4. Quinn
4
QUINN
T he following morning, I slowly open my eyes and stretch beneath the sheet that covers me.
My fists hit the headboard, and I push against it as every muscle tenses.
I tighten my calves, my ankles, my feet, my toes.
Then, I relax as I let out a whoosh of breath.
Mondays have to be my favorite day of the week, as it’s my day off.
I work six days a week because why not when you have nothing much else to do?
But on Mondays, I get to relax, to sleep in, and to?—
“And in other news, the Lakers had a catastrophic night last night. Stay tuned to find out why when?—”
Abruptly, I sit up and then remember I’m at Smoke’s house.
And he’s home.
And it’s…
I look at my phone …
ten in the morning.
And he’s watching sports.
Loudly.
I’m not a huge fan of noise.
There’s so much in the bakery all day that I like my days off to be quiet.
But it’s his house and his rules, and who am I to question it?
I could go back to the apartment over the bakery during the day, there would be people downstairs if there were a problem, but that feels cowardly.
Plus, it’s a guaranteed knock from Kinsey, telling me there’s a huge rush and could I spare a few minutes that would turn into two hours.
To avoid it, I’ve learned to be out of the apartment before the lunch time rush starts.
The wide wooden floor is cool beneath my feet as I climb out of bed.
Even with the air-conditioning running, it’s still warm in the house.
Must be that pointed roof and tall-ceiling loft space.
There are some ceiling fans in places to help the air circulate, but they aren’t the most efficient.
“Motherfucker,” I hear as I reach my bedroom door.
It’s followed by the smash of a plate and the thud of something heavy.
Bones comes hurtling around the corner and whines at my feet.
“Hey, buddy. Good morning. What just happened, huh? Go inside while I see.”
I shut him in my room in case there’s broken glass, and hurry around the corner to the kitchen.
Smoke stands, shirtless, gripping the edge of the counter in both hands, his shoulders rounded and head down.
On the floor is a shattered plate and the pot of butter.
Carefully, I walk around the shards to protect my bare feet.
Smoke looks ruined.
It’s the first time I’ve seen the extent of his injuries.
There are still swathes of bruising and several large dressings taped around his side and half his ribs.
It spans up over the back of his shoulder and down his right arm.
I had no idea the burns were so…
extensive.
He must be in agony.
And it’s totally inappropriate how I stare for a second longer than I need to, looking at how perfectly chiseled his abs are and how muscular his arms are.
Because he looks desolate.
And I’m sure my sympathy isn’t what he wants.
He didn’t need it last night when I offered to help with the groceries.
He certainly didn’t want any sympathetic treatment when I cooked and cleaned up last night.
I doubt he wants it now.
“You want a side of self-pity with that?” I ask.
It’s harsher than I mean, and I’m not even sure that’s what I meant to say.
Smoke raises his head and glares at me.
I glare back.
“Shut up, Quinn,” he says.
But there’s a hint of sadness to his tone.
I grab the dustpan and brush out of the cupboard, then begin to sweep the broken china into a pile.
“Ouch,” I say when the inevitable happens and I stand on something sharp.
I lift my foot and rest it on my knee as I brush away whatever hurt me.
There’s the tiniest pinprick of blood on the bottom of my foot.
“Shit.”
When I look up, Smoke has moved and is standing right in front of me.
He winces as he drags a stool from beneath the kitchen island.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine, it’s just a little?—”
“Sit,” Smoke says, this time more firmly as he grips my hips and lifts me onto the stool like I weigh nothing.
And a whisper of pleasure runs through me.
It feels…good…to do as he says.
And I feel the imprint of his palms, long after he removes his hands from my body.
But then I notice the gritted teeth and the wince of pain.
He grabs paper towel and wets it beneath the tap.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, looking at it a little more closely.
“I think with the narrow cracks between the wide planks of wood, it’s inevitable there are some little slivers.”
Smoke walks through the broken plate debris, crushing it beneath his heavy boots.
“Why are you wearing boots and no shirt?” I ask.
He shrugs and gently dabs the wet cloth to my foot.
I bite back a giggle.
My feet are ticklish.
And they look so small in Smoke’s big hands as he twists each foot, back and forth, to check for other slivers.
“I think you got whatever it was out,” he says.
He presses gently over it with the cloth.
“Do you feel anything poking when I do that?”
I shake my head.
“No. It’s fine. Honestly.”
He runs his fingers over the soles of my feet and checks every toe, one at a time.
It’s utterly overkill versus the scale of the…
injury…if you could even call the tiny nick that.
“Stay there,” he says again as he stands and grabs a first aid box from a low cupboard.
I notice that so many motions make him wince.
Bending. Flexing.
“You don’t need to do that. I can?—”
“Stop talking, and let me do this,” he says.
“It’s my fault the shattered plate was on the floor. Couldn’t butter the toast. Let me make it right.”
It feels foreign.
Interacting with this man I have avoided most of my adult life.
But now we’re so close, I can smell the scent of his musk and whatever cologne he wore yesterday.
We’re definitely closer than two people with our histories should ever be.
And yet, I find myself holding my breath as he gently puts the tiniest amount of antiseptic on the tiniest speck of a cut, then applies a small Band-Aid that I’m sure won’t last more than an hour once I’ve put my sandals on.
Let me make it right.
The words seem strange.
All this time, my sister, who they were to each other before she went missing…
Why should this be the thing he wants to make right?
When he lifts his head, I realize there are only inches between the two of us.
His eyes look even paler set in his tanned features, but his pupils are wide.
I can see the glint of gold and russet in his hair as he grows it out.
And I can smell the coffee on his breath.
He places his hands on my knees.
“Quinn…”
The word is filled with something…
haunting.
“Shit,” I curse at the loud bang and footsteps on the porch.
I reach for the butter knife as I scramble off the stool, ready to run, and?—
“Hey, sugar.” Strong arms wrap around my waist, holding me tightly.
His chest is firm against my back.
“It’s okay. It’s Atom and Ember.” The softly spoken words brush against my skin.
I don’t know what happened, how I got here.
My hands shake. “What? How? I?—”
“Let me take this?” Smoke reaches for the handle of the butter knife, and I realize I’m gripping it like a weapon in a tight fist.
“Oh, God,” I gasp, and let it go into Smoke’s safe grasp.
My heart races so loudly, I swear I can hear it.
Shame fills me. It’s not the first time I’ve reacted this way to an unexpected noise.
But it’s the first time I’ve reacted this way in front of someone else.
I turn and tuck my head into his chest, searching for…
I don’t know what. Escape from my embarrassment.
An anchor to cling to.
Smoke strokes his calloused hand down my arm.
“You’re safe, Quinn.”
There’s a loud knock on the door, and when it opens, Atom strides in with Ember.
Smoke takes a step away before they’re at an angle where they can see us.
“You good?” The words are spoken quietly.
I force a nod, even as my heart races and I stand unable to decide whether fight or flight is the right response to all the adrenaline coursing through me right now.
“Put a fucking shirt on,” Atom complains when he walks into the kitchen.
“A man’s allowed to eat breakfast in his home with as little clothing as he likes. Only wearing the jeans so Quinn doesn’t get the shock of her life.”
Ember looks at the floor.
“What happened here?”
Smoke pauses for a moment, and I don’t know what spurs me to lie to our friends.
“Me, trying to balance too many things in my hand at once. Broke the plate, now his lordship is mad. I’ll clean this up. You should go.”
The tension in Smoke’s shoulders drops.
“Let me go get dressed,” he says.
“I’ll grab you some shoes. Stay there.”
Carefully, I walk the other way around the kitchen island to avoid the shards.
“Can I get either of you coffee?”
Atom shakes his head.
“Not for me. I have to ride out in a couple of minutes. I’ll get some at the clubhouse.”
Ember grimaces.
“Urgh. The coffee at the clubhouse has the acidity of paint stripper. It’s a wonder you have a throat left after drinking it all these years.”
He strokes a hand over her hair as it hangs down the back of her neck, and smiles at her.
“Should we talk about all the things you do that might wreck your throat?”
Ember blushes bright red and smacks him across the chest. “No. We won’t. Maybe you should go wait out by your bike.”
“Your wish is my command. See you later, sweetheart.”
“Stay out of trouble.” She steps onto her toes to kiss him, and he throws an arm around her waist and helps her reach him by lifting her off the ground.
“Always,” he says.
Envy is a funny emotion.
In my case, I don’t hate Ember for having found the something special in Atom.
In fact, I’m thrilled for my friend.
But I wish I had it.
But of all the men I’ve dated, all the apps I’ve been on, all the mediocre sex I’ve had, I’ve never found my person.
The one who can see all the different pieces of me and decide they aren’t too much to bear.
The one who thinks I’m worth sticking with and coming back to.
Nothing ever lasts.
“See you girls later,” Atom says, before heading back outside.
“You didn’t ride with him?” I ask as I steady myself.
Ember shakes her head.
“No, I followed in my truck. I wanted to see you. You’ve been a bit of a stranger hiding out over here.”
“You’re right. I have been. It’s just?—”
Smoke returns to the kitchen.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a V-neck that sculpts his biceps a little too well.
He’s added a belt with a Harley Davidson buckle to his jeans, and his leather cut declares he’s the Iron Outlaws’ road captain.
“Bones whined at me like he hadn’t been fed in a week.” He drops my sandals in front of me.
“And I told you to stay where you were.”
I didn’t realize the instruction was literal.
“It was impolite to not offer coffee. You want some for the road?”
Smoke shakes his head.
“I’m good. You’re sure you’re okay cleaning the mess up?”
I know why he’s asking.
He made the mess, and I covered for him.
In the same way he didn’t want me to know how badly it hurt to move the groceries or butter his toast, he doesn’t want his friends to know his injuries are limiting him.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it. Sooner I’ve done it, the sooner I can free Bones from his prison. Go.”
He looks at me for a moment longer, as if trying to determine if that’s my real answer or not.
“Fine,” he says eventually.
“Catch you later.”
“Well, that was interesting,” Ember says, and I realize that while I was watching Smoke, she was watching me.
“What was interesting?” I ask, playing the fool as I set about making her a latte the way she likes it.
It’s more like a large flat white with less of the stiff foam layer.
“Oh, come on. Just because I’m officially off the market doesn’t mean I can’t see when there’s sexual tension between two people.”
I shake my head when I place the cup in front of her.
“What you saw was a really complicated history. Nothing more.”
Ember reaches for my wrist gently, avoiding the marks left by the cable ties.
“Then why are you still here?”
The question, although gently asked, is the same one Smoke asked.
And the real answer is uncomfortable to admit.
I remove my arm from her touch and make my flat white.
Busying myself from the question at hand.
When I turn to face her, I decide to be honest. “Because, embarrassingly, I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“What? No. You could have come to stay with me.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“In your burned-down apartment? At your secret hideaway with Atom? In his ranch house? No. That wouldn’t have worked at all. I just…I don’t feel safe. And I shouldn’t even be complaining because what they did to me was only a fraction of what they did to you. My bakery is still standing and making money. My home is still in one piece above it. And yet…”
“And yet, what?”
“I can’t bring myself to be alone there, especially at night. During the day, I’m alert. I can see the exits. I can hear who’s coming and going. But in the dark, I get flashbacks and bad dreams that get stuck on a loop where I wasn’t so lucky.”
“I’m sorry, Quinn,” she says.
“I’ve been a shit friend.”
I shake my head.
“No. You haven’t. Not at all. You had so much more to deal with than I did.”
“It’s not a competition, Quinn. We both went through a pretty awful ordeal. Two visits from multiple men demanding the kind of money that would leave us broke or cause the end of our business if we didn’t pay. They hurt us both in different ways. And even if you try to make the false equivalence that mine was worse than yours, I still don’t think it’s true. Because I had Atom with me every step of the way. I wasn’t in it alone, and I was never tied up. That must have been terrifying. And I knew my father would do everything in his power to keep me safe. You were alone, and for that, I’m sorry.”
Tears sting my eyes.
It makes sense, what she says.
Before I can respond, Ember looks over to the door and smiles.
“But perhaps you’re not alone anymore.”