Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"Mean it," he said, his voice soft. "Go on. I'm fine."

CHAPTER 28

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 s

ay 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.