Catching Serenity (Serenity #4) (20 page)

Sam hadn’t been the love of my life, I hadn’t gone into a spiral of depression once we ended things. But I’m pretty sure everyone wants our exes to feel remorse, shame and guilt for letting us slip away. Still, I am more than surprised by Sam’s sudden apology—so much so that I’m not prepared when he bends and kisses my cheek.

“Take care, Sayo,” he says, squeezing my hand once before he walks away.

Twice I look over my shoulder as I resume walking toward Quinn. And twice I see Sam still staring after me. It’s a weird sensation, being looked at like you are something remarkable. But once I reached Quinn his ever present frown drove all thoughts of Sam and his out-of-nowhere apology from my mind.

“O’Malley,” I say. In response, I get a grunt, dismissive and a little irritating, but I wasn’t going to let his sullenness keep me from getting to the bottom of my suspicions. “So, Carol told Autumn the fundraiser was a success.”

“That right?” he says, pulling a cigarette from inside of his jacket. When I eye the smoke, then raise an eyebrow in an unasked question, Quinn stares back, his face blank.

“It is.” I step beside him, crossing my arms so I mimic his stance and the way he watches the crowd. “Funny thing is, there was a substantial donation made before the fundraiser even started.”

“Hmmm.” Quinn twirls the unlit cigarette between his fingers and I decide that the drop in temperature I feel standing next to him has nothing to do with the weather.

“So, I started to think of who might have the funds to make that kind of donation.”

“There are fair amount of well off folk in this…” I glare at him, warning him not to insult Cavanagh and he shrugs. “This
town
. Could have been a great number of people.” Quinn pushes the smoke between his lips, eyes low lidded but staring as several people walk by us.

Quinn pulls out his lighter, flicking it twice but not lighting anything, and nods with his chin noncommittally toward someone in the crowd. I turn to look over my shoulder and see Sam standing in Quinn’s line of sight. “Take this pouncy wanker with the blonde hair. That’s the same one you wanted to hide from that night I first kissed you. Could have been him. He seems keen on impressing you.”

“It wasn’t Sam.” There would be no way. Sam doesn’t come from a well off family and he is a shift manager at McKinney’s. No way he has that kind of cash. But that isn’t why Quinn had pointed him out—he wasn’t being subtle at all about hunting for information, and it was pretty obvious that my brief conversation with Sam had unnerved him a little.

“Sure he’s not wanting back in?”

“None of your business.” I say, mainly to annoy Quinn. His glare becomes intense, and almost angry at my cavalier attitude, but I’m not going to let him off the hook that easily. “So what you’re saying is that it wasn’t you?”

There is the smallest bent of bitterness in his laugh before Quinn lights his cigarette, watching as I step away from him. “Do I really look like the sort to be that fecking selfless?”

No, he didn’t. We both knew it, but as Quinn walked away, chucking his cigarette after just two drags, I thought maybe he was. At least, I thought he damn well could be.

IF I EVER
want to be put off relationships forever, then spending a day Christmas shopping with Autumn and Declan will do the job. They are ridiculous—holding hands, always touching, peppering kisses on each other, recalling pet names and inside jokes that are likely ridiculously perverse. Although I love them and appreciate the ride into Knoxville because I hate driving in icy weather, half an hour in, I’d determined that I never wanted a repeat experience with those two.

Ridiculous.

But at least I now had most of the presents I needed for the holidays. The following night, even the roads in Cavanagh have gone slick and wet so I’m extra careful to take the corners slow as I head toward Aunt Carol and Uncle Clay’s. Despite the weather, there’s no way I’m going to keep from driving to their house; Rhea has been home for two days and, from the tone of her voice when I spoke to her this morning, she is feeling elated to be out of the hospital and back in her own home.

“Shit,” I mutter when a squirrel darts in front of my car, sending the tires slipping across the pavement before I right the wheel and slow down even further. Christmas is only days away and my car is loaded with gifts I can’t wait to wrap, tons of comics and games Rhea has missed during her quarantine. It’s her and those packages on my mind when I pull down my aunt and uncle’s street, my tires still slipping a bit on the thin layer of ice.

It’s a good thing I’m driving so slow, because all of sudden I realize with a shock that the idiot Irishman is standing right there in the middle of fucking street! I slam on my brakes, and jerk the steering wheel, jumping the curb and coming to stop at the sidewalk. What the hell?

Through my windshield I spot his rounded eyes and the way he holds his hands on top of his head like he’s trying to keep his brain from bursting out of his skull. “Are you mad?” he yells, darting to the passenger side of my car before he flings open the door. “Have you absolutely bloody lost your bleeding mind?”

“What the hell do you mean? You were the one in the middle of the damn road at eight at night! What the hell were you thinking, you stupid idiot?”

When he shivers, brushing off the movement by stretching his shoulders, I relent, spotting the red mark that looks suspiciously like a hand print on his cheek. “Get in the car before you freeze to death.”

He issues his usual grunt of displeasure and then drops into the seat next to me. “Happy, are you then?”

“No, I’m not.” I turn up the heat, moving the vent toward him, ease the car back onto the pavement, but then just sit there with the motor running. “Why were you out there in the middle of the street, anyway?”

Quinn looks out the window, his elbow on the door and his fingers over his mouth. “Fraser said I wouldn’t be welcomed to see the sprog during the hols.”

“I can’t disagree with him.”

“Especially after that business with your uncle.”

“What?”

“I thought… bollocks.” When Quinn leans against the headrest, rubbing the bridge of his nose, I jab him in the rib, making him jerk away from me. “What it…”

“What business with my uncle?”

He exhales, scrubbing his face. “Feck, I thought Autumn would have mentioned it. It’s why I’m not welcome here, I imagine. Clay… that pouncy…” he pauses when I glare at him. “He was at McKinney’s getting pissed when he told Carol he had work and couldn’t stay with Rhea.”

“You caught him?” I turn in my seat, folding my arms over my chest.

“Eh, no. Not exactly. I may have made a passing comment to Carol about seeing him pie eyed at the pub. She went a bit mad, to be honest.”

“Quinn…”

“Shite, how was I to know?” He reaches for me, cursing when I jerk out of his grip. “Sayo, be wary. That bloke’s about to check right out. I know a runner when I see one.”

“Why? You spot your own kind?”

Quinn darts a glare at me and when he looks away and I see the red mark on his face up close, I actually feel bad for him. “I had a gift for Rhea.” He speaks so low that I can barely make out what he is saying. Then Quinn opens his coat and pulls out a small box. The paper is Tiffany blue, but I know he hasn’t bought her jewelry—he knew her better than that. She is eight and definitely not a jewelry kind of kid. “Give it to her for me, will you?”

The box is no bigger than a stack of cards and I slip it into my coat pocket. “No problem,” I tell him, glancing up at the mark on his cheek, and before I realize I’m doing anything at all, I hold his face in one hand, scrutinizing it. “Autumn told me that Layla clocked you good.”

Apparently, Quinn had tried to kiss Layla. At least that’s what Autumn mentioned on the pitch that afternoon when she and I waited for Declan to finish running drills with his squad. It was more of Quinn acting like an idiot, trying to shock people with his ridiculous flirting, with the smug attitude, than anything he might have actually felt for my friend. More deflection, no doubt, to hide who he really is. Autumn had asked how I felt about Quinn trying to kiss Layla and when I thought about it, I told her - and myself—that it didn’t matter to me at all. I’d kissed Quinn. He’d kissed me, but that didn’t mean a thing. Not really.

“She’s a mean right hook,” he admits, pulling out of my touch.

“When are you going to learn?” If I was honest, really honest with myself, I’d examine that small ache in the pit of my stomach that had developed the moment Autumn told me what Quinn had attempted.

“And what exactly is it I should be learning?” His voice was no longer soft or low. Quinn looked in fact like he’d decided to do away with the niceties of polite conversation and let just a smidgeon of the real him slip to the surface. Those tight muscles around his mouth, the quick curl of his top lip, I wasn’t sure I knew what to make of any of it. But if a small break down would show me who he really was, I’d take the insulted attitude.

“Should I learn not to act as I am? Should I learn to conform to whatever shite you lot tell each other is normal just to fit right in? Bleeding hell, do you think I should learn to get along with Fraser and his woman and the whole rest of you just to keep the peace?”

“Yes. You should.”

“Well I won’t do it.”

I cross my arms, glaring right back at him when he stops speaking, and a small hint of surprise slips into his tone. It’s almost funny. “Why the bleeding hell should I? I’m meant to keep my nose clean, stay well clear of trouble. I do that for another year and my money is my own again and I can go home.”

“Home to what, Quinn?” I don’t give him time to respond beyond the small bob of his mouth he makes, like he can’t quite believe I’ve called him on his bullshit. “Women and liquor and the constant party?”

“Damn right.”

“And that made you happy? Drinking yourself into oblivion?”

“Yes.” There a small laugh that follows his answer, one that sounds like disbelief and arrogance.

“Sleeping with whatever gold digger was the most enthusiastic?”

“Yeah…”

He’s lying.

“Waking up not knowing who was in the bed with you? Being so sick from drinking and drugs and whatever else you’d prefer to die? Feeling like that day in and day out? Thinking that no one in your life really gave a shit about you? Oh, right, that’s
soooo
much better than what you could have here.”

So much passes over his face. Expressions that could mean a good number of things: doubt, surprise, some latent need for me to understand. But like always, Quinn doesn’t let that mask slip. Not in front of me especially. He will always deflect. He will always defend even when no one is threatening him. “What do you know of it?”

“More than you think.”

For several seconds, he pauses, looking for a break, maybe hoping I’m trying to pull something over on him. Then the defensiveness and the deflection starts up again. “You don’t know shite about me, woman. You don’t know who I am or what’s been my lot in life.”

“Trust fund kid on a constant party?” I wave my hand, laughing at the idea. “Yeah, O’Malley, you’re right. You’ve had it freakin rough, haven’t you?”

“It hasn’t damn well been easy.” He sits up straighter, palm against the dash.

“Yeah?” I say, surprised that he could forget so easily how blessed he is. How he could disregard that our problems are meaningless to others. “Go talk to Rhea about a hard lived life, you selfish prick.”

He stares at me, eyes round, fury simmering beneath he glassy surface of his iris. “I never fecking said I had it the worst. I never said she didn’t…” He takes a breath and I can see his frustration, his anger welling. “I’ve been alone. I learned how to be alone. And a few months in this god-forsaken shitehole with my arsehole half-brother and his meddlesome woman and her friends isn’t going to make things… this won’t just… fecking, bothersome, bollocking bastards…”

Just then, despite what I know of him, what I’ve been warned, I truly feel sorry for Quinn. He doesn’t deserve me brow beating him, not here, not now. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t understand about the real hardships in life, not like most of the rest of us do. And he’s absolutely right: I
don’t
know what he’s undergone. I
don’t
know what it is to feel the double loss of losing your parents, of being stripped away from your home.

I do know, though, that he is truly faltering, that the slip of his control is great and I want to help him, to catch him before he slips too far away. So I do the only thing that feels natural. I kiss him.

Quinn is momentarily shocked, but then he moves his hands on either side of my face, taking me deeper into the kiss, stealing all control from me and my aggressive charge.

It’s only seconds before the windows around us fog up as we battle each other with our lips, teeth pulling, nibbling, tongues slipping back and forth against each other and then I shudder, overcome, overwhelmed that I had kissed him again and had liked it so much.

He moves away slowly, still holding my face, still close enough that his breath lingers on my bottom lip. Then, another shudder and Quinn sits back looking me over like he isn’t sure what to make of me.