Wild Justice (20 page)

Quinn backed down first, which was rare. “Sorry. You’re right. However it happened, you’re fine, and that’s all that counts.”

He snuck a look at Jack. The comment was as close to an apology as he could manage, but it was a damned sight more than usual. Yet it was like when Jack pretended Roland had tried to escape—they could never see when the other was making an effort.

Jack strode into the front room and started packing his first-aid supplies. I waved Quinn out of the room and got changed. When I walked into the front room, Quinn was standing there, awkwardly, as Jack fussed with his kit.

“Ready?” I asked Jack.

“Nah. Go on.”

I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “Jack . . .”

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “Just tired. Go. Fill Quinn in about Roland. Get your drink. Relax.” A pause. “Have fun.”

I glanced at him sharply, seeing if he was being sarcastic.

“Mean it,” he said, his voice soft. “Go on. I’m fine.”

The hotel lobby bar was closed. According to the desk staff, the nearest open one was a few blocks. Normally, not a problem, but my aches and pains informed me that they did not require alcohol quite that badly. When Quinn suggested the minibar in his room, I was torn. Yes, I kind of did want that drink. No, I didn’t think there was any danger in going to his room. But . . .

I texted Jack to tell him what we were doing and ask if he wanted to join us. Was there a test in that? Seeing if he gave a damn whether I had drinks in Quinn’s room? Maybe. If he did, he only needed to join us. He texted back one word:
No.

I should have let it go at that. I couldn’t. I texted back saying it was late, and maybe I shouldn’t stay, since we had work to do tomorrow . . . Again, he had only to agree. Again, he replied with a single word:
Go
. I did.

Quinn’s room wasn’t a suite, but it had a comfortable armchair. I settled there. Quinn grabbed beers from the minibar. Then he stretched out on the bed, beside the chair where I’d curled up, and I told him what Roland had said. While it wasn’t a complete bust, it would have been nicer to have gotten more, considering the risk and the price.

We discussed that, and as we did, we fell into the old rhythms. When he asked about the problem I’d had pre-Aldrich, I told him about Wilde.

“Damn,” he said when I finished. “That’s a bitch. A real bitch.”

He didn’t say I’d done the right thing, not taking a shot that endangered others. With Quinn, that was a given.

“The father was right to hire you to get rid of the bastard,” he said. “But he still didn’t take the threat seriously enough. No one does. That’s the thing with domestic abuse. You tell yourself he’d never kill her . . . until he does. As bad as you’re feeling right now, I can guarantee her dad feels worse.”

“I know.”

Quinn knew that, too, better than most. Before he’d become a hitman, a family friend’s daughter had been killed by her abusive ex. When the ex was tried and acquitted, the victim’s father asked Quinn to set it right. To kill his daughter’s murderer. Quinn said no. The father did it himself and ended up in jail, his life and his family’s lives ruined. That’s when Quinn took up his second career, focusing on miscarriages of justice, earning himself that nom de guerre, the Boy Scout.

“His biggest mistake, though, was giving her a gun,” Quinn said. “Everyone thinks that’s the solution to shit like this. But even if she knows how to use it, does she know
when
to use it? How to keep
hold
of it?” Quinn shook his head. “No one thinks about that. They think a gun fixes everything. I had this job once . . .”

He trailed off and glanced at me. Checking to see if I was interested in hearing a story. In the past, I’d always been interested. But things had changed, and I might want to drink my beer and go.

I nodded for him to go on, and he relaxed onto the bed.

“I get a tip, through the grapevine, someone trying to hire me.” That’s how it worked with Quinn. He didn’t have a middleman, but if you asked the right people, they’d tell you how to contact him. “Seventeen-year-old kid dead. Killed by gangbangers. Shot in the head, execution-style, because he took the wrong shortcut in a bad neighborhood. A tragedy, but not really my thing. Still, I checked into it. Turned out the kid was shot with his own gun. After walking into that alley to buy drugs, then pulling it out to avoid paying for them. There was a scuffle. A gangbanger got the gun, and it went off in the fight. Do you know who gave the kid the gun? His grandma. She thought he was living in a bad part of town and needed protection. He did. Against dumbass relatives handing a semiautomatic to a teenage boy.”

We talked a bit about that. Gun violence, gun control. Pros, cons. Eventually, though, it circled back to where it started.

“Missing a hit is always tough,” Quinn said. “But it happens. It has to, unless you’re a psycho who doesn’t care if he kills a bystander—or gets caught. And there’s always the possibility, if you miss a hit, things will go south. Deep south. I missed one a year ago. Bad situation. The guy had taken out half a family and vowed to kill the rest. They hired me for justice and protection. When I missed my first chance, they changed their mind. Couldn’t go through with it. I’ve spent a year waiting to see them in the news, all dead. I stay awake nights wondering if I should have taken him out anyway. It’s an impossible call.” A wry smile. “In this business, most of them are.”

As we talked, I began to wonder why I’d let him go so easily. I could blame ego. Or even lack of ego—I figured if he said it was over, I didn’t have a chance of winning him back. But here he was, dropping everything to help me. When you’re a federal marshal, that’s more than a matter of telling the boss you need a few personal days. He’d only managed it because he’d just helped apprehend someone on the FBI’s most wanted list, and his overtime was making his superiors nervous.

He came here to help, but also to talk to me. Maybe even to reconcile. We’d been good together. Damned good, and I was a fool if I let him go again. Whatever issues we had, we could work them out. Why the hell was I resisting?

I finished my beer in a gulp.

“If you’re getting another, I’ll take one,” he said.

I laughed. “I wasn’t, but I will.”

I got up and headed for the minibar. As I passed the bed, he caught my arm and tugged me to him. When I didn’t shake him off, he pulled me into a kiss.

If I had any doubts that I still felt something for Quinn, they evaporated the minute his lips touched mine. It felt so good, so damned good, so comfortable and so right.

I kissed him back, moving into his arms, and that loop kept running through my mind, how good he felt, how good we were together, how big a fool I’d be to let him go. But there was a reason I couldn’t stop thinking that. I was trying to convince myself. To feel the passion of his kiss and the heat of his hands and the rising heat in me, and tell myself that it proved I should be with him. Only it didn’t. It
had
been good. And it could be good again . . . for a while. Until we ended up right back where we’d been a month ago. That was inevitable. He wanted a future that I didn’t. There was no reconciling that, however much it hurt not to try. However much I felt like a failure for not trying.

“I can’t,” I said, pulling away.

“Sure, you can.” His grin sparked, eyes shimmering. “I’ll remind you how if you’ve forgotten.”

I shook my head. He took in my expression then and let me go, just keeping hold of my hand as I shifted away. He tugged it, turning me to face him.

“I screwed up,” he said. “I rushed things.”

“It’s not a matter of rushing—”

“Yeah, it is. You needed more time. I rushed.”

He said the words softly, no defiance in them, no denial, either, and I knew then that it would never work. He wouldn’t change his mind, and he’d never be convinced that he couldn’t change mine. There was no middle ground here. Not for him. If I cared about him, I should leave. And I only needed to glance at him to feel that flutter, that longing and know that I did care, very much.

“I should—” I glanced at the door.

“Just hear me out, Nadia. I know you consider us over. You have for a month. For me . . . for me it was just a spat. But not for you. I get that now. I can’t just pick up and carry on. I need to win you back.”

“Quinn, no. I—”

“Not this minute. Though you’re welcome to stay the night.” The grin glittered again. “Hell, I’d be
very
happy if you did. No strings attached. But otherwise, we’ll work this case as colleagues. Then after it’s done, we can try again.”

“
No
. We can’t—”

“Yes, we can.”

I met his gaze and shook my head, pulling my hand from his. “You need to find someone who can give you what you want.”

“I already have.”

“No.” I met his gaze. “I’m sorry, but you haven’t.”

With that, I left.

Q

The last thing I wanted was to go back to my room. Jack was there, and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with him. I could go bunk with Evelyn. She’d have a couch. Except I was in no mood to talk to her, either—I was still pissed off with her for bringing in Quinn.

I checked my watch. I’d been gone almost two hours. By now, Jack might have presumed I wasn’t coming back and chained the door. Then I’d have an excuse to get my own room.

He hadn’t chained the door.

When I slid inside, I caught voices and stopped. Was Evelyn here? No, the voices came from the bedroom . . . and were accompanied by the faint blue glow of a TV. That stopped me in my tracks. I’ve never seen Jack watch TV. Also, I know from experience that it’s a handy way to cover noise during a break-in.

I took out my gun and crept toward the half-open door. I could see Jack’s feet on the bed, atop the covers. He was still wearing his boots. I shifted my gun into position, both hands around it as I approached the door, ready to kick it open. With another step, I could see Jack. He was staring at the television. His gaze was unblinking, empty. Ice trickled into my gut. Then he glanced toward the door.

I shoved my gun into my waistband and walked in. He nodded. I looked at the TV. There were zombies.

“What are you watching?” I said.

“No fucking idea. Whatever was on.” He flicked it off and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Then he seemed to realize he was still wearing his boots and bent to unlace one.

“You didn’t need to wait up,” I said.

“Wasn’t. Just . . .” He shrugged and stood. “Giving it a while. Before I lock up.”

“Well, it’s locked now, so you can go to bed. I’m going to stay up and read the journal. I haven’t gotten far.”

He caught the back of my shirt before I reached the door. When I turned, he let go but stood there, studying my face. I glanced away.

“Didn’t go well?” he asked. “With Quinn?”

“I think the fact that I’m here answers that question.” I could hear the snap in my voice but couldn’t bring myself to regret it.

Jack shrugged and stepped back.

I started for the door again.

“I figured you should find out,” he said.

I glanced back. He was still standing in the middle of the room, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Find out what?” I said.

“If it was over.”

“Well, it is.”

He nodded. I swung the bedroom door shut behind me. As I made for the couch, I thought I caught the faint murmur of a voice. Had he turned on the TV again? I slumped onto the sofa, stretched out on my back, and stared at the ceiling.

A moment later, Jack came out. He lifted my legs, sat at the end of the couch, and lowered my feet onto his lap. And I wanted to jump up. Tell him to stop doing this. Stop giving signals that weren’t signals at all. Stop confusing me.

I did try to pull my feet back, but he only laid his forearms on them, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“Did he do something?” Jack said. “Quinn?”

I shook my head.

“What happened?”

I resisted the urge to glare at him. Did he really expect me to share the details? Confide in him? Cry on his shoulder?

Yes, he did. Because he hadn’t done anything wrong. Not intentionally. If he’d been sending mixed messages, it was partly because I was open to receiving them and partly because, let’s face it, Jack wasn’t exactly an expert on relationships. He had contacts and clients. He didn’t have friends. Certainly not female ones. So he didn’t realize that what he saw as giving me comfort, I might see differently. And he didn’t realize that I might feel awkward discussing my relationship woes with my hitman mentor.

If I was pissed at Jack, then that really was my own problem. I might be good at interpreting his speech patterns, but I still had a long way to go before I figured out how to interpret the man himself.

“What happened?” he asked again.

I shrugged. “It didn’t work. It’s not going to work. And I feel shitty about it.”

“Why?”

“Because this wonderful guy that I care about wants to spend his life with me. After all the mistakes I’ve made in the past, I should count my lucky stars that someone wants to give me a picket fence and babies.”

“Bullshit.”

I sighed. “I know. It’s not the nineteenth century. I’m not sitting on a shelf, anxiously watching my best-before date. I don’t feel that way at all. But part of me thinks I should. I like Quinn. I could spend my life with him and be quite content.”

“Like? Content?”
He snorted. “Those your goals?”

“I don’t mean it that way. I . . . I feel as if I’m giving up something valuable, and it should bother me more than it does.”

“So it’s over?”

I nodded. “I’ll keep feeling bad about that, but it won’t change anything.”

A knock sounded at the door. I scrambled up.