Chapter Eleven
Quinn - Present Day
Of course, the one time I pluck up the courage to follow through with my decision just has to be the one time someone else decides to use this fucking bridge.
I don’t think words can adequately describe how fucking beautiful this man is.
Handsome just doesn’t cut it. Exquisite is even better.
I’m still trying to steady my breathing, and I’m happy to let him assume it’s because of the almost-fall I experienced.
At the same time my brain is trying to register his looks, I’m realising that at the moment my foot slipped, my first thought was that I wasn’t ready to die.
But if I tell him I’ve changed my mind, he could leave.
He’s the first person to speak to me by choice in a long time, and I don’t want to lose this connection with another human.
For too long it’s been berating and belittling from my mother, violence from my brother, and silence from my father.
Yet here, this man, whoever he may be, genuinely looks like he wants to be here.
You know when people talk about the golden hour, as the sun is setting?
When your skin glows, your hair shines, and your eyes burn?
Well, at least for the attractive ones it does.
That is the only way I can describe his eyes.
They’re a piercing bottle green, speckled with little flecks of hazel that look alight in the setting sun.
He’s almost a foot taller than me. Now, that could be interesting.
His hair in the sun looks almost golden brown, but I would imagine normally it would just be a lighter brown.
He’s muscular on the arms, and his face is sculpted, but he’s beefy with a belly.
Think of the world's strongest man-type body, but smaller.
Jesus, I could hang from those biceps like I’m swinging from the monkey bars.
I’m just standing there in a comfortable silence as I take him in. His ears are pierced, a small gold hoop in one ear, and a stud in the other with a dangling gold, diamond cross.
Fuck, I hope he’s not religious because I could get crucified for the thoughts running through my mind about him right now. I know I’m suicidal, but being nailed to a cross sounds a lot more painful than jumping from a bridge, don’t you think?
I can’t get control of the sparks lighting my fingertips on fire and sending my clit into a frenzy.
It’s making my mind foggy. I’ve never felt anything like this.
He’s dressed head to toe in black, not goth-like, but kinda alternative.
He has an oversized leather jacket with silver detailing and what looks like a reaper patch on the front.
Not a biker patch, but like it’s been added on after purchase.
Between his jacket and my tattoos, we’re a perfect match already.
Shut the fuck up, Quinny.
It’s time to die, remember?
Don’t disappoint us now.
He pairs the jacket with Docs that barely have a scratch on them, and he smells like a whore’s handbag, to be honest. It’s fucking delicious.
Leather and tobacco, with a layer of smoke—but not cigarette smoke—like burning wood from a night of camping, sat around a bonfire.
Not that my parents have ever taken me camping, the selfish pricks.
This man can take me, though. He can chase me through the woods masked up to the nines like Ghostface, and I can pretend I’m a character in my favourite romance book. Date night idea, maybe?
As I drag my eyes back up his body, as slowly as painfully possible, determined that if he is the last thing I’ll ever see, it will be painted inside my skull for eternity, I realise he has piercings.
His septum has a pure black metal half hoop hanging, and his lower lip is pierced, too.
As if by magic, his tongue pokes out, stroking over his lip, and I see a glint of metal running through the tip of his tongue.
Perfect placement for him to do some ungodly things with it.
His hands and neck are tattooed, and just over the top of his band tee I can see wisps of light hair and the tip of some ink that must decorate the top half of his body.
It doesn't quite connect to his other tattoos, but the detail is intricate. Almost like they have stories behind them, and they’re stories I’d quite like to know.
His lips curve into a smirk, and I almost forget what I was even here for, but it’s clear by the glint in his eyes that he hasn’t, and he’s not gonna let me get away that easily.
A magpie flutters leisurely above us. Swooping in circles, cawing.
“Good evening, Mr Magpie. How are you today?”
The man in front of me stands there, mouth agape.
“What did you just say?”
“I said, ‘Good evening, Mr Magpie. How are you today?’”
“Why would you say that?”
“The magpie song?” I cock my brow. Surely he’s not that fucking dim.
“The only thing I know about magpies is that they’re little thieves.”
“You should educate yourself then, because they only steal out of curiosity and intelligence, not because they want to hoard your treasure.”
“Well, oh wise one, consider me educated; please continue my education and tell me what the fuck you’re talking about because it’s getting dark and cold, and unlike you, I have balls to freeze off.”
“Bold of you to assume my genitalia, Mr.”
“You’re getting off track. Please, continue.”
Another Magpie appears. “See, there’s a magpie. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy—you know the rhyme. They’re here to celebrate my demise.”
“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it, they aren’t.” He looks at me with a determination in his eyes that rivals mine. Shit, I might actually be in trouble here.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to devour me for dinner…”
“No reason. Maybe this was the meet-cute I thought it could be, after all…”
“You read romance?” Now it’s my turn to stand there mouth agape, unable to believe what I’m hearing.
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out, if you’re reconsidering your decisions, of course.
Care to tell me your name so we can continue our original conversation?
I can tell you’re a deflector. But you don’t need to deflect.
I’m here with my emotional armour on, ready to take the bullets for you. ”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you remind me of someone I used to know.”
“Oh, great, the man talking me off the ledge is only doing so because I remind him of an ex.”
“No.” He chuckles. “Actually, you remind me of my mum.”
“I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”
“Trust me, you couldn’t get better. Now, can we take a walk to the nearest safe space where we can get warm and hydrated and have a conversation?”
“You’re not going to talk me out of it, you know?” I know what I said to you earlier, but he doesn’t need to know that. Maybe this is what, or who, I’ve been waiting for. Maybe he’s my way out. Maybe he’s my chance to figure out the truth about what happened and save me from myself.
“I’m not trying to. I just want to listen. If I bore you, I promise I’ll bring you back and call the ambulance once you’ve jumped. I might even film it and sell it to the papers or get the social media views that everyone shouts about and go viral. Then I can become an influencer and retire.”
“You’re fucking morbid. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Perks of being an official member of the DPC.”
“The DPC?”
“The Dead Parents Club.” He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads and should have known exactly what he was talking about.
“For fuck’s sake. Unfortunately for me, I can't say I’m a member. This is either going to be the best decision I’ve ever made or the worst.”
His eyes show he heard what I said but that he’s choosing not to acknowledge it, yet. “Oh, it’ll be the best, I promise you that.”
“Is this how you act in your sessions? Flirty and suggestive?”
“Who’s being flirty and suggestive? Not me.” He lifts his arms up in a shrug, trying to maintain his innocence.
“Yes, you…”
“Ermmm, it’s not my fault you took it that way; it says more about you than me.”
“Charming. Are you sure you don’t want me to just hop off the ledge?" I point my finger over my shoulder and make out like I’m going to step towards it.
“Don’t you fucking dare. You still need to introduce me to Herpes.” He stalks the two steps between us to grab hold of my arm.
Fuck. I forgot I said that out loud.
“Can I at least know the name of my future murderer?” I rock from side to side on the balls of my feet, pulling my sleeves down over my hands and playing with the frayed edge to try and ground myself.
“Harley, the name is Harley.” He smiles at me. It’s devastating. Like the moment in Dirty Dancing when Johnny smiles at Baby in that scene in his room before he takes her virginity.
“No fucking way…” My mouth gapes.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re a Harley, too?” He looks unsure for a second, like he’s preparing himself for what’s about to come out of my mouth.
“No, even better. I’m a Quinn.”
“Well, that explains everything.” He chuckles to himself, a smile spreading across his face, one side covered by the darkness and the other accentuated by the lone streetlamp at the side of the bridge.
“Come on, Quinn. Let’s battle the demons together.”