Quentin (Bourbon & Blood #4)

Chapter 1

One

Q uentin eased out of his car in the parking lot of The Kicking Mule.

It was the only bar within thirty miles of Fontaine, and it only existed because a sliver of Woodford County butted up against the main road into town.

Kentucky’s blue laws were notorious for making the sale of alcohol tricky.

Location, time of day, day of the week, and even holidays could make something as simple as buying a drink nearly impossible.

It was the very definition of a dive bar—sawdust on the floor, a chain-link fence around the stage, and glass crunching underfoot with every step.

But he needed a drink, and he needed it to be somewhere his family wasn’t.

He felt raw, rocked to the core. It was more than just the ass whooping he’d gotten. It was his mother.

Being in that house, being reminded of every horrible thing that had happened in their lives was just too much to bear.

It was the cowardly thing to do, running from it the way he did.

But he wasn’t like Mia or Clayton. He’d accepted that he didn’t have the same kind of steel inside him that they did.

Every time he looked at Patricia, he just wanted to lash out, but the person his anger was directed at was never there.

Samuel was long gone now, hopefully for good.

So, he’d gone for the next best thing…the stranger among them.

His newly discovered half brother had been on the receiving end of Quentin’s bad temper. He just hadn’t been prepared for how little of it his half brother would be inclined to tolerate.

When punches are thrown before Thanksgiving dinner is even served, you know it’s a bad day.

Holding his ribs, hoping they were just bruised and not broken, Quentin limped toward the door of the bar.

He was too damned old to get into fights like that.

The truth was, even if he’d been younger, stronger, and in a hell of a lot better shape, Ciaran Darcy would still have handed him his ass.

He’d been outclassed, outmaneuvered, and had written checks with his big mouth that his body couldn’t cash.

Judging from the number of cars in the parking lot, the crowd was light.

It wasn’t surprising. Even hardcore drunks would spend the holiday with their families.

Quentin stepped through the open door into the darkened interior and moved toward the bar.

There might have been five people in the whole place, including him and the bartender .

“I’m getting ready to close up,” the bartender said, tossing the words over her shoulder without looking in his direction.

He looked her over, soaking in every detail from head to toe.

Her hair was lighter. She sported a shade of blonde that had never been found in nature.

It was shorter too, just barely brushing her shoulders.

Memories stirred in him, of her kneeling on the bed, her long hair wrapped around his fist as he sank into the heat of her.

The odds of that ever being repeated were about as good as the odds of him suddenly developing the ability to kick Ciaran Darcy’s ass.

In other words, next to never. “I know you are,” he finally said. “I’m very familiar with your schedule.”

She did turn then. Her brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, were shooting daggers in his direction. “We’re already closed to you.”

Harlow Tate had every reason to hate him.

He’d dicked her around, bailed on her, kept her at arm’s length, and generally been a gigantic, raging ass.

The fact that she hadn’t pulled out the shotgun she kept under the bar was a miracle.

She had a hell of a temper and even better aim.

Of course, even having her throw shit at him was a better option than quiet civility.

If Lowey got to the point where she could just be polite to him, then any shot he’d had with her would truly be long gone.

There was only one way to answer that question. He had to poke the bear. “That’s not what the sign says,” he replied, jerking his head in the direction of the blinking neon near the front door.

She frowned then. “What happened to your face? I thought I was the only one who hated you that much.”

A smile started but quickly morphed into a wince as it pulled his split lip. “I have a gift for pissing people off.”

“Especially women,” she said. “But I don’t think a woman did that much damage to you unless she outsourced.”

“A family matter…uh, disagreement,” he explained, easing himself onto one of the barstools ever so carefully. Fuck, his whole body hurt. And it was only going to get worse. Ciaran could throw a punch like a goddamn hammer. “You think maybe I could get a drink?”

“You think if I give you one, you’ll get the hell out of my bar and never darken my door again?” she shot back. Even as she asked the question, she’d pulled a bottle of bourbon off the shelf and was filling a glass for him. It was not Fire Creek. She reserved that for people she liked .

If he said it, he’d stick to it, and that was a promise he wasn’t willing to keep. Evading the questions he didn’t want to answer was more his specialty. “I can’t make any promises.”

Lowey set the bottle down with a thud and pushed the glass toward him. “That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I never lied to you, Lowey. Not even to tell you the things you wanted to hear,” he stated softly before he took a sip of his whiskey. It burned like hell. It didn’t even deserve to be called rotgut. “Son of a bitch .”

Her gaze raked over him coldly enough that he felt a chill in its wake. “I’d say that’s just about right…you’ve had your drink. It’s time for you to go.”

“Lowey—”

“Don’t call me that,” she said stiffly. “That name is reserved for friends, family…for lovers. You don’t fit into any of those categories. Not anymore.”

“I did once,” he reminded her gently. And it had been fucking amazing.

Nothing in his life had ever felt as good as being with her, and that right there was the heart of the problem.

He’d left her because he was afraid he’d come to need her too much.

The hell of it was, all he’d done was prove himself right .

She glared at him as she wiped the bar down far more vigorously than necessary. “And if it had meant so goddamn much to you, then you wouldn’t have walked out on me the way you did. Leave, Quentin. It’s what you’re good at.”

Quentin placed the glass back on the bar.

There was nothing he could say to her that would change anything he’d done, and there was nothing she’d said to him or accused him of that wasn’t true.

Part of him wanted to cut and run, to chalk it up as a mistake and cut his losses, but that was the kind of thinking that put him in his current situation to begin with.

He had to show her he’d stick. He had to make her see that he wasn’t just playing her.

And that meant taking whatever lumps she threw his way.

He let his gaze rake over her again, committing every curve to memory, every luscious inch of her.

Seeing her up close and in person, remembering the texture of her skin, the sweet scent of her hair, and the way she felt beneath him…

there wasn’t a word in existence that could describe how much of a fuck-up that was.

“I’ll go, Lowey…but this isn’t over. This thing between us was too good, and I’m not going to give up on getting another shot at it. ”

“And if wishes were horses, Quentin Darcy, beggars would ride. It’ll be a cold day in hell!”

He smiled at her. “Guess I need to dig out my winter clothes then, don’t I?”

As Quentin turned to leave, the window imploded.

Flying glass hurled through the air at them.

It was instinct more than anything that had him diving over the bar, taking her to the ground with him.

It was fear that kept him there, shielding her body with his own, as the sound of gunfire filled the bar.

Glass shattered above them, sharp pieces of broken bottles and the mirrored shelving behind the bar rained down on them.

His clothes took the brunt, but a few of the larger pieces weren’t so easily deflected.

Even with him to shield her, Lowey hadn’t escaped without injury.

He could see blood on her hands from the glass on the floor and minor nicks and cuts.

“Son of a damn bitch,” he hissed. “What the hell is going on?”

She glared up at him. “You tell me! They didn’t start shooting until you walked in! Who the hell else have you pissed off, Quentin?”

“Nobody who’d want to put in a bullet in me!” he snapped. Well, except for his father, but that wasn’t really Samuel’s style. Even if it was, he’d never do the dirty work himself, and right now he was too damned broke to hire anyone.

When the last of the gunfire faded, the quiet was overwhelming.

It was broken by the sound of an engine revving and the spewing of gravel in the parking lot.

Quentin stood up and raced toward the door, what was left of it.

It cost him. Every bruised muscle, every abused inch of him protested.

But he managed to get a look at the ancient beat-up truck and the lack of a license plate.

It didn’t matter. He knew exactly whose truck that was.

Turning back to the bar, he saw Lowey staring around in dismay at the wreck of her business. “Don’t guess the sheriff bothered to inform you that his cousin—your ex-husband—was getting out of jail, did he?”

Her face paled considerably, but her lips firmed into a hard line and the look in her eyes would have withered a lesser man. “No. That asshole didn’t tell me.”

Quentin nodded, then looked back at the two old drunks who were still sitting on the floor under broken tables. Neither of them appeared injured. In fact, they were grinning from ear to ear at the excitement, prompting him to shake his head.

“Call 9-1-1, report the shooting. ”

She laughed bitterly. “They won’t do anything! Hell, he almost killed me and barely served a year!”

“No. They won’t arrest him. They won’t stop him. But if you don’t file a report, then your insurance company won’t pay for the damages…and I don’t think you’re ready to tackle that out of pocket,” he explained.

She sat down then. Heavily, as if the weight of the world was suddenly pressing down on her. “I hate this. I should just leave. I should just sell what’s left of this place and go.”

He couldn’t tell her no. The truth was that she was right. Getting the hell out of Fontaine was the best thing Lowey could do, for herself and for him. But those words wouldn’t come. So instead, he said simply, “This is your home, Lowey. And you’re too damn stubborn to give it up.”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “You’re right about that. You’ll have to call the cops…they won’t show up if I do it.”

Quentin sighed and pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

He didn’t question her statement at all.

The entire family that she’d had the great misfortune to marry into at the tender age of eighteen was full of rednecks and assholes, the two descriptors not being mutually exclusive.

He didn’t labor under the illusion that Sheriff Silas Barnes would hurry just because his last name was Darcy.