Page 172 of Beautiful Liar

He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

His grip tightens around the neck of the bottle. “No. It’s all I have. It’s the only thing that works. I can’t…you can’t take it away from me.”

This was his plan all along…find a way to end it all.

His whiskey breath washes over me and my heart somersaults in my chest.

He’s trying to drink himself to death.

“Give me the bottle, Quinn.” Alarm hardens my voice, but he’s equally as resilient.

“I said no!”

“Okay. Do you want me to leave? Fine, I’m leaving.”

It’s a lie. I do a quick search and head for the kitchen. Sure enough, he races after me.

He skates to an unsteady stop opposite where I stand at the center island, hands propped on my hips. “How about we put your precious bottle right here, on the counter? It can stay here while I fix you something to eat. I’m hungry myself. You don’t want me to starve, do you?

The act of frowning makes him dizzy. He sways on his feet. “Of course not,” he slurs. “You can eat. But I don’t want anything.”

I shake my head. “That’s not going to work for me.” I walk around and push a stool toward him. “Sit down. I’ll fix us both something to eat. You wanted to see me, Quinn. I’m here, but I have a life to live. I’m not interested in talking to you unless you’re sober. So what’s it to be?”

He eyes me for several moments. Then he sits, the bottle still tight in his grip.

I take a deep breath, move around the massive kitchen, opening and closing drawers, fridges and cupboards. I find enough to make two ham sandwiches and a bowl of mixed fruit. His eyes track me throughout, and when I sit down next to him, his whole body shudders.

“You’re here,” he murmurs.

My breath shakes out, and I hold my hand out for the bottle. “Yes, I’m here, Quinn.”

He slowly releases his stranglehold on the whiskey. I set it down out of arms reach and push a plate in front of him. He barely acknowledges it. My throat feels too tight to contemplate chewing, never mind swallowing. But I pick up the sandwich, take a bite.

He makes no attempt to copy my move. So I pluck a couple of grapes off the stem and hold them against his mouth. He slowly parts his lips and takes them. He chews without taking his eyes off my face. Heady with the small triumph, I take turns eating and feeding him.

He’s halfway through his sandwich when his face contorts. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he erupts from the table and darts out of the kitchen on surprisingly steady feet.

I chase after him. “Quinn!”

He doesn’t respond, but I see him disappear into a room at the far end of the hall. I go after him and enter the bedroom to hear the sound of gut-rolling retching.

Shit.

I’m halfway to the bathroom when the image on his large TV screen catches my eye. I stumble to a halt and stare at the shot of myself, asleep in the Hell’s Kitchen loft. There’s a time stamp on it and the footage is frozen in place. I’m more shocked than disturbed by the fact that Quinn is still in possession of images of me. That he’s watching me even after all this time.

Another bout of vomiting refocuses my attention. I enter the bathroom to find him crouched over the toilet. His skin is sallow and beaded with sweat and his whole body shakes as he expels whiskey-drenched stomach contents.

I grab a washcloth and run it under cool water. He groans and closes his eyes when I press it to his forehead. The heaving eventually stops and he collapses against the vanity.

Sinking down next to him, I’m lost as to how to help him.

“Can I get you anything?”

His hand blindly searches for mine, pulls it onto his stomach and clamps tight. “Stay,” he rasps.

He takes a deep breath, two, then he’s surging toward the bowl again.

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