Page 2 of Dirty Quinn
What kind of an asshole do you have to be to sneak out of a woman’s house once she falls asleep after sex?
Me.
I’m that kind of asshole. I don’t even bother to stop and put my shoes on before I slither from Quinn’s apartment.
Something I regret as I gingerly make my way up the darkened street to my car. I’m not sure where I plan to go, I just know I can’t stay here.
With Quinn.
She’ll romanticize the hell out of last night in her dreams and wake up ready to plan the wedding. That’s not the headspace I’m in.
I should never have gone to see her tonight. But I’m also the kind of asshole who blames alcohol for poor decision making. I was drunk when I showed up at her door a few hours ago, and I’m pretty sure I still am now.
Like all alcohol-fueled decisions, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Especially knowing it would lead to sex. But I’ve managed to get myself into an impossible situation. And I’m not even sure I’ll make it out alive. Fucking Quinn before I die seemed like a smart thing to do.
Of course, if I live, once will not be enough.
Even if it makes her start to plan a wedding.
I pull my car keys from my pocket, only to drop them on the street. When I don’t see them right away, I realize I parked in the only area of this fucking street not lit by a streetlight.
For fuck’s sake, Reed. What kind of amateur rookie are you?
My head spins as I lean over, and I must brace myself on the side of my car as I blindly reach around for them.
Fuck me, I drove here in this condition.
The asshole tally just keeps adding up. Drinking. Driving. Unprotected sex. Bailing afterward without a word. Undoubtedly hurting a woman I care about.
“You’re disgusting,” I mumble to myself. “Worthless and disgusting.”
My fingertips scrape the edge of the keys and I pull them toward me with what feels like painstaking delay. I click the remote to unlock the SUV before I have the keys all the way in my hand and manage to stand and get the door open without further incident.
The hood drops over my head before I even realize someone is behind me. My base instinct is to fight back, but my alcohol befuddled brain can’t control my limbs fast enough to cooperate before the barrel of a gun is pushed at the back of my skull. I freeze at the sound of a cocking gun echoing around us.
I’m not even armed. I left my piece in my car when I went to see Quinn. Because I’m a fucking idiot.
“You should know, I’m a federal agent.” I try to sound as authoritative as I can but doubt I’m successful. The bureau trains us to get out of perilous situations that might trip up everyday people. Like evading a blind attack or resisting abduction. Much like my authoritative tone, my training seems to have escaped me. They cuff my hands behind me before I’m even able to fully wrap my head around what’s happening. I stumble blindly as the person behind me pushes me forward. A car door opens in front of me, and I clip my forehead on the doorframe as I’m shoved into what I’m assuming is the backseat.
“Ow. Goddamn it.”
The car rocks as my abductor gets in after me and slams the door. I’m shoved further along the bench seat, but it isn’t until the car is moving that I realize I’m facing backward to the direction of travel. My mind sobers quickly as I begin mentally clocking the turns from Quinn’s house and the direction we seem to be going. My concentration is interrupted by the hood being slowly pulled from around my head. I open my eyes to find a man sitting across from me; his face illuminated by passing lights in the street shining dimly through the windows.
“Do you know who I am, Agent Roberts?” He has a heavy Russian accent, similar to Daria’s.
“Should I?” I look him up and down. He’s trim and clean cut, his suit tailored and expensive, his shoes shined and without a speck of mud or dirt. Broad face, clean shaven, and thick silver hair slicked back.
Despite his piercing blue eyes, there is nothing more about him that is extraordinary outside of his persona and the way he carries himself. He reminds me of Mack in that way. Your eyes would be drawn to him in a room or photograph regardless of how many others were alongside him. His entire being screams confidence and power. Even the way he sits, taking up almost the entire bench seat at the rear of the car gives the impression of a man in total control of himself and his environment.
He laughs in response to my question, but it sounds disingenuous. “No. In fact, I would be surprised if you did. Please pardon the question. I mean no disrespect by asking something you can’t possibly know the answer to.”
Which suddenly makes me feel like that’s exactly what he’s done. Immediately set me off-guard and in the weaker position by not knowing something seemingly obvious, yet impossible in reality.
What a dick.
“My name is Viktor Limonov. I believe you know my daughter, Daria.”
Oh.
