Broken, p.15
Broken, page 15
She paused at the door as it opened, pleasantly surprised to see Quinn waiting there for her.
“Everything okay?” the driver asked from behind her.
“Yes.” She shot a smile at the lady over her shoulder and then jogged down the stairs. She stopped on the curb and they waited in silence as the bus pulled away. She tucked her hands into her pockets as Quinn pushed off the railing. “Waiting for somebody?” she asked as a foolish smile spread over her face.
In lieu of answering, he reached out and hooked a hand around the back of her neck, tugging her up against him. As his mouth came down on hers, she grinned against his lips and said, “I guess so.”
When the kiss ended, she sighed and settled back down on her feet. Grinning up at him, she said, “You’re definitely better than chocolate.”
Quinn arched a brow at her. “I am?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“This something you’ve thought about a lot?”
Sara shrugged. “Not until a few minutes ago. I was getting off work and apparently I had this grin on my face. Somebody asked about it, and then somebody else said only a man makes a woman grin like that. So I say I’ve grinned like that about chocolate, but I think I might have lied. You’re definitely better than chocolate.”
“Glad to hear that.” He cupped her face in his hand and stroked his thumb over her lip.
She kissed him there and then pulled back, started down the sidewalk. He fell into step beside her. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she said, “This is getting to be a regular thing.”
“What?”
“You waiting here when I get off of the bus.”
He was quiet for a moment. When he did speak, his voice was neutral, carefully so. “Is that a problem?”
Sara shrugged. It should be a problem. She knew that. He should be a problem. And in a way, he was, but it was the wrong kind of way. Instead of wanting to keep him at a distance, she wanted him close, all the time close, which really led to more problems.
How was she ever going to manage leaving him?
“Not really a problem . . . just wondering why.”
“Maybe because I like seeing you,” he said, shrugging. Then he stopped and reached out, catching her hand to bring her to a halt as well. “Screw that. I do like seeing you. Besides, it’s not like you’re walking home in broad daylight. You never get home before ten and I’d just rather not think about you making the walk at night.”
Cocking a brow at him, she pointed out, “I’ve made the walk a million and one times at night and haven’t had any trouble. And this is definitely a better neighborhood than I’m used to—nothing much ever happens around here.”
“I know that.” He shifted from one foot to the other, shoving a hand through his hair. His eyes stared off into the distance, like he wasn’t entirely comfortable meeting her gaze.
Nervous, she realized. He was nervous.
It was a rare thing for him to actually look nervous, Sara decided. She’d seen him pissed before, seen him irritated, seen him amused, but nervous was new.
“Look, I know you can take care of yourself,” he said, jerking a shoulder up. “I just feel better walking with you.”
His eyes cut to hers, but whatever he felt besides nervousness, he kept hidden, tucked away behind that blank, gruff exterior. “You want me to stop?”
“Would you?” she asked, tilting her head.
He gave a single, short nod. “If you tell me you want me to stop, yeah, I’ll stop. I’ll be pissed off, but I’ll stop.”
Sara took one step forward. That put her close enough so all she had to do to kiss him was rise up on her toes. His mouth lowered to meet hers, but she didn’t kiss his lips. She angled her head and brushed her mouth against his cheek, then over to his ear. “You don’t have to stop.”
“I don’t?”
“No.” Settling back on her heels, she smiled up at him. “I’m not used to having somebody who wants to watch out for me . . . it’s kind of weird, but I like it.”
“NO.”
Sara wasn’t really a light sleeper, but the talking, along with Quinn’s restless thrashing, was definitely enough to drag her out of sleep. Confused, she lay in the bed, staring up into darkness while her brain tried to function.
Next to her, Quinn jerked and spoke again. His voice was barely more than a sob this time, so guttural and hoarse, it barely made sense.
It was a name, though. Like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on her, she was suddenly very, very aware. Although as he said the name again, she wished otherwise.
It was a woman’s name.
Elena—
Jealousy ate at her even while her heart broke a little at the pure misery in his voice. Uncertain, she lay there. Did she try to wake him up? Did she get pissed off? Storm off? Kick him out of the bed?
Then he whispered, “I’m sorry.” His words were so tormented, so full of pain that her heart decided what she should do before her brain could even process it. She snuggled closer, working an arm around his waist and rubbing her cheek back and forth against his sweat-dampened chest. Tears stung her eyes as his chest heaved. A sound suspiciously like a sob ripped from him, harsh and raw.
His name leaped to her lips—she wanted to shake him, urge him out of whatever awful dreams held him captive. But her sense of self-preservation had her holding her tongue. She remembered the last time she’d caught him off guard, and while she definitely wasn’t mad about it, she really would rather not catch him off guard again—especially while he was caught in the grip of a nightmare.
So instead, she held him and stroked him, used her body to reassure him as best she could. It finally worked. In his sleep, he turned to her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close and tight.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered again.
Unable to stop herself, she slid a hand down his back and murmured, “Shhhh . . .”
He came awake, his entire body jerking. He rasped out, “Fuck.”
She kissed his chest. His heart was racing, pounding against his ribs in a hard, fast rhythm. “You okay?”
“Just dandy,” he muttered.
Tipping her head back, she stared at him as he rubbed his eyes. It was too dark to make out his face clearly, but she wasn’t certain that was a bad thing—she wasn’t certain she could handle seeing his face just now.
“You were having a nightmare.”
“Yeah.” He sighed and turned his head away. “I have them sometimes. Did I wake you up?”
She shrugged.
“I’m sorry.”
Kissing his chest, she shrugged again. “Don’t be sorry.” She licked her lips and then hesitantly asked, “You want to talk about it?”
He didn’t respond right away, and she wasn’t sure if she should be glad or not. She wanted to know, but at the same time she didn’t. She didn’t want to know who Elena was, but she had to know. She didn’t need to find out too many details about the guy, but at the same time, she needed to know more.
But then he wrapped his arms around her, once more pulling her close, clutching her against him, like he desperately needed to feel her against him. “You really don’t want to know what kind of shit I was dreaming about, darlin’. Trust me.”
“I dunno . . . it sounds like maybe you should talk about it. Talk about her.” She kept her voice level and flat, keeping her own anguish locked away.
He tensed and she caught her lower lip between her teeth, deciding she was definitely glad she couldn’t see his face clearly just then. Because that meant he probably couldn’t see hers too well either, which meant he wouldn’t see the misery in her eyes.
“Her?” he echoed back, his voice husky.
“The woman you were dreaming about. You said her name a couple of times . . . then you kept saying ‘I’m sorry.’ Over and over.”
“Shit.” He jerked away from her and climbed out of the bed, stalking across the room.
Tears burned her eyes. Drawing her knees to her chest, she smoothed the blankets around her and then pressed her brow to her knees.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shot him a glance. He stood by the window, staring out into the night. Faint light filtered in through the curtains, and she could see his face now. But she still didn’t want him seeing her. “Sorry for what?” she asked woodenly.
“I wasn’t . . . I . . . she. Fuck.” He lifted his hands and covered his eyes. “Help me out here a little bit, Sara. I don’t generally spend the night with women, and this is the first time I talked about one woman while in bed, sleeping with another. I’m not real sure how to handle this—how to handle you.”
“You don’t need to handle anything,” she snapped, shoving her hair back. “I don’t need handling. You had a bad dream—they happen, and it sounds like it was a whopper. If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen. If you want to talk about her, I’ll listen. If not, that’s fine. But I don’t need handling.”
He was quiet, too quiet. Restless, she kicked free of the blankets and sheets and stood. Spying his T-shirt at the foot of the bed, she grabbed it and jerked it over her head as she stormed into the kitchen.
She went to open the refrigerator, but stopped cold as he finally spoke.
“She’s dead.”
Her hand fell away from the handle and she turned back to stare at him. “What?”
He reached out, hitting the light switch.
She flinched against the harsh light, blinked as her eyes worked to adjust. She was still squinting when he started to speak again. “She’s dead. She died the year before last—and she died because of mistakes I made.”
“What?” She’d heard the words. But they didn’t make any sense. They just bumped and banged around inside her head, not connecting and leaving her feeling even more lost and confused.
“Fuck.” He turned away and once more stared back outside. His shoulders rose and fell on a sigh. “She’s dead because of me, Sara.”
Finally, the words started to connect and she could make some sense of them. A woman had died. And Quinn said it was because of him.
“I don’t believe that.” She shook her head, tried to wrap her mind around that information, but it just wouldn’t settle. It didn’t fit.
“Yeah, well, believe it.” He shot her a look over his shoulder, and that screaming, endless hell she’d glimpsed in his eyes once before was back.
Wounded warrior—so tortured and torn.
Licking her lips, she opened her mouth and tried to figure out what to say. Nothing seemed right. Nothing felt right. In the end, she said nothing—she just crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his shoulder.
His body shuddered and then he turned around and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her close.
“If you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen,” she said.
Quinn just shook his head.
She stroked a hand down his back. “Are you sure? Trust me, I’m a pretty good listener.”
“Doesn’t have anything to do with trust,” he said. “I just can’t talk about it. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“I’m sorry, too.” She kissed his neck and snuggled in close. “For whatever happened, I’m sorry.”
THE dream had been a bad one.
Quinn didn’t know where in the hell it had come from, blind-siding him like that. Although why in the hell it had to happen with Sara lying in the bed next to him, he didn’t know.
Right now she was asleep, cuddled up against him with her hand resting just above his heart. He reached up and covered her hand with his, stroked his thumb along the inside of her wrist.
He’d hurt her.
He had seen that flash in her eyes before she buried it. He wanted to take it away, but he didn’t know how.
And still, as bad as he felt, the pain wasn’t like it had once been. It was a dull ache inside his chest, but the vicious intensity that normally came with one of those dreams wasn’t there. The guilt was only an echo of what it usually was.
Part of him said it was just because he was moving on.
The other part of him said it was because of Sara. Because of the woman who now lay in his arms, sighing softly in sleep. The turmoil inside him always seemed less when she was with him. The anger faded. And pain ceased to exist.
Sighing, he eased away, but instead of climbing out of the bed, he pushed up onto his elbow and studied her face. Her lashes lay against her cheeks and her pale skin was softly flushed from sleep. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth and she reached out, stroking a hand down the sheets like she was looking for him. He leaned in and pressed his lips to her neck then rubbed his cheek against hers.
Sara sighed and the frown faded as she cuddled deeper into the blankets.
His heart twisted a little as he climbed out of the bed. Damn it, she’d gone and gotten to him, hard and fast, turning him into a messy knot of nerves and need. Every day that passed drew that knot tighter and tighter—binding him to her.
It wasn’t that long ago when Quinn had wondered if he had anything left of a heart inside him—if he’d ever had one. But the way things were going, he no longer had those questions. One big question lingered, though . . . was he about to put his heart in this woman’s hands?
He suspected the answer was yes—and he suspected he had no control over the matter, either. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.
WHEN Sara woke up, she was alone in the bed.
But she hadn’t been for long.
Rolling over, she stroked a hand down the sheets, felt the lingering warmth of his body. Sighing, she sat up, and that was when she saw the note on the pillow. She reached for it and settled back against the headboard as she opened it.
Had a job come up—had to leave.
See you later.
Scrawled at the bottom, added in almost like an afterthought, was the word Thanks.
“A man of many words,” she murmured with a reluctant smile. She folded the note back up. She was sure there were men who’d penned prettier notes to women they’d spent the night with. She was equally sure that quite a few of them would have had a whole slew of words to explain, apologize, or otherwise excuse away what had happened.
Even if he didn’t have much control over his dreams.
It wasn’t like he’d been having some hot and heavy XXX fantasy of Elena—whoever she was. Sara doubted she would have tolerated that very well. Snuggling back down into the bed, she stroked a hand down the spot where Quinn had been. The warmth was fading away, but she could still smell him. A smile curled her lips, one of those goofy, loopy, giddy grins.
Yeah, there were guys out there who would leave much prettier notes, but she doubted many of them would have left her smiling like this. She was also equally certain that he was probably the only man she could smile about, only hours after he’d been whispering another woman’s name while sleeping next to her.
Her smile faded quickly, though, as the faceless Elena filled her thoughts. Dead . . . whoever she was, Elena was dead, and according to Quinn, it was his fault.
Sara was well acquainted with guilt, knew how the mind could play tricks on a person, make them think the strangest things. How guilt and grief could twist and skew logic so out of proportion.
She wanted to know what had really happened.
With a sigh, she swung her legs around and sat up on the edge of the bed. Staring down at the note, she read it through once more. No confessions of undying love, no poetic turns of phrase. But just reading it made her heart feel all warm and soft.
She knew better than this.
She knew better than to get attached, to develop any sort of connection.
Part of her wanted to argue, It’s not a connection . . . or it doesn’t have to be. You’re sleeping together. He left you a note; it wasn’t a declaration of love.
Still, she couldn’t make herself crumple the note up and she couldn’t wipe the foolish grin from her face, either. Instead, she smoothed the note out and then carefully folded it one more time, tucking it into the little table next to the futon before climbing out of bed.
Every muscle in her back screamed at her and she shot the futon a dirty look. “Man, what I wouldn’t give for a real bed again . . .”
Bending over, she touched her toes, trying to ease the tight muscles and knots. A shower would do a better job, but she hated to shower before she worked out.
She was halfway through her workout when the phone rang. Not the little chime that sounded when she had a text message, but a ring. It was the standard loud, blaring ring because she hadn’t ever changed it to one of the polyphonic tones that had come with the phone. She didn’t see the point, because she only got a few calls a month. Hell, she could count the number of calls she got on one hand and still have fingers left over.
With one leg bent in front of her and the other stretched out behind her, she wobbled, frozen in the middle of a lunge. Staring at the phone like the damn thing had grown teeth.
A second ring.
Her heart slammed away inside her chest, but it didn’t have anything to do with the lunges. Straightening up, she started toward the phone as the third ring sounded. She grabbed it from the table with a hand that shook. Relief punched through her as she saw Quinn’s name on the display.
Relief . . . and a little bit of anger. Grabbing the phone, she answered the call just before it would have gone into voice mail—or rather attempted to, because she hadn’t set up the voice mail, either. “Hello?”
“You in the middle of working out?” he asked.
She huffed out a breath and flicked her sweaty hair back from her face. “What gave you that idea?”
“You’re out of breath and you’re irritated. You’re always irritated when you work out.”
Actually, I’m irritated because you got ahold of my number. Because you programmed your number into my phone without asking me. She made a face, tried to decide if that would sound as petty out loud as it did in her mind. “Yes, I’m working out . . . and probably a little irritated.” As soon as she said it, she bit her lip.
