Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck Book 8)

by Emilia Finn

  “Oh, like you’re some kind of powerful kingpin, huh? Like you think you know the underworld of drugs and death.”

  “I know that when I woke yesterday, I had no membership to a titty club, but now I have ID, membership, and a personal invitation for a free fuck in a quiet room, an invitation from Evan McGrady himself.” Jamie leans onto the desk and lets his eyes burrow deep into mine. “What the fuck are you doing, Q? You’re a stripper? Really?”

  I sit back in my chair again, fold my arms, and turn my face away. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  “Yes, you fuckin’ do! You’re better than that, Quinn. You want to teach people how to dance. Not sit on men’s laps. You want to choreograph, not stick glitter onto your nipples. I was in that place last night, and what those girls were doing on that stage has nothing to do with the kind of dance you did on Soph’s stage.”

  “You were at Zeus’ last night?” My eyes come back to his, and the way my voice cracks brings me to the very edge of tears. “You were in there?”

  “I was looking for you!” he snaps. “Instead, I met some other chick who was gonna rock my world for a few bucks. And hell, she was willing to make it a three-way with Tori, so long as I had enough cash.”

  “Sex?” I choke out. “You were in a room with—Did you have sex with her?”

  “What was that thing you said? Oh yeah.” His eyes meet mine. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  “Pig.” I surge up from my chair and slam my fist to the desk so we stand as mirror images of each other. “You went to a filthy club designed for rich perverts, you took a girl to a room, and while you were fucking, you were asking about me? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Desperate times, I guess you could say. Wanna talk to me about that date you went on last night?”

  From rage to surprise, my eyes flare wide. “What?”

  “Floor-length, purple gown, slut shoes, enough diamonds wrapped around your neck that I worried you were gonna fall over. And here I was thinking you couldn’t be bought. How was your date, Prima?”

  “Get out of my studio.” I stand tall and shoot a finger in the direction of the door. “Get out of my fucking studio, you arrogant, self-centered, spoiled fucking rich boy. I cannot be bought, and the hold you once had over me is dead. Get out of my studio, step into the street, and let fate decide whether you live or die.”

  “You know, you’d only be this sensitive about what I said if you were already self-conscious about it. You’re dating a rich guy, wearing his diamonds, letting him drive you around, and you feel cheap. You feel like a whore, and that’s the only reason you’re so pissed at me.”

  “Get out of my fucking studio!” Tears rush to my eyes and threaten to humiliate me. “Get out of here, and never come back.”

  When he makes no moves to leave, I lope around my desk, and force him to move. I push him across my office, into the hall, and take a sharp left toward the back door that leads to a small parking lot out back.

  “Get out of my life, Jamie Kincaid. I never invited you into it five years ago, and I never asked for you to come back now.”

  “Well, that’s a damn lie, and we both know it.”

  Fast as a viper and strong as an ox, Jamie spins around and crushes me against the wall. Before I can catch my breath, he slams his lips down onto mine, and steals my oxygen, my senses, my heart.

  My hands automatically go to his wrists to hold on, like he’s a buoy in a stormy sea.

  Jamie’s tongue lashes out and slides along my bottom lip. His hot breath scorches down my throat and into my lungs, and when my tongue comes out in response, despite my brain screaming no, he groans, leans in harder, and takes more.

  More. More.

  He takes everything I have.

  His cock grows against my stomach, and his hands grow demanding. One slides up to the back of my neck to control me, to mold me. The other to my hip, to my ass, until he takes a handful and squeezes. He pulls away from my lips, but only to glide his tongue and teeth along my jaw, my throat, my collarbone.

  And through it all, I’m a prisoner to him. Powerless to break free.

  Tears swim in my eyes, spill over, and slide over my cheek, but before they can fall to the floor, Jamie swoops in. He collects them with his tongue, moans, and takes my mouth again so I can taste the salt, and when my body goes from taut to defeated, he pulls back, breathless and panting, and studies my eyes.

  His heart races, just as mine does.

  His lungs clamor for air, just as mine do.

  His eyes flicker between mine in search.

  “I never once stopped loving you, Quinn.” He runs the pad of his thumb beneath my eye and collects more tears. “And I never stopped looking for you.”

  “Jamie, I…” My breath comes out on a jerking shudder. “I can’t do this again. I can’t lose you twice. I wasn’t built to withstand that kind of pain twice in a lifetime.”

  “I’m going,” he pants and nods toward the back door. “I’m leaving so you can work. But I want you to think about that kiss. Think about how you feel in here,” he presses a hand to my racing heart, “when I kiss you. Then think about how you feel when McGrady kisses you. If you can look me in the eye and tell me you feel the same when he touches you, then…” He exhales and shrugs. “Well, I guess I was wrong and we’re done here. You can go on with your life and your vigilante mission, and I won’t get in your way. But if you’re willing to be honest and admit that what we have can’t be replicated? Well…” He leans forward, slowly, carefully, and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of my lips. “You know how to find me.”

  “Jamie, I…”

  “I love you.”

  Smiling, he places one last kiss on my cheek, then spins away and slams the back door open. He escapes without another word, leaves me leaning against the brick wall and barely able to stand on my own. He lets himself out the back gate and walks away.

  Gone.

  Into the distance, and away like he was never here.

  I look down into my hand, at the watch I took straight from his wrist, and while I study it, fresh tears escape my eyes. When one plops on the screen, and splashes off, a torrent of tears spill over until I can do nothing but slide down the wall and sit on the cold concrete.

  I pull my knees up, lay my face against my legs, and I cry. I cry for the boy who holds my heart, and I cry for the man who wants more of me. I cry because Evan kissed me, and even more because Jamie saw him do it. I cry for the injustices that have plagued my life, the lies that have imprisoned my brother, and the parents that we were given.

  Junkies. Useless. Deadbeats.

  Why were we given the Rodneys, when there are parents like Jim and Izzy Kincaid out in the world, offering cups of hot chocolate and squeezy hugs to their children whenever they want one?

  When considering Will’s ‘scales of life,’ what possible infraction could we have committed before birth for us to be saddled with the parents we were given, which in turn meant we would run, which then would lead us to the dockyards where Will would eventually be accused of something he never did?

  Why were our cards dealt so unfairly, when there are people like the Kincaids floating around, so full of love, and so willing to share it?

  I know the answer, of course. If I got to keep Iz for a mom, Jimmy for a dad, Bobby and Aiden and the rest of them for uncles, then Jamie and his sister would have missed out. They might have gotten the junkies.

  And that’s not a cross I’m willing to throw at someone else. That’s my lot in life to bear, the weight that will forevermore sit on my shoulders; it’s not something I would foist off onto someone I care about.

  I remain sitting on the concrete for only ten minutes after Jamie walks out of my life. Ten minutes to cry, to mourn, to wish I could keep him all for myself.

  Then I check the time on my newest watch. It’s time to get up, to clean my face, to shake off my pity party.

  Because for girls like Quinn Eloise Wils
on, the girl born just six blocks from here, who has never left this place except for a week in two consecutive years to visit a fight tournament, the luxury of self-pity doesn’t exist.

  Like a shark, I must keep moving, otherwise… I die.

  Part 4… Afterlife

  Quinn

  At four o’clock, I close and lock up my studio – or, well, the old butcher shop that I kind of stole – and fix my Ellie Solomon Dance Academy bag on my shoulder. I turn in the direction of my apartment, and though I’m usually in more of a rush, I move slowly today.

  I still have a few hours before I have to be at Zeus’. I’ve already missed the live tutorial Sophia tends to put on the internet, and Will isn’t at home anyway, so I dawdle, kick rocks, and even smile at Joe as he stands behind his hotdog cart trying his damn best to offload food he cooked eight hours ago.

  My stomach grumbles, but I’m not hungry.

  It’s an odd sensation to know that my body is hungry, but not have a desire to eat. I think a trained professional might call that anxiety. Depression.

  A romantic would call it heartache.

  My shoulder hurts a little, like a deep-muscle throb that radiates around into my back and under my shoulder blade. It’s not enough to cry about, but it’s present, and noticeable enough that I’m going to need an ice pack from now until my shift at Zeus’.

  Just another thing to add to my whinefest for when I finally make it to bed tonight. Another reason to be mad at the world.

  I could have hurt myself on a massive stage during a recital of The Nutcracker. But no. Perhaps on Sophia’s stage, during a fancy leap. But no.

  I was swinging around a fucking stripper pole.

  Classy, Quinn. Real classy.

  A block from my home, I begin humming a song under my breath. Choreography comes so naturally to me, the craving to write a story with dance steps, to create romance with song, to dance the happily ever afters I won’t ever know in real life. It’s the way I cope with the existence I’ve been given. It’s an escape into a world of beauty, when my own world includes vermin and police that terrify me.

  The watch I’ve now strapped to my wrist vibrates as I walk, and when I glance down, I snort at the notification.

  “Congratulations! Step count goal reached!”

  Well, shit. All of my dancing today will make Jamie’s data look awesome.

  I know stealing is bad. I know I really should stop it. But this memento is important, now that he’s gone out of my life, disappeared just as surely as I disappeared on him. So I’ll forgive myself for this one last moment of weakness.

  I smile at my step count, and shake my head as I climb up the concrete steps that lead to my front door.

  It’s time for me to forget Jamie Kincaid exists. I need to forget how his lips feel on mine, how his tongue tastes against mine, how there was a part of me yearning for my ‘no’ when he asked if I had carried his child to be a ‘yes’. Because hell, if I can’t have him, then having his child would be just as magical.

  I push my key into the lock at the front door. One key, one lock. Another key, another lock. I work through our system, pocket my keys when the final lock snicks, then I step into the silence and freeze.

  My home is supposed to be empty. The air should be stale, and the space, silent, since Will and I have been out for hours. So why do I hear the soft drone of the television coming from the living room? Why do I feel warmth in the air, warmth made only from another person’s proximity?

  Sliding my bag down my arm and silently placing it on the floor, I reach into my shoe and find the knife I’ve yet to figure out how to tuck into a pair of ballet tights when I’m dancing.

  I already made noise, already alerted my intruder to my arrival when I closed the front door, but I remain silent now.

  Breathing quietly, moving silently on the balls of my feet, I follow the hum of the TV with my back plastered to the wall in the hall until, pausing at the doorway and preparing myself for a fight, I rush into the living room – only to find Will sitting in his recliner with his feet up, and a glass of water in his left hand.

  “Dammit, Will!” I slam my hand against the wall in an effort to expel some of the excess adrenaline rushing through my veins.

  I glower when he turns, casual as ever, and lifts a brow.

  “I thought someone broke in, you ass. Jesus.” I close my blade again and shove my hands into my hair. I have too much energy, too much hyperawareness. “What are you doing here?”

  “Um…” He grins, though I can’t say there’s a whole lot of happiness in his smile. “I live here. What are you doing here?”

  “I was coming home to rest for a bit between jobs. I’m heading out to Mrs. Preston’s soon for a private lesson, so—”

  “Mrs. Preston?” Will asks oh so casually. “I thought her name was Parnell?”

  My heart stops for a beat. “Hm?”

  “Parnell?” He points the remote at the TV and switches it off, then he shoves down the footrest of his chair, and stands. “Last night, the sweet sixteen, was that not at Mrs. Parnell’s?”

  “Yeah. Um… That was Mrs. Parnell. Tonight, I’m teaching Mrs. Preston.”

  To escape Will’s penetrating gaze, I go back to the front door and snatch up my bag with a grunt, only to come back into the living room and drop it on the floor. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  He shrugs and brings a hand up to rub his face. It’s a sign that he’s stressed, a nervous tic that means he’s had a big day. “I got a little more information about Nate Hardy today, so I felt the need to hang around and check on you. It’s an old habit, I guess.”

  He steps toward me and pulls me in for a hug that borders on too tight, painful, and jerks my shoulder up until a hiss almost escapes my lips. “You’re safe, Bubbles. And that’s all I’ve ever needed to know.”

  “What information did you hear?” I pull back, but remain standing right in front of my big brother. I let go of my thoughts of Jamie, of the studio, the kiss, Evan. I let it all go, because it’s my turn to take care of Will. “Whatever you heard, it was something really bad. You look a little shaky.”

  “Yeah.” He studies my eyes, letting his flicker all over my face. He licks his lips as though he’s parched, and takes my hand, seeming to need the contact. “Yeah, it was kinda world-shattering actually. It hurt.”

  “What was it?” My pulse races faster, faster, faster. “Will? What was the thing?”

  “It was like…” He places our joined hands on his heart. “Ouch, Bubbles. I’ve never been sucker-punched so fucking hard in my life.”

  “What happened?” I demand. “Jesus, Will. Tell me the thing already.” I guess my body isn’t done crying yet, because fresh new tears brim in my eyes. “You’re scaring me. Was it that dude? Phil? Did he remember something?”

  “No.” Backing me up to the long couch so my back is to the kitchen, Will pushes me down and crouches in front of me so our eyes meet on the same level. “Bubbles. This thing I’m gonna tell you…” He looks away and shakes his head. “Fuck.”

  “What?” I demand. My voice shakes, it cracks, but my demand can’t be mistaken for anything less. “Stop with the vague bullshit, and get to the damn point. We promised we’d be straight with each other, right? Always. We’re honest. So quit beating around the bush, and spit it out already.”

  “You’re right.” His eyes remain on our hands, his head nodding as he works through his thoughts. “We did promise that. Truth. Bravery. Complete and utter honesty, even if we think it might hurt the other person.”

  “Oh god.” I think I might be at legitimate risk of a heart attack. “It’s bad. It’s really, really bad. Quick, Will. Say it fast. Just say it, get it out of the way, then we can work together on fixing it.”

  “Yeah.” He brings his gaze up. He looks over my shoulder for a moment, buys himself just a second more of procrastination. Then his gaze comes back to mine, and instantly turns to rage. Homicidal rage. “Zeus’ fucking club, Bubble
s? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I sit in stunned silence as Will thrusts up from his crouch and stands over me.

  “Zeus’ Club!” He leans in and taps my temple with a rough smack of his fist. “Where’s your brain, Quinn?”

  “What…” My voice cracks as my mind races through the myriad ways Will could have found out.

  Did he see me walk in there? Did someone he works with see me and snitch? Did I leave a Zeus’ matchbook on my bed? Hell, did someone see Ivan and the fancy car last night?

  “I don’t…” I swallow my nerves, and try my best not to panic. Not to get myself deeper into trouble. “Um… what are you talking about?”

  “Mrs. Preston’s daughter’s sweet sixteen, huh?”

  “Mrs. Parnell,” I rasp out, but Will shouts, “Lies!” and makes me jump.

  “You weren’t at a sweet sixteen, Bubbles! You were at a fucking titty club. But it’s worse! So much worse.”

  “Worse?” I lick my dry lips. “What do you—”

  “To find out my sister is a stripper?” Will slams his fist against his chest until I jump again. “Suckerpunch to the solar plexus. After all my work, all of my worrying, you seek out danger anyway?”

  “Will, I—”

  “But it’s worse! Because you weren’t dancing last night, were you, Bubbles? Noooo…” He spins away and paces the living room floor. “Nah. Fucking worse! You were on a date with Evan McGrady. Do you have a death wish, Quinn? Do you want to find out what happens to good little girls who go into the woods late at night?” He spins back and glowers. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t know that bastard’s reputation.”

  “Will, I—”

  “Look me in the eye!” he roars. “Tell me you don’t know that man is a killer!”

  “Okay, fine, but—”

  “But?” He bounces on his toes, almost like he’s heading toward the octagon to take a Baker brother out. “Are you seriously gonna ‘but’ me on that?”