Chapter 4 #3
Does she know what his tattoo means? I open my mouth to tell her that she should stay away from him. Even if he’s nice and means well, trouble surrounds him. And it will surround everyone he cares about for the rest of his life.
I don’t want to talk about him, though.
At least I’m here to give her a ride tonight.
I take a drink of water and smile down at her. “That croissant this morning was really good.”
Her eyes light up. “What did it taste like?”
“Like…bread?”
She stops just short of rolling her eyes. “What did you think of when you bit into it?”
“Ugh, your questions…” I sigh, but I smile. “Some things don’t change.”
She stands up, grabbing her towel. “Croissants remind me of a sleepy, old attic,” she says in a dreamy voice.
“Warm light spilling through the windows, casting an antique glow onto some forgotten, old, dark green chest. They taste like a whole day of rummaging through little treasures. And the flakes and crumbs?” She nearly bounces on her feet.
“Sounds like wrapping paper when you sink your teeth into it, right? It’s like biting into a present. ”
I stare at her, caught between wanting to cover her in bubble wrap so she’s protected forever and ever and ever and never changes, and wanting to know if she’s still only playful like this with me. Like she used to be.
With everyone else, she was the quiet one. The quiet Caruthers. The quiet sibling. The quiet daughter.
Instead, I just chuckle and squeeze my black bottle, squirting water into her face.
She jerks. “Hey.” But she laughs as she wipes it off.
I push her toward the cage. “Go stretch.”
We’re done working out. I need to be up early for a call, and I’m not leaving her here alone.
She takes one side of the cage, I take the other, and we hang on to the bars, stretching our arms and legs. She hooks her foot on a bar behind her, working the front of her thigh, and for a moment, I can’t take my eyes off the toned legs, bare in her short black shorts.
Her long-sleeved black and gray camo Under Armour shirt covers her stomach and goes up to her neck, but it’s tight, every curve accentuated. I hugged her last night, but I only held her loosely, around her shoulders. How would it feel to wrap my arms around her waist?
I blink long and hard. Jesus…
But I quickly see a man on a machine behind her, taking in her figure, as well.
I grit my teeth and move, putting myself between him and her.
Gazing down at her hair, I inhale the scent of her shampoo. Last time I saw her eight years ago, she stopped at just about where my heart sits. Now the crown of her head is at my mouth.
Yet, it’s more than that. I can talk to her like an adult. And God, part of me wants to. I want someone to talk to. She’s connected to me, like Madoc, but unlike him, she’s not pressuring me and constantly looking with a question in her eyes, or holding back anger at the time I cost us when I left.
She needs to stay the same, though. I don’t want her to ever change.
I almost touch her hair. Stay like this.
I grab the bar instead and draw a deep breath, blinking away the thoughts.
“Twenty seconds,” I say, pushing her head back down and keeping her bent in half to stretch.
She grunts, her ponytail dragging on the floor. “You’re not my babysitter anymore.”
“I’m still older.” I keep my hand on the back of her neck as I take a swig of water. “I’ll always be older.”
“So, when I’m twenty-six and you’re thirty-eight,” she argues. “It’ll still be like this?”
Twenty-six.
Thirty-eight.
When she’s twenty-six, how many men will have loved her by then? How many will she have loved?
“Lucas?”
I let out a breath. “No,” I tell her. “You get full autonomy by then. Promise.”
But the truth is, she’ll belong to someone by then. Much sooner, by the looks of things. Men don’t want other men around what’s theirs, and they won’t like me around her. Even if I’m just a family friend. If I’m not blood, I’m a threat.
I let my gaze fall; possessive of the time I was a part of her life. Someone will come along who doesn’t know that I meant anything, and it’ll be like I never existed. He’ll get more years than the thirteen I had with her.
I knew that, though, didn’t I?
We turn in our towels and make our way out of the gym to my rental car in the back lot.
“You need to get a license.” I unlock the car and open her door. “And a car.”
She climbs in and waits for me to open the driver’s side door. “I understood that argument when I was thirteen,” she calls out as I climb in, “but we have Uber and Lyft now.”
“It’s safer to own a car and have the option.” I close the door and fasten my seatbelt. “And not be at the mercy of men looking for an in by offering you a ride home, right?”
I start the car and slide my phone into the console, but before I pull away from the curb, I look over at her. She stares at nothing, a solemn expression on her face.
“What?” I ask.
She just shrugs. “I have a license. I can drive,” she admits. “There was no way my brothers were going to stand for anyone in the family not being able to drive stick, either, but…”
“But?”
She twists her lips to the side. “Bicycles are quiet.” Her voice is timid as she turns to me. “Walking is quiet. And there are no seatbelts. I like the air.”
My heart softens, Quinn’s appreciation for the little things flooding back like she’s a kid. She always took it a little slower than everyone in her family. Liked walking and feeling the wind and admiring people’s yards as we passed.
I want her to ride her bike.
But not in the snow, and not in the dark.
“Driving is a skill,” I explain. “The more skills you have, the stronger you are. Right?”
And I don’t want her bumming rides from horny little pricks with arms and abs and stamina and shit.
“It’s dark. Let’s go.” I shift into Drive. “Or I can call Jared or Jax to take you home, if you prefer.”
She scowls at me, and I almost laugh. “Your threats are vicious,” she says.
I press the gas, smiling. “Seatbelt.”