Catching Serenity (Serenity #4) (18 page)

Without really considering it, I am out of my car and across the street within seconds. Just standing, watching, observing from the corner of the building, hidden between shadow and the dull, yellow street light. The large, beaming handheld flashlight shines onto the building’s surface and the sketchy form of what I know will be Rhea flying through space.

A quick shiver breaks across Quinn’s broad shoulders but he doesn’t move; simply steps back, lowering the paint can as he looks over the work he’s started.

“Come to give me company?” he asks, keeping his gaze on that wall, as though I don’t warrant even a single glance over his shoulder. He shakes the paint can so that the marble inside clicks against the metal, his movements easy, light. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. His attention is on the long, solid lines that will make up something I can’t see yet. It’s while he is distracted that I move, inching closer, unsure why I am here at all.

“Her top lip is fuller,” I offer coming to stand next to him, looking up at the face I’ve memorized since she was a baby. “There’s a bigger dip in her top lip. It… makes her mouth heart shaped.”

For some reason, my throat catches and just for a blink, I don’t care that Quinn hears me upset, that this depiction of my little cousin has my eyes getting misty.

If he wants to insult me, maybe yell at me for correcting his artwork, Quinn retains the smallest semblance of decorum and only nods, stretching his arms before he stops to watch my profile.

“It’s not done. Not even close.”

“Is this…” I wave at the building, the large stretch of the scene, reaching nearly the entire surface, “What is this for?”

But as always, Quinn keeps his business to himself, offering me nothing more than a turn of his head and a long, slow glance as though I’d insulted him.

“She’s my cousin, you know.” He remains silent, tossing the can on the ground next to a canvas bag holding the others. “Aunt Carol, she might not like…”

“Why are you here?” Quinn steps in front of me, keeping my gaze from the mural, from everything but the backlit highlights of his face. “You want…” he steps closer, so that I straighten forgetting for a second that he shouldn’t be touching me, that his hands don’t belong on my hip, that his fingers shouldn’t be resting on my lower back, pulling me forward. “You want me, love?” Another pull and our chests connect. “Want my mouth again? Want to feel everything I’ve got to give you, Sayo?”

That bravado is like a sheen. Something that mars the surface, something that covers whatever is real, whatever is true. It’s a shame, really. He is beautiful, has been given so much because of that beauty. And yet he uses that to distract from who he really is, from the kindness that seems hidden beneath all that attitude and innuendo.

“Can you ever stop putting on a front?”

He doesn’t seem to like my question. Quinn drops his hand and I feel the cool wind that his arms, his fingers had blocked. But he doesn’t step back. When I inch close to touch his face, Quinn grabs my wrist. “Don’t touch me.”

“Always hiding, aren’t you?” My step is quiet as my boot pops a small piece of gravel under the heel. “Still running?”

“What do you want from me?” He jerks me toward him, his hand jumping back to my hip. “Hmm? Is it not enough that I keep away from your schedule at hospital? Or is it something else?” Quinn walks forward, making me step backward. “Do you want to finish the business from last week? I have to warn you, love, you’ve no idea what you’re getting yourself into. I’m not sweet. I’m no gentle lover. I take and I give and there are no fecking apologies.” I don’t stop him when he leans us against the back building, picking me up by the hips. “It’s a bit cold here, but the building is mine. So long as you understand what I offer, we can keep ourselves warm… somehow.”

He doesn’t mean it. Quinn might want me, but he is only acting on that drive because he refuses to explain himself. He’s deflecting. He wouldn’t tell me why he drew my sketch. He won’t explain what he has planned for the mural. Most of all, I doubt he’d ever give any of us a why for any of it.

When I don’t react the way he expects, when I push him away from my neck Quinn frowns, staring at me with more confusion than irritation.

“Can you give me something real?”

He waits, the grip on my thighs, the tension in his fingers tighten for a second before he relaxes. He is fighting with himself. There is something skirting around his tongue, as though there is something he wants to say but pride, ego prevents him from uttering a sound.

The truth would cost him too much.

Being real is too high a price.

“This is me, love. This is as real as I ever am.”

The truth is a blade Quinn keeps hidden. That edge is too sharp and lowering it would leave him unprotected. He is a fog to me, something that covers, something that can be easily brushed aside.

The paint fumes linger on the wind, mix with peppermint that hits my senses when Quinn sighs. It’s an odd mix that is intoxicating, just as he is. But it’s not enough. He’s not enough. Not the partial person he wants me to see.

“You’re a liar,” I tell him, pushing back so he will release me. “You’ll show me the real you or nothing at all, O’Malley.”

It’s hard, so very hard, but when he doesn’t respond, merely keeps looking at me as if his stare could change my mind, I turn and walk back to my car. Part of me—the selfish part—wants him to follow, but he doesn’t. I force myself to not look around, but I listen for any indication of what he might be doing.

The sound is faint, but clear—the spray can, the marble moving as he shakes it again and, I swear the low mutter of his cursing as he watches me walk away.

THERE IS NOTHING
worse in life than waiting for news you know is coming. Births, deaths, dreams snatched out of your future—all keep you in limbo. They keep you waiting. Like now, sitting on the crowded bench next to boxes of latex gloves and paper masks the nurses haven’t had a chance to bring to the supply room with my ear close to Rhea’s door. I can almost make out the muddle of voices. I can almost hear the news I hope will get me through the door.

While it’s only been about twenty minutes, it feels much longer, and I have nothing to do but bite on my thumb nail and try to keep the promise I made to Rhea—that I wouldn’t look inside the sketch book she asked me to hold. The sketch book Quinn left with her for safe keeping, after he caught me snooping. It holds another clue in the great secret he doesn’t want me to know about. He doesn’t know I have it. I should maintain the higher ground, be the bigger person.

But I suck. I betrayed my little cousin and had a look.

Just one.

Only one.

What the hell is taking so long in there?

When a chair on the other side of the door slides against the floor, I stretch out my legs, drumming my nails against the sketch book because there is nothing else I can do. My mostly black hair is braided. All the purple polish has been chipped from my nails. I have discovered there are two hundred and thirty-five tiles along the ceiling of this hallway. And still, no answer, no explanation.

Ah hell, Rhea probably suspected I’d peek.

There’s no need to be quiet opening the book. No one can hear me and my gaze instantly catches on the same drawing I saw before, the hasty sketch of a scene, the battle of our two heroic champions against a sinister foe.

The book rests against my knees as I adjust my legs, then I run the tip of my index finger along the thick pencil marks Quinn made—the power behind Rhea’s kick, the strong set of Quinn’s jaw. The entire scene has me smiling, staring so that I no longer hear the noises inside that room or the footsteps that approach.

“Jaysus, you must be the most nosey little shite I have ever come across in my bleeding life.” Quinn’s tone is low, as though he’s only pretending he’s annoyed with me. I let his insult slide, not caring if he is and close the book, fold my arms over the top of it just as he comes to stand next to me, that familiar look of disappointment on his face. “Why do you have that?”

“Relax. Rhea knew I’d look when she asked me to hold it.” When Quinn only glares at me I nod at the space at my side, thinking he might want to hear the voices beyond the closed door too.

Apparently not. Quinn sits across from me, arms on his knees. “Why aren’t you in there?”

“One of the night nurses has the flu and didn’t tell anyone. She’s new and now she’s without a job.” There is movement in the room behind me and I lean my ear against the door, squinting as I concentrate, as though that will help me hear a damn thing. A minute of silence and I lean back against the wall. “Two of the kids on the floor have tested positive for the flu.” My wool pea coat gets caught on the metal back of the seat when I scoot closer to the door trying to hear. “They want to make sure Rhea doesn’t have it either.”

“If she does?” This time, Quinn does a poor job of hiding his worry. There is a rasp to his tone, something that tells me there is more fear than I’d expect from him at his question.

No need in sugar coating anything for him. “There might be a quarantine, but I’m not sure.”

“That’s bollocks,” he says, voice high and cracking. “I’m not bleeding sick.” Quinn ignores my frown, covering yet again with a glance over my face, down my body, not hiding the slow slip of his tongue along his bottom lip. “Are you fit to see her?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“That’s debatable,” he says, leaning his head back against the wall just as Doctor Allen barks at one of the nurses trailing behind him at the end of the hall.

“The other file, Nurse Billings. Didn’t I say that twice already?” He doesn’t acknowledge either me or Quinn as the pair passes us.

“Fecking wanker,” Quinn offers, following the doctor’s hurried walk to the last room at the end of the hall. “Rhea hates that arsehole.”

“Yeah, I know.” I hold the sketch book up, giving it a small wave. “I see you don’t like him either.”

He peers at me hard, before easing off and Quinn shrugs, as though explaining anything to me is somehow both funny and irritating. “I’m only drawing what she wanted.

“Gave yourself some bulk, didn’t you?”

“I did not!” He lifts his eyebrows when I slide across the hall to sit next to him and open the sketch book to the piece in question. Quinn doesn’t bother looking down at it. “That’s an accurate depiction.”

“Is it?” I can’t help laughing, pointing at the sketch Quinn had done as
Omnigirl
and
Sovereign Smash
attack the villainous
Death
Doctor C
who has the same build and shaggy hair as the curt, unfriendly oncologist down the hall.

“I’m not slight,” Quinn says, defending his sketch. I don’t miss the way he rubs his arms, as though he needs to double check that he hasn’t gotten scrawny since arriving in Cavanagh.

“Your jaw is not that square and perfect.”

“Oh,” he leans close on the pretense of looking down at the sketch, but Quinn’s mouth lingers a bit too close to my ear. “But you’re saying it is somewhat perfect.”

“I’m definitely not.”

“You know, I think you are, in fact,” he says, knocking his shoulder next to mine, just like a normal human. Someone who isn’t all venom and anger, or put upon bravado meant to offend.

“Well,” I begin, liking the small glimpse of what I believe is the real Quinn peeking out behind the almost smile on his mouth. “I wouldn’t say perfect at all.” That exaggerated glare he gives me doesn’t break my humor and I manage to pretend I’m not looking him over. “I mean, you’re okay to look at if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“What? Devilishly handsome blokes? Utterly shagable men that will make you see heaven?”

“And there’s the asshole we all know and love.”

There’s a moment when Quinn’s expression shifts, as though he might have enjoyed me saying that. It only lasts a few small seconds and then the Irishman’s body goes rigid and the pleased, the happy set of his mouth tightening as though he can’t give in to two friends joking, or the idea that I might have acted remotely kind to him.

I recover as quickly as I can, shaking my head, adding an exaggerated eye roll to make him see I wasn’t serious. “Figure of speech, O’Malley.” I don’t bother looking at him when I speak, keeping my attention on the sketch book, nearly getting the page turned when the door to Rhea’s room finally opens.