“He’s uh ... He’s not doing too well. I know how good he can be at hiding things from people, and he pulled his shit together enough to visit you, but he’s ... he’s on a bender. Every time I see him, he’s drunk and dark, and I don’t know how to help him. I have my hands full over here, and he’s pushing me away at every turn.”
“Houston, how bad are we talking?”
“Force him to shower and eat bad. I’m worried if we let this go too far for too long, we won’t get him back.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“I’m not sure you should head over there, Quinn.”
“Houston, you tell me he’s on his last leg, and you think I’m going to watch him implode from afar?”
“He’s not himself.”
“I can handle it,” I snap.
He sighs. “He’s at the Omni at Park West, room two-eleven.”
“Thank you, Houston.”
“You can thank me by not holding what comes out of his mouth against him when he sobers up. He’s lashing out. It’s kept everyone except me and his father at bay.”
“I have a thick hide.” My poor Ollie is in a tailspin.
“You’re going to need it. I’m here if you need muscle.”
“You know about the case we have coming up. Don’t be alarmed if we fall off the radar. It’ll be for protection purposes.”
“Thank God. I’ve been worried about them coming back to finish the job, but every time I bring it up, he shuts me down.”
“He would. I think he blames himself for all of it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know ... for the same reason I feel guilty that he got shot, I guess. Human emotions don’t always make sense. I need to go. I’ll keep you posted as much as I can.”
OLLIE
The knock on the door makes my head hurt even worse. Can’t the maid see the do not disturb sign? I roll onto my back and stare up the ceiling. The knocking continues. I groan.
“I don’t need any towels,” I croak.
The knock returns. Jesus, Houston. Don’t you have a family to tend to? The thought rips open the festering wound, and I growl. Pushing myself to my feet, I stumble toward the door. I peer out the eye hole, wishing it was a gangster on the other side ready to put me out of my misery. How can I live knowing I got my son killed? I gasp and shake my head to clear away the liquor when I spot Quinn. Dressed in black tights and an oversized, off-the-shoulder cream sweater, she’s a fucking vision. How is she here? I open the door cautiously. Maybe the mixture of alcohol and no sleep are finally getting to me.
“Quinn?”
She brushes past me and walks inside like she owns the place. Yeah, I’m not dreaming. I glance down the hall and spot two men in gray suits by the elevator.
“Who?”
“I had to bring security detail. It as part of the deal.”
Scrubbing my face with my hand, I try to piecemeal together her words. “What?”
“My deal with Detective Kunes. In twenty-four hours, I’m officially going into protective custody, and you’re coming with me.”
“What?” I snort. “No, I’m not.”
“If you aren’t, then I’m not, which means that son of a bitch gets to walk away scot-free. Is that what you want?”