Page 32 of She Gives Love a Bad Name

Even though I want her, I shut that shit down. She’s still under my protection, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take advantage of her like some goddamned predator. She deserves better.

Once I put the files away, I grab my suit jacket and head for the door. It’s warm outside, even in the shade. August weather is suffocating, like a wet rag over my face. I need to take a shower. Which I can’t do at my place.

Wandering through the nearest side street, I head for home. Claude’s been letting me use his shower and borrow his clothes since I’m obviously not man enough to reclaim my own fucking space.

Truth is, since that night, I can’t take chances being close to Quinn. Her scent, her simple presence is enough to twist me into knots. If I linger, I might do something stupid...like kiss her, claim her.

Can’t do that. She’s a murder witness. The only lead I have. I can’t risk chasing her off or fucking this up.

I’ve been coming home after she goes to bed, crashing on that damned sofa, and leaving before she wakes. I grabbed a couple of things from my closet yesterday and just about lost my mind at the sight of her in my bed, her curls draped across my pillows, her bare skin peeking out from beneath the sheet. I could have lived the rest of my life not knowing that she sleeps naked, but instead, I’m cursed to carry that painful knowledge to my killer sofa night after night while I refrain from taking myself in hand to ease the ache in my balls.

Claude hasn’t said anything about our little arrangement, but I know he’s watching. And harshly judging me. I can’t blame him. I’d do the same if I were in his position, but he’s smart enough to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

When I reach the Black Penny, I slip inside the door. At barely six, there’s already a crowd. Years ago, this was a popular hangout for local dockworkers and the blue-collar crowd. Now it’s brimming with sharp suits and gold Rolexes. My gaze roams over this new class of patrons as I make my way to the back of the bar.

Claude appears from the back room and nudges past a waitress as I slide onto a barstool near the hallway leading to the restrooms.

“Hey.” He acknowledges my presence with a nod. “The usual?”

“Make it a double.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as he pours my favorite whiskey over ice. He slides it across the bar.

“How is she?” I let the liquor work its magic, burning a hole in my gut.

“Bored.”

“There’s a television and food. What else does she need?” I keep my voice low.

“She’s not a fucking cat, Grant.” He scowls at me. “You plan on leaving her to fend for herself again tomorrow?”

Guilt twists my stomach into cords of regret. The whiskey bites the back of my throat. Shit.

I look away, my attention focused on a cluster of men sitting in the nearby booth. I have no idea who these people are or why they’re in a dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen when they could be at some swanky club uptown.

“Fine. I’ll give her something to do.”

It takes two full seconds for my brother’s statement to sink through my thick skull. I whip around to face him. “Like what?”

Jealousy rears its head like a starving serpent when a million inappropriate thoughts fly through my brain. Claude flirting with Quinn. Them sitting together, talking over coffee. Him helping her cook in his small kitchen. Her resting her hand on his shoulder and smiling at him like he hangs the moon.

Fuck that. She’s mine.

A knowing grin curves my brother’s typically stoic lips. He leans against the bar. “If you don’t take care of her, someone else will.” He arches a brow in challenge and slowly rises, then quickly swishes his rag across the counter, drapes it over his shoulder, and retreats.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve never been jealous of my brother, at least not as an adult. But right now, I want to take him into the street and beat his ass for insinuating I can’t take care of her.

He’s right though. If I don’t step up, someone will—him or the murderer or some other asshole down the road. Good or bad, there will always be someone waiting to take my place.

No, I can’t let that happen. She deserves better than the miserable cards she’s been dealt.

I cringe at the pain in my chest and ignore the burning desire to march up those stairs to sweep her into my arms. I want to kiss the hurt away, tell her she’ll be safe with me forever.

But that’s not how the world works. My horrific past relationships prove this.

I can protect her from the murderer, but I can’t protect her from the pain of her childhood. I can’t protect her from my shit either. Nothing I do will heal her or give her the fulfillment she deserves.

Claude gives me a long look when I slap a ten on the bar and slip down the hallway. When I reach the landing outside my apartment, my hands are shaking. I don’t know what to say to her. She deserves company, conversation with another adult. But I’m shit at that.

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