"Okay," I said. "So we know--"
"Blood," Jack said suddenly.
"Um . . ."
He glanced over. "I smell blood."
His gaze flew to the strap peeking from under my jacket sleeve. The edge was dark with blood.
"What the fuck--?" he began.
"You know the problem with strapping a knife on your leg? Getting the knife off without losing fingers--or slicing open your arm."
"Shit!" He veered into the right lane, as if ready to take the next exit.
"I'm fine," I said.
"Not if I can smell the goddamned blood, Nadia. How bad is it?"
"I'm still walking and talking, and not feeling light-headed, so obviously I didn't lose a dangerous amount of--"
"Or it's just bound tight. Fuck. Call Quinn. Tell him to get your phone."
"I--"
He met my gaze. "Call Quinn now."
I did.
Jack didn't take me to the hospital, though he made it clear that would be on the agenda if first aid wasn't enough. He had his kit in the back, with his duffel, but since my arm was adequately bound, he took me to the hotel room, where he could work with clean water and decent lighting.
The cut was worse than I hoped, but not as bad as Jack feared. He had butterfly bandages in his kit--the small strips that could be used in place of stitches for minor cuts. This didn't quite meet his definition of "minor," but the wound had closed and the butterfly bandages did the job.
After that he made me change into my jogging shorts and T-shirt. Then he checked me over, me sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands running down my legs, the adrenaline from the night still pumping, and, yes, I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy that, even if he was all business. I seemed to be fine. When he noticed my breathing catching as I inhaled, though, he started checking my ribs again.
"I might have cracked one," I said. "But if so, there's nothing that can be done about it."
"Cracked, okay. Broken? No."
"If it was broken, I'd have noticed."
He ignored me and touched my ribs through my shirt, trying to see which one hurt. It was an imperfect method and when it failed, he fingered the hem of my T-shirt, making a motion to tug it up.
"Okay?" he asked.
I quickly tried to recall which bra I was wearing. Yes, that should be the absolute last thing on my mind, but let's face it, it wasn't. Sadly, the chance that he'd pull up my shirt and catch a glimpse of a really sexy lace number was zero. My collection ranges from new and plain to old and plain. I was just hoping today's was at the newer end of the spectrum.
I tugged my shirt up, being careful to keep it below bra level, just in case. Jack checked my ribs, the usual "poke, does that hurt, inhale" routine. So we were doing that, with me on the edge of the bed, shirt up, Jack on one knee in front of me, feeling my rib cage, when the half-shut bedroom door swung open, and Quinn walked in . . . and stopped dead.
Jack tensed in a split-second pause. Then his jaw set, as if to say "I'm not doing anything wrong, so I won't act as if I am," and he pressed one of my ribs again, saying, "That one?"
"Nope. Pretty sure it's only the one on the left." I glanced up at Quinn. "One cracked rib. Not bad for being thrown from a car."
"You were thrown?" he said, moving into the room now and handing me my phone. "What happened? The trunk popped open?"
"No, I popped it open, thank you very much. I was mere seconds from making my daring escape, rolling onto a deserted highway, armed only with a knife. But my timing sucks. I popped the trunk just as Jack was firing at the rear tire." I grinned at Jack. "I bet that was a shock."
"Yeah."
"You . . ." Quinn turned on Jack. "You shot out the tire? With her in the trunk?"
"He didn't know I was opening it."
"That doesn't matter. He shot out the goddamn tire with you in the trunk. What the hell were you thinking? You could have killed her!"
"Not in a closed trunk," I said. "Yes, I could have got the crap knocked out of me, but Jack's car couldn't keep up and as far as he knew, I was bound and helpless in the trunk. The second they got away, they'd have pulled over and shot me." I glanced at Jack. "He took a risk, and I'm absolutely fine with it."
"Well, I'm not," Quinn said to Jack. "I don't care if you take idiotic risks yourself, like driving in front of a train, but you don't take them for others. That's not your call."
Jack just watched Quinn, his eyes narrowing, a look in them that would have made me shut my mouth. Quinn didn't.
"You could have killed her with a stupid cowboy stunt--" Quinn began.
"And where were you?" Jack said, his voice quiet.
"What?"
"Where the fuck were you, Quinn? So I didn't have to make that choice. So you could cut Roland off instead. Where were you?" He didn't pause for an answer. "Right. Waiting for the fucking train."
"Do you know how close you came to decorating the engine of that train, Jack? Seconds. You were seconds from getting cut in half by it."
"Didn't need to cut so close. But had to go around someone else. Who was sitting there. Waiting."
I figured out the scenario. They'd been caught at that crossing where I'd heard the train coming. Quinn had stopped. Jack had gone around him and over the tracks. That's why he'd been so far ahead of Quinn when he shot out Roland's tire.
"Hey, look, my phone's working," I said, pushing off the bed. "You know what I could use? A drink. To celebrate the survival of both me and my cell. If you two want to join me to discuss what Roland said, that'd be great. But if you feel the need to keep snarling at each other, I will be downstairs in the bar."
Quinn backed down first, which was rare. "Sorry. You're right. However it happened, you're fine, and that's all that counts."
He snuck a look at Jack. The comment was as close to an apology as he could manage, but it was a damned sight more than usual. Yet it was like when Jack pretended Roland had tried to escape--they could never see when the other was making an effort.
Jack strode into the front room and started packing his first-aid supplies. I waved Quinn out of the room and got changed. When I walked into the front room, Quinn was standing there, awkwardly, as Jack fussed with his kit.
"Ready?" I asked Jack.
"Nah. Go on."
I stepped closer and lowered my voice. "Jack . . ."
"I'm fine," he murmured. "Just tired. Go. Fill Quinn in about Roland. Get your drink. Relax." A pause. "Have fun."
I glanced at him sharply, seeing if he was being sarcastic.
"Mean it," he said, his voice soft. "Go on. I'm fine."
CHAPTER 28
The hotel lobby bar was closed. According to the desk staff, the nearest open one was a few blocks. Normally, not a problem, but my aches and pains informed me that they did not require alcohol quite that badly. When Quinn suggested the minibar in his room, I was torn. Yes, I kind of did want that drink. No, I didn't think there was any danger in going to his room. But . . .
I texted Jack to tell him what we were doing and ask if he wanted to join us. Was there a test in that? Seeing if he gave a damn whether I had drinks in Quinn's room? Maybe. If he did, he only needed to join us. He texted back one word: No.
I should have let it go at that. I couldn't. I texted back saying it was late, and maybe I shouldn't stay, since we had work to do tomorrow . . . Again, he had only to agree. Again, he replied with a single word: Go. I did.
Quinn's room wasn't a suite, but it had a comfortable armchair. I settled there. Quinn grabbed beers from the minibar. Then he stretched out on the bed, beside the chair where I'd curled up, and I told him what Roland had said. While it wasn't a complete bust, it would have been nicer to have gotten more, considering the risk and the price.
We discussed that, and as we did, we fell into the old rhythms. When he asked about the problem I'd had pre-Aldrich, I told him about Wilde.
"Damn," he said when I finished. "That's a bitch. A real bitch."
He didn't s
ay I'd done the right thing, not taking a shot that endangered others. With Quinn, that was a given.
"The father was right to hire you to get rid of the bastard," he said. "But he still didn't take the threat seriously enough. No one does. That's the thing with domestic abuse. You tell yourself he'd never kill her . . . until he does. As bad as you're feeling right now, I can guarantee her dad feels worse."
"I know."
Quinn knew that, too, better than most. Before he'd become a hitman, a family friend's daughter had been killed by her abusive ex. When the ex was tried and acquitted, the victim's father asked Quinn to set it right. To kill his daughter's murderer. Quinn said no. The father did it himself and ended up in jail, his life and his family's lives ruined. That's when Quinn took up his second career, focusing on miscarriages of justice, earning himself that nom de guerre, the Boy Scout.
"His biggest mistake, though, was giving her a gun," Quinn said. "Everyone thinks that's the solution to shit like this. But even if she knows how to use it, does she know when to use it? How to keep hold of it?" Quinn shook his head. "No one thinks about that. They think a gun fixes everything. I had this job once . . ."
He trailed off and glanced at me. Checking to see if I was interested in hearing a story. In the past, I'd always been interested. But things had changed, and I might want to drink my beer and go.
I nodded for him to go on, and he relaxed onto the bed.
"I get a tip, through the grapevine, someone trying to hire me." That's how it worked with Quinn. He didn't have a middleman, but if you asked the right people, they'd tell you how to contact him. "Seventeen-year-old kid dead. Killed by gangbangers. Shot in the head, execution-style, because he took the wrong shortcut in a bad neighborhood. A tragedy, but not really my thing. Still, I checked into it. Turned out the kid was shot with his own gun. After walking into that alley to buy drugs, then pulling it out to avoid paying for them. There was a scuffle. A gangbanger got the gun, and it went off in the fight. Do you know who gave the kid the gun? His grandma. She thought he was living in a bad part of town and needed protection. He did. Against dumbass relatives handing a semiautomatic to a teenage boy."
We talked a bit about that. Gun violence, gun control. Pros, cons. Eventually, though, it circled back to where it started.
"Missing a hit is always tough," Quinn said. "But it happens. It has to, unless you're a psycho who doesn't care if he kills a bystander--or gets caught. And there's always the possibility, if you miss a hit, things will go south. Deep south. I missed one a year ago. Bad situation. The guy had taken out half a family and vowed to kill the rest. They hired me for justice and protection. When I missed my first chance, they changed their mind. Couldn't go through with it. I've spent a year waiting to see them in the news, all dead. I stay awake nights wondering if I should have taken him out anyway. It's an impossible call." A wry smile. "In this business, most of them are."
As we talked, I began to wonder why I'd let him go so easily. I could blame ego. Or even lack of ego--I figured if he said it was over, I didn't have a chance of winning him back. But here he was, dropping everything to help me. When you're a federal marshal, that's more than a matter of telling the boss you need a few personal days. He'd only managed it because he'd just helped apprehend someone on the FBI's most wanted list, and his overtime was making his superiors nervous.
He came here to help, but also to talk to me. Maybe even to reconcile. We'd been good together. Damned good, and I was a fool if I let him go again. Whatever issues we had, we could work them out. Why the hell was I resisting?
I finished my beer in a gulp.
"If you're getting another, I'll take one," he said.
I laughed. "I wasn't, but I will."
I got up and headed for the minibar. As I passed the bed, he caught my arm and tugged me to him. When I didn't shake him off, he pulled me into a kiss.
If I had any doubts that I still felt something for Quinn, they evaporated the minute his lips touched mine. It felt so good, so damned good, so comfortable and so right.
I kissed him back, moving into his arms, and that loop kept running through my mind, how good he felt, how good we were together, how big a fool I'd be to let him go. But there was a reason I couldn't stop thinking that. I was trying to convince myself. To feel the passion of his kiss and the heat of his hands and the rising heat in me, and tell myself that it proved I should be with him. Only it didn't. It had been good. And it could be good again . . . for a while. Until we ended up right back where we'd been a month ago. That was inevitable. He wanted a future that I didn't. There was no reconciling that, however much it hurt not to try. However much I felt like a failure for not trying.
"I can't," I said, pulling away.
"Sure, you can." His grin sparked, eyes shimmering. "I'll remind you how if you've forgotten."
I shook my head. He took in my expression then and let me go, just keeping hold of my hand as I shifted away. He tugged it, turning me to face him.
"I screwed up," he said. "I rushed things."
"It's not a matter of rushing--"
"Yeah, it is. You needed more time. I rushed."
He said the words softly, no defiance in them, no denial, either, and I knew then that it would never work. He wouldn't change his mind, and he'd never be convinced that he couldn't change mine. There was no middle ground here. Not for him. If I cared about him, I should leave. And I only needed to glance at him to feel that flutter, that longing and know that I did care, very much.
"I should--" I glanced at the door.
"Just hear me out, Nadia. I know you consider us over. You have for a month. For me . . . for me it was just a spat. But not for you. I get that now. I can't just pick up and carry on. I need to win you back."
"Quinn, no. I--"
"Not this minute. Though you're welcome to stay the night." The grin glittered again. "Hell, I'd be very happy if you did. No strings attached. But otherwise, we'll work this case as colleagues. Then after it's done, we can try again."
"No. We can't--"
"Yes, we can."
I met his gaze and shook my head, pulling my hand from his. "You need to find someone who can give you what you want."
"I already have."
"No." I met his gaze. "I'm sorry, but you haven't."
With that, I left.
Q
The last thing I wanted was to go back to my room. Jack was there, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with him. I could go bunk with Evelyn. She'd have a couch. Except I was in no mood to talk to her, either--I was still pissed off with her for bringing in Quinn.
I checked my watch. I'd been gone almost two hours. By now, Jack might have presumed I wasn't coming back and chained the door. Then I'd have an excuse to get my own room.
He hadn't chained the door.
When I slid inside, I caught voices and stopped. Was Evelyn here? No, the voices came from the bedroom . . . and were accompanied by the faint blue glow of a TV. That stopped me in my tracks. I've never seen Jack watch TV. Also, I know from experience that it's a handy way to cover noise during a break-in.
I took out my gun and crept toward the half-open door. I could see Jack's feet on the bed, atop the covers. He was still wearing his boots. I shifted my gun into position, both hands around it as I approached the door, ready to kick it open. With another step, I could see Jack. He was staring at the television. His gaze was unblinking, empty. Ice trickled into my gut. Then he glanced toward the door.
I shoved my gun into my waistband and walked in. He nodded. I looked at the TV. There were zombies.
"What are you watching?" I said.
"No fucking idea. Whatever was on." He flicked it off and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Then he seemed to realize he was still wearing his boots and bent to unlace one.
"You didn't need to wait up," I said.
"Wasn't. Just . . ." He shrugged and stood. "Giving it a while. Before I lock up."
"Well, it's locked now, so you can
go to bed. I'm going to stay up and read the journal. I haven't gotten far."
He caught the back of my shirt before I reached the door. When I turned, he let go but stood there, studying my face. I glanced away.
"Didn't go well?" he asked. "With Quinn?"
"I think the fact that I'm here answers that question." I could hear the snap in my voice but couldn't bring myself to regret it.
Jack shrugged and stepped back.
I started for the door again.
"I figured you should find out," he said.
I glanced back. He was still standing in the middle of the room, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"Find out what?" I said.
"If it was over."
"Well, it is."
He nodded. I swung the bedroom door shut behind me. As I made for the couch, I thought I caught the faint murmur of a voice. Had he turned on the TV again? I slumped onto the sofa, stretched out on my back, and stared at the ceiling.
A moment later, Jack came out. He lifted my legs, sat at the end of the couch, and lowered my feet onto his lap. And I wanted to jump up. Tell him to stop doing this. Stop giving signals that weren't signals at all. Stop confusing me.
I did try to pull my feet back, but he only laid his forearms on them, as if he hadn't noticed.
"Did he do something?" Jack said. "Quinn?"
I shook my head.
"What happened?"
I resisted the urge to glare at him. Did he really expect me to share the details? Confide in him? Cry on his shoulder?
Yes, he did. Because he hadn't done anything wrong. Not intentionally. If he'd been sending mixed messages, it was partly because I was open to receiving them and partly because, let's face it, Jack wasn't exactly an expert on relationships. He had contacts and clients. He didn't have friends. Certainly not female ones. So he didn't realize that what he saw as giving me comfort, I might see differently. And he didn't realize that I might feel awkward discussing my relationship woes with my hitman mentor.
If I was pissed at Jack, then that really was my own problem. I might be good at interpreting his speech patterns, but I still had a long way to go before I figured out how to interpret the man himself.
"What happened?" he asked again.
I shrugged. "It didn't work. It's not going to work. And I feel shitty about it."
"Why?"
"Because this wonderful guy that I care about wants to spend his life with me. After all the mistakes I've made in the past, I should count my lucky stars that someone wants to give me a picket fence and babies."