by Lynda Aicher
She sat back and made a casual perusal through the various papers. Each one had some outlandish headline about abuse or her daddy fetish or her decent into the dark world of BDSM. There was something to be said about the complete lack of journalistic research that went into these magazines. A few of them had tagged Marcus’s name. But most let the “Mystery Man” mystique prevail over a name that held no broad recognition.
“Where’d you get these?” Quinn asked.
“Jewels sent them over this morning. She said we’d like them.”
Of course her publicist would be on top of it. It was her job, but how had she known these were coming? Quinn hadn’t told anyone why she’d come home early, other than she’d finished her research and had gotten bored. These pictures should’ve been a surprise unless Jewels had gotten an advance warning.
“Why would we like them?” She knew the answer to the question, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking. “It implies that I’m a battered woman.”
“Good lord, Missy.” Mary’s eye roll somehow managed to be condescending while not appearing juvenile. Even the use of her stage name didn’t shock Quinn like it had when she’d first returned. “You’ve been in this business forever. Publicity is good no matter what. And that—” she pointed a manicured nail at the papers, “—will smooth right in to your new role. Jewels is probably setting up the announcements now. The public will eat it up.”
Her mother was right. It was all perfectly set up. Just like she’d been.
As her mother said, she’d been in this business too long not to understand that Jewels had most likely arranged the entire thing. Not the exact shot, but definitely the opportunity for the pictures and the subsequent gossip. She’d likely spread and secretly promoted the phony story until she was ready to reveal the next thing. Whatever that was going to be.
Quinn should’ve known. She’d never suspected The Den of leaking the information, and there was no way it was a coincidence that the pictures were out the day before production started on her new series. Strategically, there was an absurd form of genius in it all, but Quinn couldn’t find it in her to appreciate any of it. Not anymore.
The burr of a lawn mower intruded through the open window, adding the annoying reminder that there were people who didn’t give two shits about her Hollywood life. She just didn’t know where to find them.
Wrong. She’d found them for a few short weeks and then walked away.
“That reminds me, Martin called this morning.”
The full burst of the strawberry spoiled in Quinn’s mouth. She forced it down and deliberately took a drink of water to keep it there before responding. “What’d he want?”
Her mother arched a brow that said she was not amused. “I’m assuming it’s about tomorrow.”
Quinn had guessed that too. Her manager would have the details for her first day on the set. She didn’t know why she was poking at her mother so much. Sheer amusement? Maybe. Old resentment? Probably.
“Can I ask you something?” She took a slow breath and tried to pretend that her mother’s answer didn’t matter.
“Of course.” Mary flicked a glance at her watch. “I’m meeting Shirley at the spa in an hour.” As if that had any relevance to Quinn’s question.
The mower churned on, the sun shined bright and cheery through the patio doors and Quinn was frozen. Which was stupid. It was past time they talked about this.
“Why did you and dad split us up?” She wet her lips and ignored the sour look that puckered her mother’s mouth. “Was there a reason for it?” Her heart pounded like a drum against the wall of her chest, hard, fast and jarring.
Her mother straightened in her chair before neatly folding her napkin and setting it next to her plate. “I thought we’ve talked about this before.”
“No. You always avoid it.” Quinn forged on, despite the rising flush that heated her skin. “You brush me off then change the subject.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.” Mary clasped her hands in her lap before meeting Quinn’s gaze. “That was years ago anyway.”
“And it still hurts me today.” The emphatic pitch of Quinn’s words hung between them, daring her mother to ignore it.
“Oh.” The soft admission was the closest thing to honesty Quinn had heard from her mother on this topic. It was simple but filled with a dawning understanding. “I hadn’t realized...”
Mary stared out the window, and eventually Quinn got that she wasn’t going to finish her sentence, so she gave her a nudge. “Can you explain it to me? Please?”
A smile softened the hard line of her mother’s lips, but there was very little joy behind it. “There really isn’t much to explain. You had such talent, even when you were young. Everyone could see it. Back then, you had to be in L.A. if you wanted to succeed as an actress. I wanted you to have that chance.”
“But why split Lance and me up? Then keep us apart?” Quinn leaned in. The urgency to understand, to finally be rid of the guilt pressing on her pushed out her words at a rapid pace. “Was it something we did? Did Dad think I was a bad influence on Lance? Did Lance make you mad? I don’t...I don’t understand.”
“Oh, Missy.” Her mother reached across the table as if she wanted to touch Quinn but couldn’t reach her. “It had nothing to do with you or your brother.”
“But you just said it was because of me. I broke up the family.”
And there it was in simple words. She was the reason their family had shattered. Oh God, her stomach hurt. The coffee and strawberries churned together, threating a rebellion that she tried to swallow down.
Her mother moved around the table to take a seat next to her. She pried Quinn’s hands out of their clenched position on her lap and clasped them between her own. In the space of a heartbeat, the distant, driven woman became the comforting, loving mother Quinn had almost forgotten existed.
“Missy.”
“Quinn.” She snapped and glared at her mother before looking away to mumble, “My name is Quinn. Missy is the stupid name you created because it sounded good with Mary.”
Her mother didn’t respond to that remark. Instead she waited silently until Quinn looked at her. There was a sadness in her eyes. “I’m so sorry you think any of that. That you’ve ever thought those things. It was never your fault. You were a child. Your father and I were supposed to be the adults. Obviously, we failed miserably at that part of the job.”
“Then what happened?” The urge to run away clamored in her even now. The fear of the truth was almost greater than the belief that she had lived with for so long.
The deep, forceful exhale was another uncharacteristic action from her normally controlled mother. “Divorce can make people do ugly things.” She squeezed Quinn’s hand. “Dan and I disagreed on so much. We’d grown apart in ways that had nothing to do with you and Lance. The separation was never meant to be so clear-cut.”
She paused and took another deep breath. For the first time in Quinn’s memory, her mother actually looked her age. The fifty-five years sat heavily on her face, soft bags showing under the glare of the sun that went with the lines at the corners of her eyes. Questions were poised on Quinn’s tongue, but she bit her lip to let her mother finish.
“When we moved here, everything happened so fast. You getting the part of Cici, the sudden success that brought so many things for us to learn and adjust to. I was constantly scrambling to keep up, stay ahead of the game, keep you safe while making you bigger. And your dad was focused on Lance’s baseball career. He’d just hit his teens and had colleges scouting him already. Time simply got away from everyone.”
“Didn’t you miss Lance?”
“Of course I did. Desperately. But you needed me and even though Dan and I split on bad terms, I knew he loved Lance and would watch out for him. He was better off with his dad. Lance would’ve hated it here.” She picked at a chip in her nail polish before she caught herself and gripped her fingers tight. “Your dad and I talked on the phone. Checked u
p on the both of you. We tried to arrange visits the first few years, but conflicts always came up. Eventually, it was just easier to let the idea go.”
“Easier for who?” Quinn demand, the harshness in her voice unintended, but there anyway.
Mary looked away and quickly brushed a tear from her cheek. “For us. Easier for your father and me.”
There it was. The admission she’d been searching for. But the emptiness at hearing it was a surprise. The relief was there, easing through her muscles to smooth away the tension. However, it didn’t bring the celebratory joy that she’d expected at hearing her mother admit to her mistakes.
“I’m sorry, Miss—Quinn.” Her mother reached a hand out but pulled back before she actually touched Quinn’s shoulder. “Neither one of us intended to hurt you two.”
Quinn nodded and stared at the table, unable to meet her mother’s eyes. Intentions or not, the hurt had occurred. “Why did you do it? Push me, that is?”
“Because I thought you wanted it.” The insistence in her voice was laced with sincerity. “You always lit up on stage and in front of the camera. You told me over and over that you wanted to be a star. You had the ability, the looks, the charm to be great, and I wanted to give that to you. Is that so bad of me?”
The defensive rise in her voice reminded Quinn of the mother she was used to. The one who’d stood up to any director or producer who’d threatened Quinn’s career. “Do you truly believe it was all for me? None of this—” she waved her hand to encompass the room and house, “—was for you?”
Her mother sunk back in her chair and rubbed a hand over her brow. “What do you want me to say? Yes, it was all for you, so you can carry the guilt to go with the chip on your shoulder? Or no, so you can blame me for everything you don’t like about your life?” She looked up. “Just tell me which answer you want and I’ll give it to you.”
“That’s not—” Quinn cut herself off, taking a moment to figure out what it was she did want, only to realize she had absolutely no idea. But her mother was right on this point. There wasn’t a right answer. She’d selfishly spent so much of her life blaming her mother for everything that was wrong that she’d never really appreciated all that was right. All that her mother had done and sacrificed for her.
Marcus had been right too. She was a brat. A spoiled, diva brat. She didn’t want to believe it, but it was hard to deny when so many things were showing it to be true. She let everyone tell her what to do, then blamed them when what they said or did went wrong.
She was twenty-five years old and was still living with her mother and letting her manager and publicist and agent and accountant and lawyer and directors and her mother tell her what to do with her life.
It finally hit her. She sat back and started to laugh, the tinny gurgles weak at first before growing into choking belly rolls with the dawning understanding. She was always a submissive. Had been her entire life. “A natural” was what she’d heard at The Den. It hadn’t made sense to her then. Now it was glaringly clear.
There was not a single part of her life that she controlled. Not her acting parts, her money, her career direction, her image, any of it. She’d willingly handed everything over to others to control then hid behind them. Played whatever role or part they expected and wanted from her until that was all she knew how to do.
Until Marcus. He’d never tried to control her life. He could have. She would’ve let him. She saw that now. Then she also would’ve blamed him for whatever went wrong. The second she was unhappy, it would have been his fault, when she was the only one responsible for her happiness. Actually, that was exactly what she’d done. Blamed him and ran.
“Honey. Are you okay?” Her mother leaned in, finally daring to touch her arm in her concern.
Unfortunately, Quinn had no idea so she just shook her head. She wiped at the tears that coated her cheeks and tried to get herself under control.
Without a word, her mother pulled her into a hug. She tucked Quinn’s head on to her shoulder and stroked her fingers through Quinn’s hair in a movement that launched her back to her childhood. The scent of her mother’s perfume surrounded her in as much comfort as the arms that were suddenly strong and protective.
The tears that came then were deep and painful. All the resistance and denial that she’d built up came pouring out in her gagged gasps and gulping breaths. She had so much to learn. So much to fix.
And no one to show her how.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The music boomed through the main room and seemed to pound within Marcus. His head throbbed in time with the hard thump of the bass until his brain was ready to burst. He used the wall as support, his shoulders digging in to the concrete in a failed attempt to transfer the pain to another location. He was supposed to be in the Dungeon in thirty minutes and the thought of it increased the throbbing in his head.
Three weeks. It’d been over three long-as-hell weeks since Quinn left, and he still had no desire to play with anyone. He’d done it—worked his job and kept all of his client appointments, but the enjoyment was gone.
His determination to meet his obligations was grounded on the resolve to forget her. So their relationship hadn’t gone as he’d planned. Life was like that sometimes. He’d just shift gears and refocus back on his job, like he should’ve been doing all along. He needed to work, be a Dom and a partner in a successful business. He could do that. Be that. He’d excelled at all of that—before her.
And if he kept repeating that, he might actually believe it at some point. Fuck. Quinn was in his past. He needed to leave her there.
He shoved away from the wall and weaved his way between the dancers to reach the bar. He really wanted a drink, something strong that he could get lost in. He’d avoided that so far, but only by being on the floor every night since she’d left. And he didn’t drink when he worked.
“Hey, man,” Tyler called at as he approached from behind the bar. “Need something?”
“Water and two aspirin if you got ‘em.”
“Gotcha covered.” Tyler shot him a wink before reaching beneath the bar and tossing over the medication.
Marcus caught the bottle and gave an internal sigh of relief. It’d save him a trip to his loft. He shook out two orange pills and handed the bottle back in exchange for the water Tyler was holding out. “Thanks.”
Tyler glanced down the bar before tracking his gaze over Marcus. “Are you holding up?”
“Yup.” His stock answer was out quick and sharp. He ignored the other man’s skepticism and tossed down the pills. Maybe they’d actually be effective this time.
Tyler leaned in, resting his forearms on the bar. “You know, I saw some pigs flying this afternoon too.”
His grin was full of cockiness and concern. The same concern Marcus had seen from almost everyone associated with the club since Quinn’s departure. It was getting damn annoying. He’d always had lots of friends, even more acquaintances, but this was the first time he’d ever wished they’d all go away.
“Funny,” Marcus managed to comment back. “I could’ve sworn they were pigeons.”
Tyler shook his head, the action filled with disgust or disbelief. It really didn’t matter which one. The message was still the same.
“Hey, Carter,” he called and waved in acknowledgement to a tall, dark-haired guest who could’ve been Tyler’s brother before focusing back on Marcus. “So what are you going to do?”
Marcus scowled then consciously let it slide away and took a drink. “What do you mean?”
“About Quinn, you jackass.”
“There’s nothing to do.” Nothing that would change anything. She’d made that perfectly clear when she’d left.
“How’s she dealing with the tabloid shit?” Tyler raised a brow in a move that mimicked the starched doubt Seth was always able to imply in the tiny action.
Goddamned tabloids. Another hell pressed on his life that he was trying to forget. His name might’ve been omitted from some of t
he articles, but it hadn’t stopped everyone he knew from recognizing him. The damn things were everywhere.
His mother had called after she’d seen the picture in the supermarket checkout line. The subsequent grilling on his behavior, actions and job had been another kick to his already bruised ego. She’d believed his side of the story, but the damage was done. And everything had gone downhill from there. The inquiries, calls and emails had become so obnoxious he’d simply stopped responding to everyone.
He shrugged and hoped the other man didn’t notice his white-knuckled grip in the edge of the bar. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Really? You’re sure about that?”
Marcus pushed the empty glass at Tyler and stepped away. “Positive.” The complete lie had his head pounding harder. He had no fucking clue how Quinn put up with lies like that all the damn time. And despite his resolve, he was worried about her. The desire to check on her only frustrated him more.
He strode through the club, purposely stopping to talk with a Dom at a table and comment on the pose of a submissive. The bouncer nodded as he opened the red door to let Marcus through.
The familiar sounds of the Dungeon greeted him the second he stepped through the doorway. They were faint from there, drifting down the stairway at the far end of the hall, but every noise was distinct enough that he could identify each one. The paddle slap, the flogger thud, the cane hiss and the always-present moans and cries. They were all so familiar and now annoying as hell.
He forced his feet to move, striding toward the stairs with a purpose he didn’t feel. The Dungeon was full that night, the Saturday crowd ready to play. It’d been slower last weekend due to the long Thanksgiving holiday. Seemed family obligations had a way of nipping into people’s club time.
Yeah. Marcus shook his head and forced that thought away as well. This year had been the first time he’d skipped his family’s Thanksgiving dinner. It was always a big affair, complete with relatives from both sides crammed into his parents’ house. He usually enjoyed it, but he’d begged off under the guise of work this year. One he’d probably be reusing come Christmas. He might as well rack the bad-son points up and let his little brother bask in the glow of the favored son status.