Broken (26 page)

“Probably won’t be here in a few hours,” he said, stroking a hand down her back. Although, man, he’d sure as hell love to be. He couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than spend the day in bed with her. But it wasn’t an option. “Sooner or later, I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to get some work done today . . . boss is bitching. Kinda surprised he hasn’t already started calling . . .”

And his cell phone chose that exact moment to ring. He recognized the ringtone and swore. Easing away from Sara, he lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. After three rings, it stopped, but apparently Martin wasn’t in the mood to leave a voice mail because it started ringing again almost right away.

“Speak of the devil,” he muttered.

“Sounds like somebody wants to talk to you,” Sara said, her voice husky.

“Sounds that way.” He rolled into a sitting position, eying the phone where it lay on the table next to Sara’s. It was on the third ring again. Silence. Then it started all over again.

Shoving out of the bed, he went to the table. Feeling Sara’s eyes on him, he turned to look at her as he answered. “Yeah?”

“Need your ass in here, Rafferty. As in today. Got something major and if you don’t get here soon, don’t bother coming in again, period,” Martin snapped.

“If that’s supposed to scare me, it didn’t work,” Quinn drawled. He doubted Martin was serious, but he did some mental tallying anyway, calculated how much money he had in the bank, and while it wasn’t anything to write home about, as long as he was careful, he could go a few months without steady work.

Sooner or later, he’d need a job, and not too many were going to pay Quinn the sort of money he made working for Martin. But he wasn’t too inclined to share that bit of information.

“Damn it, are you listening to a thing I’m saying or not?

Scowling, Quinn said, “Sorry. Preoccupied. What are you snarling about?”

“I said, I’m not trying to scare you, man,” Martin repeated, his voice edgy. “You’re good at this. You’re fast, you’re smart, you don’t complain, and you produce good results. But I need somebody reliable around here, somebody who actually bothers to answer the phone when we call. Somebody with a semi-regular schedule.”

“Shit, Martin, I’ve been answering the damn phone and doing it pretty regularly. I put in three days this week already and four last week. What the hell else do you want?”

“That semi-regular schedule would be nice. The way things are right now, I could really use you full-time, but I damn well need you in here today.”

Quinn frowned. “Why?”

Martin started to answer, but then off in the background there were raised voices, loud, and getting louder by the second. Martin had to raise his voice to be heard over the screamers. “Just get in here and I’ll explain. Hurry it up, though . . . Juanita called in sick and Carolyn’s running late. This place is a zoo.”

He disconnected and Quinn lowered the phone with a frown. He glanced back and found Sara watching him with a serious look on her face.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He tossed the phone down and said, “I need to get a shower, though. Head in for a while. Sounds like they’ve got a mess on their hands.” He paused, absently wondered, yet again, if she’d ask him what he did.

But she didn’t. She just gazed at him solemnly, lying on her side amid the tangled sheets. “Then I guess you’d better get going.”

He went back to the bed and knelt at the side, kissing her cheek gently. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you . . . ?” Stroking a hand down her side, he rested it on her hip.

“I’m fine.” She turned her head and pressed her mouth to his. “Stop worrying.”

“I’ll try.” He forced a smile, kissed her again, and then pulled away before he ended up crawling back into bed with her. He had to shower, and then he had to get going.

But he didn’t want to leave. She gazed at him with sleepy eyes, that solemn smile on her lips, and all he wanted to do was climb back into bed with her and wrap his arms around her. Never let go.

Never.

Standing by the bed, he gazed at her and tried to understand why all of a sudden, he couldn’t seem to make his feet move, couldn’t get his body to cooperate.

“Why don’t you come get me when you get home from work?” he said, even though he already knew he’d be outside waiting for her.

“Sure . . . that is if you’re not waiting for me.” She smiled as she said it and then yawned, stretched. “You better get going. Don’t want your sort of boss getting ticked off at you.”

QUINN really wasn’t too concerned if his sort of boss got too pissed off at him. No, he didn’t really want to end up without a job, but he wasn’t too convinced this was how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. He’d already spent more than a decade of his life dealing with scum, first in the Rangers and now here working for Martin.

But he also couldn’t think of much else that he’d be good at.

And he wondered what Sara would think about his job. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that, and more than once, he’d almost brought it up, but he hadn’t been too sure how to do it. Having any sort of serious relationship with a woman was new territory for him—he hadn’t had a serious girlfriend in high school, and his life hadn’t been conducive to it when he was in the army. Elena had been the first woman he’d been serious about, and their lives definitely hadn’t been conducive to intimate or personal conversations.

What if she didn’t like what he did? Quinn frowned and thought that over, decided if she didn’t really like it, then he’d find something else. It wasn’t like he was seriously attached to the job—she mattered more, so if it bothered her, he figured he could find something else.

He doubted she’d ask him, but the bounty-hunting thing was something he’d stumbled into—he could figure out something else he’d be good at, something that wouldn’t drive him crazy doing it. No desk jobs—he could do a lot of things for Sara, but he couldn’t see himself doing a desk job for anyone.

There were other jobs, though. Other options. Granted, he might not qualify for a lot now, but that could be rectified. He was reasonably smart, so if he could just figure out something he did want to do, he could get whatever training or education he needed to do it.

Of course, it was entirely possible it wouldn’t be necessary. Maybe Sara wouldn’t care what he did for a living. It wasn’t like he was selling drugs—illegal shit would definitely bother her, but that wasn’t an issue.

And it wasn’t like he was a Ranger still. His job came with some risks, but as long as he was careful, it wasn’t really dangerous.

They needed to talk about it, he decided. They actually needed to talk about a lot of things, and since Sara didn’t seem to be in any rush to initiate some kind of relationship talk, Quinn was going to do it.

Granted, the thought of doing so tied his tongue into knots, but he wanted her to know how he felt about her. He wanted to know how she felt about him. He wanted to know more about her, and he wanted her to know more about him—or rather he
needed
her to know about him.

Some of his darker, uglier secrets he didn’t want to share, but he needed to—needed her to know him. Completely.

Just like he needed to know her, completely.

He was sick and tired of pretending this was some sort of casual relationship.

So they were going to have to talk.

Now . . . if he could just figure out how to go about it.

I
T was very hard to pack while crying.

The last time it had been this hard to pack up her belongings had been two years ago. Hell, she didn’t know if it had been this hard then, even though she’d left a lot more behind.

She’d hated it, but she’d known she had to do it.

Now . . . now she just wasn’t sure. Or at least she told herself she wasn’t, even though she knew there weren’t any other choices. Her hands shook as she folded her few clothes. Tears rolled down her cheeks to plop onto her shirts, and she ended up using one of them to wipe her face dry.

“Stop crying,” she told herself. Her voice wobbled. Setting her jaw, she closed her eyes and said, “Stop crying. You knew this was coming.”

Yeah, she’d known. But for some reason, she hadn’t expected it to hurt like this. She hadn’t thought
anything
could hurt like this.

God, she didn’t want to leave.

She wanted Quinn. Wanted to call him and tell him to come back, make him come back here so she could tell him everything. It would take hours and by the time it was done, it might even be too late . . . she didn’t even know how much time she had. Maybe if she took enough time, she would not have a chance to leave—the choice would be taken away from her, and she wouldn’t have to disappear without saying so much as good-bye to Quinn.

She didn’t even know why she was running.

“Bullshit,” she muttered.

She was running because of one fucking message that said
Problems
. There hadn’t been any messages since, and no calls, although she waited on pins and needles. For all she knew, it was something slight . . .

“And yet more bullshit,” she snarled, hurling the clothes she held onto the futon and storming to the window.

She’d apparently gotten very good at bullshitting herself.

Too good at it.

Leaning her brow against the glass, she stared outside, taking in the bright splashes of color that painted Theresa’s yard. The flowers were in full bloom, a myriad of pinks, purples, yellows, and reds. Cheerful oranges mingled with mellow blues. Roses and morning glories climbed a trellis set near a stone bench along the back of the property line.

Tears stung her eyes as she stared at the bench. A couple of days ago, she’d actually made it home before Quinn and she’d waited on that bench for him to get off of work. They’d made out on the hard slab of stone like a couple of horny teenagers. It had been hot, sweet . . . and fun.

There wouldn’t be any more nights like that.

All because of a selfish, cruel bastard . . .

Her hands closed into fists, nails biting into her palms. She welcomed the rush of anger. She’d take the anger any day over the pain. She’d take it, store it up . . . and someday, she just hoped she had a chance to use it. Setting her jaw, she dashed away the tears and tipped her head back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. She breathed the anger in, let it chase away everything else.

Yeah, she’d take the anger any day of the week.

She finished the rest of her packing on autopilot. It didn’t take that long. She’d accumulated a little more during her time in St. Louis than she’d planned to, but most of it was clothes or books. Things she’d have to leave behind.

She scrawled a quick note on a piece of paper and left it on the table, along with her rent money.

That was it.

She also scrawled a note for Quinn, tucking it inside the book she’d borrowed from him.

How mundane.

How empty.

She was going to miss him like nothing else.

She’d miss him more than she missed the life she’d left behind when she started running. She wasn’t sure if there would be a day when she didn’t think about him.

I’ll miss you.
It didn’t even touch on what she wanted to tell him.
I’ll miss you. I don’t want to leave. I just don’t have a choice. I think I’m in love with you and I’d give anything to stay.

Anything.

But she didn’t tell him any of that. He wouldn’t understand why she had to go, and she didn’t want him trying to figure it out. Part of her questioned the wisdom of the notes—questioned the wisdom of leaving behind anything at all.

She didn’t like leaving any piece of herself. And there were pieces . . . and not just the clothes or books she couldn’t take. Somewhere along the way, she’d started to settle in here without realizing it, although looking back, she could see it clear as day.

She’d put flowers in a little vase by the window. There was a pretty throw that she’d picked up shopping one day, draped over the back of the futon. A small glazed bowl that she had bought at a shop in the mall. A couple of large mugs that she’d bought for her morning coffee—the ones that Theresa had in the apartment were those dainty, delicate sort of cups that she could empty in three gulps.

This wasn’t some nameless flop that would be taken over by another desperate soul in a matter of hours . . . this had been something close to home. She loved the place, even the pastel yellow walls and that miserable excuse of a bed. Well . . . maybe not the bed.

But she loved it here.

She was leaving a home behind. Again.