. I’m gonna do it fast. Follow along and help me, okay?”
It’s not as though I can refuse. He works briskly, piercing the ragged edges of his damaged skin and sealing them with a row of neat sutures. I watch, spellbound, moving my fingers to where he needs them.
He’s so in control. Nothing he’s asked of me was really a request, but he has a way of making me feel like I’ve chosen to cooperate. In reality, I’m locked inside the bakery with a guy now sewing up his injury and showing no signs of distress beyond a stoic frown.
A knock at the door takes me by surprise. The stranger snips the loose end of the thread and hands me the key.
“That’ll be the law.”
The officers at the door touch their caps in a gesture of greeting, and the one with the mustache speaks first.
“I’m Officer Blake. You need some help here?”
“Of course I do!” I cry. “This man locked me in here with him. He’s been shot. I don’t know what’s going on?—”
Blake holds up his hand. “I wasn’t asking you, kiddo.” He gives the stranger a nod. “Good evening, Mr. Kazanov. Is there anything we can assist with?”
This has to be a dream, a joke, or a psychotic break. Why has this man crashed into my life like this?
Mr. Kazanov stands, flexing his shoulder to bring the circulation back. “Some suicidal idiot tried to kill me. I’m sure the danger has passed, but I’d appreciate it if you’d scout around before I head out.”
“Of course, but I got something else to do first. Give us twenty minutes.”
The stranger’s eyes narrow. “Is your mother’s health improving?” he asks suddenly.
Blake swallows hard. “She’s still sick,” he says, his voice high-pitched. “Real important she stays on that treatment?—”
“Absolutely. It’d be in her interests and yours if you forgot your other pressing matter and attended to mine . Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. I apologize.”
“That’s better. Oh, and by the way—get the corner dumpster emptied. It’s full of trash. Just at the end of the block.”
The officer is confused for a second, then something clicks. “Ah, you got it. No problem, Mr. Kazanov. We’ll be back soon.”
Blake’s colleague calls him a fucking moron as he closes the door behind them.