Page 32 of Good Graces

The break room is dim, a little hideaway from the glare of the afternoon sunshine. The overhead fan hums, stirring the thick air, but it does nothing for the warmth curling in my gut when I spot her.

Quinn’s got her back to me, arms braced against the sink, shoulders drawn tight. She’s breathing fast, shallow, like she’s trying to get enough air but can’t quite manage it.

My chest tightens. It must be her asthma.

She’s always been reckless with it—pushing herself too hard, pretending she doesn’t need help. Like using her inhaler in public is some kind of weakness she can’t afford.

I step forward, already on edge. “Jesus, Quinn, do you even have your inhaler?”

She startles, whipping around like she didn’t realize I was there. Her eyes are red, face pale beneath her tan. “I—yeah. It’s fine.”

“Fine?” I scoff. “You’re wheezing. Just take the damn thing.”

She bristles. “I said I’m fine.”

I cross my arms. “Right. Because hiding out alone in a break room gasping for air is totally fine. If you’d just tell Robbie you need more breaks or—”

“No,” she snaps, turning back to the sink. Her fingers curl around the edge, white-knuckled. Like if she holds on hard enough, she won’t fall apart.

And then it happens. A single tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it away in half a second, fast and fierce, but I still see it.

Something twists in my chest.

I step closer, my voice low. “It’s not asthma, is it?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Quinn.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. Takes a slow breath in, then slower out. Like she’s trying to bury something deep before it breaks the surface.

Then, quiet. “It was just one of the regulars. He, uh ... he got a little handsy with me earlier. That’s all.”

Every part of me locks up. I don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Not until she looks up at me, jaw tight, gaze flat and practiced. “It wasn’t— I mean, it was just—” She lets out a hollow little laugh, sharp and small. “You know how it is here.”

Rage spikes so fast it makes me dizzy. I step in, close enough to see the dampness still clinging to her lashes, the way her hands tremble and her breath snags in her throat.

“Who?”

She exhales sharply. “Warren—”

“Who the fuck was it?”

Her gaze flickers, wary. She shakes her head. “It’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal. Not a big fucking deal.

My fingers curl into fists. “Don’t do that,” I say, voice rough. “Don’t brush it off.”

She huffs, wiping at her cheek again like she can erase the evidence. “And what do you want me to do? File a formal complaint? Go to Robbie?” She lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “He’s middle management, Mercer. He has no real clout here. You and I both know that.”

I clench my jaw, grinding my teeth. “That’s bullshit.”

She looks at me then, something exhausted settling into her expression. “The members are king.”

Yeah, I already know that. I know how this place works. How the money, the power, the connections all run one way. How guys like Robbie, guys like me, are disposable in the grand scheme of things.

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