Page 56 of No Turning Back
I punch my pillow flat, and roll to the side. Blue hops up, settles at my feet like she knows I’m wound too tight.
I still remember Kandahar. One second she was up, the next she went down. Blood everywhere. My mind went dead quiet till Martinez yelled for a medic. Thought she was gone right there.
The medic had shoved me aside, and I just stood there. Useless. They flew her stateside, and we finished the mission without her. I called. Every damn day. Left messages. Letters. Nothing. She shut us all out, not just me.
We were ready to storm her house the second we hit stateside. Stage an intervention.
Then came the invitation. Cream paper, gold letters. Knife to the ribs. Held it till my hands went numb.Quinn Barnes and Markus Ortega request the honour…
We found another op to run, told ourselves it was about the mission. Truth was, none of us could stomach watching her marry Ortega. Especially not me.
That bastard never deserved her. He got his hooks in while she was vulnerable, and I couldn’t do a damn thing stuck overseas.
After six years of bleeding and fighting side by side, she sent us a card. Like we were distant cousins she barely remembered.
I may not have been able to stop the wedding, but watching her marry him, that would’ve finished me.
Blue shifts at my feet, warm weight pressing against the cold knot in my chest.
Then years later, her name lit up my phone. I had stared at it so long she nearly hung up.
And now she’s here. In my house. Sleeping across the hall. Borrowing my flannels. Using my shower. Walking past me with wet hair and those eyes that won’t let me breathe.
It’s torture.
I cover my eyes with my arm. Blue whines low, like she knows better.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Truth is, I’m not. Not when she laughs at my jokes. Not when her hand brushes mine. Not when I catch her staring like she’s fighting the same fight.
I want her. Always have. Wanted her in my bed, under me, whispering my name. Thought about it too many nights to count.
I don’t sleep. Just stare at the ceiling, replaying everything. Around two a.m., I hear the bathroom door across the hall. She’s awake.
I swing my legs off the bed. I need to talk to her.
I wait, listening for the door to open. Walls here are thin, you can hear everything. Years of living light left me a decent nest egg, only grown since Quinn insists on covering groceries. Might be time to give up the PI gig.
Careful not to disturb Blue, I step into the hall. Past the bathroom, toward her door, then stop dead when I hear her whispering.
“…ck, what are you doin’, Quinn? Sam’s your friend, your roommate, and you cannot be homeless again. Get it together.”
Homeless. The word hits like a punch.
I know Ortega’s fighting for the house in the divorce, but she said she didn’t care. Said she would’ve handed it over if that’s all he wanted. But he wants more. Was she lying? Does she care? Christ… is she still in love with him?
I rake a hand through my hair, heart pounding, and head back to my room.
What the hell was I thinkin’?
Quinn came here busted up, scared. Ortega left her in pieces she’s still tryin’ to put back together. She trusted me with that. What kind of man takes advantage of it?
So from now on, I’ll be what she needs. A friend. Nothing more.
Back in bed, I roll onto my stomach, sigh heavy into the pillow. Blue climbs up beside me, rests her head like she belongs there. Smells like wet dog, but it’s comfort.
My eyes get heavy, thoughts of Quinn still circling but softer now. Then another hits me: what happens when she doesn’t need me anymore? When she heals, moves on, walks out that door for good? That ache in my chest makes sleep feel like surrender.
