“You were attacked,” he said, shrugging. “Don’t go into detail. Just leave it at that. And you need some time off. One look at that damage, between what you have going on now, and the bruises from before, and they won’t deny you anything you want. The pussies will just have to go without a waxing this week.”
My lips curved up at that. “I think you underestimate how seriously women take their waxing. There may be riots.”
“It’ll be like the 70s in Navesink Bank for a while,” he shot back, lips twitching.
“So what am I supposed to do, then? If I can’t go home? If I can’t go to work? Maybe I should take Fenway up on his offer of the Maldives.” I was teasing, but a darkness moved across Quin’s features nonetheless.
“I want you to stay away from Fenway.”
I felt my brow lift at that. “Is that an order, Quin?” I asked, feeling my spine straighten slightly.
This was not something someone as aware as Quin missed. “A humble request, maybe?”
“Don’t worry. Trust fund babies who court married women aren’t exactly my type.”
A bit of tension seemed to leave his shoulders at that. “What is?”
“My type?” I clarified, getting a bit of a chin jerk from him. “I don’t know. Self-made men, I guess,” I admitted, it being my general preference. I liked men who rose themselves up out of the gutters. Bootstrappers, my father would have called them. There was just something undeniably sexy about a man determined to rise up in the world.
He nodded at that, looking away.
“So what now?” I asked again, drawing his gaze back to me.
“Now, you have to leave your life behind for a while. Until this is completely cleaned up.”
“But… how can it get cleaned up if there is a person involved?” I asked, stomach clenching at the idea of that fix maybe meaning more people shot down. Regardless of what the person may have done or not in life, I was pretty sure it would never sit right in my heart that people were dead because of me.
“How about I worry about that, and you worry about trying to relax and process this.”
“Easier said than done. So, am I, like, staying upstairs? That’s what the rooms are for, right?” A shadow crossed his face. “What?” I asked, brows drawing low until the pull of the butterfly sutures stopped me.
“Yeah, that’s what they’re for. Fenway will be staying there as well.”
“And you don’t like that,” I surmised.
“He’s not dangerous,” Quin hedged. “He’s just bad news. Stay away from him.”
“I think I already said I wasn’t interested. You don’t need to warn me off of him. He’s nice enough. It might be nice to have a little company to keep my brain from racing. But that’s as far as this goes.”
“Good,” Quin agreed with a nod. “Come on, let’s go get you two settled. It’s late as fuck. We can worry about getting you some clothes and everything tomorrow. You need sleep. Those meds must be kicking in.”
The pain was fading, but other than that, all I felt was a heaviness on my eyelids. I couldn’t tell if that was just because, as he said, it was late, or a byproduct of the pain pills.
Quin walked with me to the door, hand at my lower back, something that didn’t – absolutely did not – make my belly go a little wobbly. We walked into the reception area where Fenway was standing, seeming not to notice the late hour at all, bright-eyed and sinfully awake, holding a leather overnight bag in his hand.
“I brought more,” he explained. “I figured I would be in for a long spell this time.” He looked from Quin to me. “I see you weren’t quite as prepared. I can loan you something to sleep in,” he told me, kind, generous. Maybe he was only that way to get into a woman’s pants. Or maybe he was just genuinely well-mannered. It was impossible to tell. That was the hard part about rich, cultured guys and their attentions.
“Thanks,” I agreed, nodding.
“Aw, come on, Quin, that’s not necessary, is it?” he asked, and I realized Quin had left my side to rifle in the storage closet, coming back with what looked like, well, ankle bracelets. The kind people wore on house arrest.
“Seeing as the last time you were here, even after locking your ass in, you got out and managed to get locked up for public intoxication in Canada while I was trying to clear up your last fuck-up, yes, it’s necessary,” he told Fenway, closing the device around the man’s ankle. “And, this is just precaution for you, babe,” he told me, reached for my leg. “I want you staying inside here for a while, but you’re not a prisoner.”
“Lucky,” Fenway grumbled.
“So this is just to be safe,” Quin went on, ignoring him. “If you are out, if something happens, I can find you in minutes instead of hours or days.”