Page 52 of Psychopath

“Don’t send him this way.”

“We’ve got to cure you of your lust for Zane Black somehow.”

Quinn gaped. “I don’t lust for Zane.”

Cleo hugged her arms around her body and laughed. She made her way to the bar, pointed at Quinn as she spoke to the stranger, then continued to the dance floor. She was immediately welcomed by the rest of her colleagues from Greenwood and joined in their exuberant jumping.

The man at the bar eyed Quinn, and he froze, caught in two minds whether to ignore the stranger or wave at him. In the end, Quinn didn’t need to do anything. The man walked over and sank down in Cleo’s chair.

“Hi, I’m Ben.”

“Quinn.”

Ben held out his hand, and Quinn clumsily gripped his fingers. Ben smiled and gestured to the array of empty glasses. “Looks like you’ve been having fun.”

“They’re Cleo’s mostly.”

“Cleo, your friend that came up to me?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about her. I don’t know what she said—”

“She said I should keep you company.”

Quinn scrunched his face. “Always nice to feel like a child.”

“She said you were nursing a broken heart and were on the rebound, and if I wished to take advantage of that, I should go for it.”

“Fucking hell,” Quinn groaned.

“I don’t want to be a rebound,” Ben said. “So…this is for when you’re feeling less…rebound-y.”

He held out his hand. Quinn frowned at him.

Ben smirked. “I’m going to give you my number.”

“Oh.”

Quinn handed over his phone and watched as Ben typed in his details.

“It hurts like a bitch, I know,” Ben said, holding Quinn’s phone out for him to take. “But you will get over him. Look after yourself.”

Ben went back to the other end of the bar.

Zane Black, the murderer, had weaselled his way into Quinn’s head and made a home for himself, and Quinn didn’t know how to get him out again.

“Doctor Quinn.”

Quinn pressed back in his chair and turned to the door. Zane stood there in all his muscular glory, a white vest practically sprayed on. Quinn’s insides wriggled in excitement.

“I prefer Quinn.”

“Did you watch Cops and Shops?”

Quinn winced. After discovering they both enjoyed a good police drama, they’d started watching a TV show together, not together, but they were both watching it on Sunday nights at eight. It was another example of Quinn’s crumbling professionalism.

“It was good…but predictable.”

Quinn recoiled. “They killed off the Tarik; how was that predictable?”

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