Broken, p.5
Broken, page 5
She beamed at him. “This isn’t company. This is your new neighbor. She just moved in to the upstairs apartment. Sara . . . I’d like you to meet Quinn Rafferty. Quinn, this is Sara Davis.”
Sara.
Neighbor.
Staring into Sara’s dark brown eyes, his heart sank just a little. Great.
Some people collected books.
Collected knickknacks, or coins.
Theresa collected lost souls, as evidenced by the fact that he was living in her basement after she’d charmed him into changing her tire outside Dierburg’s a few months earlier.
The last person to stay in that apartment had been a battered woman hiding out from her ex. Before that, it had been a girl who’d been all of nineteen, with two kids and a third on the way. When that one left, she’d stolen from Theresa and skipped out on the piddling amount of rent.
If Sara Davis was living in Theresa’s upstairs apartment, that made her pretty much off-limits. It didn’t matter that his dormant sex drive was all of a sudden flaring up on him.
The last thing Quinn needed to be around was another lost soul, not when he still struggled to find his own.
Setting his jaw, he met Sara Davis’s dark, velvety brown eyes and gave a single nod in greeting. Then he glanced at Theresa and said, “I’ll see you later.”
“Wouldn’t you like to join us for dinner?” Theresa asked, smiling at him. It was that smile that had suckered him in months earlier—it all but said, Come now, you wouldn’t want to hurt an old woman’s feelings, would you?
Not that he figured Theresa saw herself as old. She was just sharp and she’d use whatever cards she had on hand.
“Nah. I’m not hungry.” He just hoped his belly wouldn’t start growling and betray him.
“Are you sure, Quinn? You never eat right.”
Feeling Sara’s eyes lingering on him, he shrugged and said, “I’m fine. Lousy day, and I just want to crash—wanted to see if I could swipe a beer from the fridge.”
“Of course. I’ll grab it for you. The kitchen is a disaster right now.” Theresa bustled back into the kitchen.
Leaving him alone with Sara Davis. Feeling her eyes on him, he glanced at her.
She gave him a smile. “I hope I’m not the reason you’re passing up a meal.”
Fuck, that voice . . . He could imagine that voice, whispering in his ear as he crouched over her body, driving deep, deep inside . . .
Mouth dry, he swallowed and made himself shrug. “Like I said, I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t know how anybody could smell that spaghetti and not be hungry.” Another smile, a wide, friendly one.
It was the kind of smile that made others want to smile back. Quinn just shrugged.
Silence stretched out between them. Normally, Quinn didn’t mind silence. Even strained silences were better than most of the bullshit that passed for “polite” conversation. But as the seconds ticked into a minute, and then two, he became more and more uncomfortable.
He was actually searching his mind for a way to break the silence when Theresa came back into the room, a basket in hand.
He couldn’t help but grin as she pushed it into his hands. It held two bottles of Bud Light and a container full of spaghetti, as well as what he suspected was some of her bread, wrapped up in a paper towel.
“Humor me,” she said, returning his smile. “I’ll feel better knowing you have something besides TV dinners or peanut butter on hand. And sometime soon, you have to have dinner with me. It’s just not the same cooking for one.”
“You’re not cooking for one,” he pointed out with a glance at Sara.
She waved that away and then said, “I’ve got to finish things up in here. Sara, why don’t you help me put together a salad?”
Quinn lingered long enough to watch Sara fall in line next to Theresa—and long enough to admire her very nice ass.
“THAT’s your other tenant?” Sara asked, listening as the door closed quietly behind Quinn Rafferty.
“Yes, that’s him.” Theresa smiled over her shoulder at Sara as she opened the refrigerator door. “Don’t let him bother you—he’s the quiet sort. A little gruff, a little blunt, but he’s got a good heart inside him. He’s a dear.”
Sara blinked. Dear wasn’t exactly the sort of term that came to her mind.
Wounded warrior.
That was what she’d first thought when she stared at him, into gray eyes that gave absolutely nothing away. Then she laughed at herself. Warrior might fit him well enough, but she couldn’t figure out where she got the wounded from.
There were no scars marring that very perfect body, at least not that she’d seen, and she’d definitely looked while he’d been talking to Theresa.
She couldn’t not look. Very easy on the eyes was Mr. Quinn Rafferty.
He had blond hair, long enough that he could wear it in a short ponytail if he wanted. The blond wasn’t just a uniform color, either. It was shot through with strands that ranged from almost white to nearly brown—the kind of highlighting job women would pay serious money for. But she had no doubt he didn’t pay a red cent for his hair to look like that.
His eyes were gray, fringed with long sooty lashes. The power of his gaze was palpable. When he looked at her, the power lingered, an unseen touch against her flesh.
His body was long and lean, his shoulders straining against the seams of a worn, wrinkled T-shirt. The short sleeves of the shirt had revealed hard, corded muscles, but not that overdone, muscle-bound weight-lifter look. She hadn’t seen any sign of spare flesh anywhere on him and she’d bet that under that shirt, he had a six-pack. His jeans were almost as worn as the T-shirt, and they molded to his legs in the most delicious way imaginable.
Oh, yeah. Very easy on the eyes.
But still, she couldn’t quite define him as a dear.
Theresa turned away from the refrigerator and pushed lettuce, tomatoes, and carrots into Sara’s hands. Automatically, Sara took them.
“Why don’t you wash those up and then make us a salad? I just need a few more minutes to get out some plates . . . and a bottle of wine.” Theresa paused and cocked her head, studying Sara. “You don’t mind if I have a glass, do you?”
“It’s your home, Theresa.”
“Oh, I know. I just . . . well, some people are uncomfortable around alcohol.”
There were unspoken questions in Theresa’s voice, in her eyes. Fishing, Sara decided. Very subtle, but still, fishing none the less. “Don’t worry about that with me. I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine myself.”
Over dinner, Sara realized that fishing was something that Theresa excelled at. Despite her earlier claim of not wanting to know any information about Sara, she managed to sneak in very clever little probes. If Sara hadn’t become very paranoid over the past few years, she just might have let herself get tripped up.
After deflecting yet another question, Sara took a sip from her wine and gave Theresa a friendly smile. “So, how long have you had your other tenant?”
It worked—Theresa leaned back in her chair, a thoughtful look on her face. “Hmmmm. I guess close to six months.”
“What does he do for a living?”
There was a cagey look in Theresa’s eyes, one that Sara recognized. She wasn’t the least bit surprised that her new landlady was a matchmaker.
“Oh, Quinn does a little bit of everything, I think.”
“That’s vague.” Sara tore off a chunk of bread and popped it in her mouth.
“It’s the truth. He knows his way around cars, has helped me some around this old house. Even knows his way around horses, from what I can gather . . . not that he’d need it much around here. His dad has a ranch somewhere, in Montana, I think. Or maybe Wyoming. Just a handy sort, in a lot of ways.” Theresa paused and eyed her clean plate for a second. “I really shouldn’t but I think I’m going to have some more. Would you like another helping?”
“No. I’m stuffed.” She really should head out. She’d already spent far too much time talking to her new landlady.
But even as she thought about getting up, Theresa started talking again.
“I’d seen Quinn around at Dierburg’s a few times. A man who looks like that . . . well, I may be old, but I’m not dead. He’s not easily forgotten.”
“I’ve got to agree with you there.” Quinn Rafferty did not blend.
“He actually helped me out once before I even knew his name. This girl and her boyfriend were bothering me in the parking lot—claimed they had car trouble and desperately needed a ride—supposedly they’d left their baby alone with a teenage neighbor just to run to the store for a few minutes, then the car wouldn’t start.”
Theresa frowned and gave Sara a narrow look. “Regardless of what some people think, I’m neither naive nor soft in the head. They were up to no good. When I told them I was pressed for time, they pushed the issue. I was actually getting a bit scared and then Quinn comes up—seemed like out of nowhere. Gives the two this look and threw a couple of quarters at them—told them to call a tow truck and leave me the hell alone. They took off like he’d pulled a gun . . . or a badge. I tried to tell him thank you, but he acted like I hadn’t said a word and just headed on up to the store—although he didn’t go in until I’d gotten into my car and pulled out of the parking space.”
Theresa paused and took a drink of her wine. “A few weeks later, as it happened, I was at Dierburg’s again and I had some car trouble—I picked up a nail and when I came out of the store, my tire was flat as a pancake. Quinn was leaving the store about the same time and before I had a chance to call AAA, he told me he could change it if I had a spare.”
“So how did he end up in one of your apartments? Did you come right out and offer it to him like you did with me?” Sara asked, keeping her tone light.
“No . . . of course not,” Theresa laughed. “Although I didn’t just come right out and offer it to you. I was being nosy and overheard you talking to Lori when you asked if she knew of anybody that might have a room to rent out.”
She blushed and gave Sara a wry grin. “And I must admit, I was being a nosy busybody with Quinn, too. He set his bags down to change the tire and while he was working on it, I glanced inside, saw one of those magazines with apartment listings. Figured it couldn’t hurt to offer the basement apartment to him. It was empty at the time. A man who would take the time to change my tire, and help me out when those two were bothering me, can’t be a bad guy to have around.”
Depends on what you consider bad, Sara thought.
“And I was right. I had some problems with the plumbing a few weeks back, and he took care of it, quick as could be. Wouldn’t even let me pay him for it and when I told him not to give as much for rent, he just ignored me. He’s fixed up some things around here as well, and he won’t take a red cent for it. The girl that lives across the street is constantly leaving her headlights on and needs a jump every now and then, and Quinn helps her out. He has a motorcycle, but I don’t mind if he uses my car to give her a jump.”
Then she laughed. “But I’m starting to think Trilby is leaving her lights on just to drain the battery so she can come over here and flirt with Quinn. Of course, it’s a wasted effort on her part—she’s far too young for Quinn.”
“Some men like them young.”
“Young as in still a teenager . . . and decent adult men don’t go after teenage girls, even when it’s being offered,” Theresa said. There was an edge in her voice, a hard light in her eyes.
“Your daughter?” Sara asked, unable to hold the question back.
“Yes.” Theresa toyed with the stem of her wineglass, staring at the table. Grief made her voice rough.
“I’m sorry.”
Theresa forced herself to smile. “So am I.” Then she took a sip of wine and looked back at Sara. “Trilby, my neighbor, is seventeen. She was a bit of a ‘late bloomer,’ or at least it seems late nowadays. Up until last summer, she still looked more like a skinny boy than anything else. Then, practically overnight, that changed and she’s turned into a bit of a flirt. Practicing on Quinn is safer than trying it on the boys in school.”
“Safer?”
Nothing about Quinn looked too safe to Sara.
“Definitely safer. He’s not going to take her up on anything and he also won’t hurt her feelings, even if she can be a bit annoying.”
“Other than fixing cars and water pipes and making teenage hearts flutter, what does he do?”
“Like I said, a little bit of this . . . a little bit of that.”
Sara wasn’t going to get anything more than that unless she came right out and said, “Hey, is he somebody who could cause me trouble?” And she wasn’t going to do that. It lacked subtlety.
For reasons that had little to do with handyman and knight-in-shining-armor tendencies, he made her nervous. Made her wish she’d passed on Theresa’s offer, even if it did mean staying in that nasty one-room apartment where she had to sleep with one eye open.
But it was too late now. She’d already moved her stuff, what little she owned, into the apartment upstairs and she wasn’t going back to the other place.
Sara would just have to wait and see, and be ready.
“STUPID cunt. You didn’t actually think I’d let you get away, did you?”
“Please, James . . .”
Sara came awake and for two seconds, panic tried to take over. But she didn’t give in.
“Just a dream,” she told herself, her throat tight. She swallowed, but it didn’t do a damn thing to ease the tightness. There was a lump lodged halfway down and it wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. Not after that. “Not real.”
She lay still and quiet, let her heart settle as she took in what she could see without moving anything more than her eyes.
White ceiling, sloped and pristine—not stained and cracked. Sunlight filtering in through curtains. There hadn’t been a window in the last place she’d stayed.
Angling her head to the left, she stared at the table sitting neatly under the window, eyed the yellow walls.
Yellow . . . ?
Then her memory kicked in.
Theresa.
The apartment.
Closing her eyes, Sara blew out a sigh and wondered if it would ever be over. If she’d ever have a chance at anything resembling a normal life again. Then she sat up and stretched her arms over her head, wincing at her stiff back and neck.
The apartment was a godsend, but that futon was a torture device straight out of hell. With a grimace, she rolled off it and settled on the floor next to it. Grimly, she did a series of crunches, hating every second. She gritted her teeth through the push-ups that followed. Those were followed by the other exercises that she’d started doing over the last two years.
Leg extensions, lunges, squats.
With focused determination, she went through them all. Sweat was gleaming on her body by the time she started walking herself through the different self-defense techniques.
Martial arts was the one form of exercise she didn’t loathe and despise, although it might be because she didn’t let herself think of martial arts as exercise. At first, it had been harder to practice without a partner, but she’d gotten used to it.
In a little while, she’d dig out some tennis shoes and take a run around the neighborhood—that particular bit served a number of purposes. She could scout out the area, figure out some escape routes.
And it kept her strong, kept her ready.
Being out of shape just wasn’t acceptable.
Thirty minutes later, she was done with everything but the run. She went into the bathroom and paused in the doorway, unable to keep from smiling as she studied the cheery blue and white interior. A far cry from the cracked, urine-stained toilet and soap-scum-lined shower she’d shared with three other people over the last couple of months.
She caught sight of her face in the mirror and paused. She almost looked . . . content. Really content, not just the “everything is fine” mask she wore for the world.
“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered.
Getting used to something meant falling into a routine. Falling into a routine meant she got sloppy.
With that sobering thought, her half smile faded and she once more found herself staring at a grim-faced stranger. Nothing like the woman who’d stared back at her reflection just over two years ago.
Everything looked different. Her hair was short, the color drab. Her face was thinner, her mouth unsmiling. The worst change, though, came from inside. Anger—carry it on the inside for too long and it started to show on the outside.
Nobody, not even her own mother, would recognize her.
QUINN lay on the weight bench, ignoring the nagging ring of his phone. It was somebody from the Gearing Agency. Quinn used specific ringtones for the few that had his number—that way he could decide if it was a call that he could put off indefinitely or if he needed to answer it just to get some peace.
When certain people called, namely, his dad or his twin brother, Luke, Quinn usually answered. Calls from Jeb Gray, a friend from his army days, were a little more iffy. Sometimes Quinn felt like talking to Jeb. Other times, he didn’t.
Then there had been a few calls from Theresa, and although it surprised the hell out of him, Quinn answered each and every one of those calls. Hell, he answered those calls more often than he answered calls from Luke and his dad.
The rest of the calls, though, more often than not, came from somebody at Gearing, and Quinn rarely answered those. He often wondered why they even bothered calling. They had better luck getting in touch with him via e-mail.
Most likely they were calling about another job. If that was the case, they could e-mail Quinn the details. So it rang and rang, and stopped, then started all over again. He tuned it out. After about five minutes, the ringing stopped.
Staring at the ceiling, he slowly lifted the bar up, lowered it back down. Again, and again, going through his workout on autopilot.
