Page 4 of Quentin
Quentin shook his head with dismay. “It’s an elected position, for fuck’s sake. How does he keep winning?”
She looked at him then like he’d grown a second head. “Really? Your daddy is Samuel Darcy, and you have to ask how underhanded shit happens in this town?”
There was no refuting the logic in that. Every dirty deal, rigged election, and plot that had taken place in Fontaine could be practically be traced back to Samuel in one form or other. The man was like a goddamn parasite, a poison vine choking the life out of everything around him. He took root and spread. Deciding to focus on more immediate concerns, Quentin asked, “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Here,” she said. “I’m not letting that son of a bitch run me out of my own home.”
Her “home” was a tiny little apartment above the bar. Looking up at the holes in the ceiling, he shook his head. “Hell, you don’t even know if it’s structurally sound! Not to mention,there’s no way in hell you’re staying here alone so that he can come back and finish the job!”
“If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead,” she said. “He’s just trying to make me pay for sending him to jail.”
He wanted to choke her, or shake her, or do something to make her see reason. Instead, he said the one thing neither of them had ever thought he would utter. “You’re coming home with me.”
Lowey gaped at him for a second before laughing, though there was no mistaking it for a sound of amusement. “Oh no.Hellno. I’d rather take my chances with the dumbass I married!”
“Goddammit, Lowey! He could have killed you today! And maybe, as you say, he wouldn’t have meant to, maybe scaring you was all he had on his worthless mind, but he’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, is he? Everything that fucker has ever done in his life has gone wrong!”
All of that was true. But going to Quentin’s house now, when they were well and truly over, when he’d never seen fit to take her there before, was too much. Every night they’d spent together—no, she corrected. He’d never spent the night with her. He’d always left after he’d gotten what he wanted…well, whattheywanted. She wasn’t going to pretend that she hadn’t wanted him, too. Every encounter between them had occurred in her tiny apartment, surrounded by the pink frills and white painted furniture he’d found so amusing.
Not many people had ever seen the softer side of her. They expected her to be the same tough chick who worked the bar every night with a baseball bat and a sawed-off tucked under the counter. He’d thought it was hilarious, calling her little apartment The Dollhouse.
“I’m not going to your house, Quentin. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened.” Her tone was soft, and her words were perfectly civil, but there was steel in her voice. They both knew she meant it.
“What the hell is your problem, Lowey? I’m trying to keep you safe!”
The fact that he was so infuriatingly oblivious made her want to choke him. “Do you have to ask? Really? I was your little fuck buddy for months and never made it past the front door…and now, because you’ve crooked your finger, I’m just supposed to go pack my bags?”
He’d never meant to hurt her. Keeping his distance, especially while Samuel was still in town stirring shit up, had been necessary for her protection, but it had also been aconvenient excuse to keep her at arm’s length. Not that it mattered, she’d still snuck under his skin, and there she was still. She’d gotten in his head and now he had to find a way to get back into hers. “Then we’ll go somewhere else, but you’re sure as hell not staying here, and you’re not staying anywhere alone.”
Three
The former carriage house was tucked away behind the two-story brick house with its grand, multi-columned facade. As Quentin guided the car along the curved, tree-lined drive, Lowey noted her surroundings and how supremely out of place she was.
He’d made a series of phone calls while she’d gone upstairs and packed. Quentin playing the hero was a pretty novel concept, not because she thought he was a coward but because she was simply stunned that he’d been moved to care. Or cared enough to be moved to action. She’d fully anticipated that he’d just cut and run again. But no, he’d had to actually come through. And now they were pulling up in front of a house that reminded her in vivid, living color of just how far apart they were.
“You’ve got a funny idea of laying low,” she said. “I was expecting some no-tell motel on the shitty side of Lexington. Not Tara fromGone with the Wind.”
“They’re friends,” he said. “And the whole property is secured.”
The gate alone was worth more than all her worldly goods. “Well, if my asshole ex-husband shoots it up, I sure as hell won’t be able to cover the damage.”
She felt the weight of his stare as he looked over at her. Assessing, curious, and oddly sympathetic, it pissed her off on principle. “What?” she demanded. “What is it now?”
He shrugged, “I could tell you that you’re just as good as anyone else, but it’ll only piss you off more.”
The fact that he was right didn’t soothe her already ruffled feathers. “I always knew we were from two different worlds, Quentin, but my friends only come to houses like this one when they’ve been hired to clean them.”
The car eased to a stop in front of the ivy-covered brick of the carriage house. It was picturesque, beautiful, and far beyond her budget, but it was exactly the kind of place she loved. It wore its age well, and whoever owned it hadn’t tried to hide that. Instead, they’d worked with it and created something charming and beautiful.
Quentin got out of the car and retrieved their bags from the back. He dropped them immediately and placed one hand on his ribs.
“I’ve got these, hotshot,” she said and picked them up. It would have served him right to let him carry the bags and then collapse in a broken heap from it, but she just wasn’t that person, even if she wanted to be sometimes.
“I can carry the damn bags, Lowey,” he protested, his manly pride clearly affronted.
Her only response was an eye roll as she walked toward the door with them. She was out of patience with his he-man attitude, especially since he was so busted up it was a wonder he could even stand upright.
“Lowey!”
