There was no way I couldn't follow his instructions. My hand slid into my panties, thinking of his fingers instead of my own, my back arching slightly against the couch cushions, my eyes closed, trying to imagine I was there with him, in his hotel, feeling his hands on me, his lips teasing over my neck and breasts, his voice in my ear.
"But I wouldn't let you come this time; not yet," he told me, his voice all gravel, sounding like his jaw was tight with tension. All I had in response was a long, loud whimper. "I'd slide my tongue up your inner thigh, your stomach, over your nipples, sucking them until you're arching into my mouth. Then I'd shift my hips, let my cock slide up your wet pussy until you are writhing underneath me, begging me to fuck you."
"Quin, please," I moaned, feeling my walls tighten, wanting the blissful end.
"Yeah, something like that," he agreed. "Only then would I slide my cock inside your tight pussy, feel you rock up against me as I fuck you - slow at first, then harder as your nails dig into my back, as your moans get loud enough to wake the neighbors." Even as he said it, I heard my moan escape my lips, something that never usually happened when I touched myself. I guess it was completely different when I wasn't exactly alone. "You gonna come for me, baby?" he asked, voice strained. I knew that when I did, he would too.
And, somehow, that realization pushed me right over the edge.
"Fuck yeah," he growled as I cried out his name, the waves washing over me until my body felt weak and heavy, until just keeping the phone to my ear was taking actual effort with my weak limbs. "Christ, it sounds good when you call my name when you come," he said a moment later, sounding a little winded too.
Unsure what to say, if I even was capable of saying anything, a low rumbling sound escaped me.
There was a long pause before he broke the silence again. "Aven..."
"Yeah?"
"I didn't call you just for this."
"It's okay if you did," I admitted, knowing it was true. I would take him any way I could get him.
"I told you friends," he said.
"We're still friends," I insisted. There was a long silence on his end, the only sound what seemed to be an epic yawn. "You need to get some sleep," I reminded him, slowly folding up, the magic of the moment seemingly gone, just reminding me how alone I actually was, what distance there still was between Quin and me - both literal and figurative.
"Yeah," he agreed with what sounded like a sigh in his voice.
What was I supposed to say here?
This was nice.
Talk to you later.
Let's do this again sometime.
None of them were wrong.
But they were still wrong to say.
"Goodnight, Quin," I said instead of the dozen or so things that were rolling around my head.
"Thanks, babe."
And with that, and nothing more, the call ended, and reality came back to me far too quickly.
I could have wallowed.
I could have sat and rolled things around in my head until I drove myself just a little more crazy.
But I dragged myself to the bathroom, showered, redressed, and went back to cooking.
Gunner showed up forty minutes later, not bothering to knock since I left the door open when I let Mackey out.
"You fuckin' serious?" he growled at me as he moved inside, a brown paper shopping bag in his arm.
I felt my lips pull upward slightly at that, but kept my head ducked. "Whatever do you mean?"
"The door, woman. The fucking door," he said, putting the bag down next to where I was sliding slices of butter in between the spaces in the bread.
"I thought you guys said I was safe now," I remarked, working to keep my lips in a straight line. What can I say, it was fun teasing someone as easy to bait as Gunner.
"Safe from the one fuck with the crazy sister, sure, but let's not invite the next one in for tea, okay? Christ."
"Is that hard cider?" I asked, smiling as he put the six-pack down on the counter as I reached for the garlic.
"I lost fifty fucking man points by bringing that to the checkout."
"And yet, look, you survived. What movie did you bring?" I asked, nodding toward the DVD boxes, maybe somewhat charmed that he was old school enough to have them, not buying everything digitally.
"The Bourne Identity and The Fast and the Furious," he said casually, looking down at the boxes, completely unaware of the slight gut-punch sensation I had at the titles. "What?" he asked, looking up, seeing something on my face that made his brows crease.
I wanted to watch these movies with Quin, not Gunner. I wanted to laugh at how the cars defied the laws of physics, and how no one human could be as trained as Jason Bourne. That being said, I refused to be that girl. That girl who couldn't enjoy things she had for years because she equated it with a guy. Hell to the no on that.
"Nothing," I said, giving him a wry smile. "I think you just regained some man points for those choices though. Tell me, Gunner, do you live your life a quarter mile at a time? Do you eat your tuna without the crust? Are you still a busta?"
His lips twitched at that. "Seen this a few times, huh?" he asked, waving the case around.
"I maybe wanted to get a Challenger for about five years after it came out. But, ah, I am mildly terrified at going over the speed limit, let alone racing." I turned back to him, trying to hold back the smile as I threw another movie quote at him. "'But one thing Edwin knows is, it's not how you stand by your car...'"
"'It's how you race your car,'" Gunner finished for me. "This is going to be two hours of you quoting the entire thing, isn't it?"
"Four," I said, leaning in to pull out the lasagne, and put in the garlic bread. "I've seen the Bourne movies just as much as the Fast and Furious ones."
"Well, if that lasagne is even half as good as it looks, I guess I can endure it for the night."
And then he did.
And after a choppy start of trying not to make fun of the racing and action scenes, we fell into a rhythm. I almost forgot about Quin. Almost. You know, until Gunner left, and left me alone with my thoughts.
The next day, there was no call.
And it wasn't until I was getting ready for bed, which meant that in his time, he was already on his new day, that I got a text.
No privacy.
Then that was it.
For two whole days, leaving me with a pit in my stomach, figuring that whatever was going on with his job, must have been serious suddenly since he had managed to find time every other day to call and text.
I had to fight to keep my hands from typing out something like I watched The Fast and the Furious with Gunner tonight. And wished it was you.
Like, ugh, how sappy and pathetic would that make me sound? Even if it was true.
I guess I had forgotten this about dating - the uncertainty, the second-guessing yourself, the nights staring at your ceiling, unable to sleep because you are trying to dissect what was said or done, trying to make sense of it, trying to find meaning in it.
Now, I kinda remembered why I was so happily single for so long.
The next day, I got a picture from wherever he was in Russia, an early morning shot of fresh snow weighing down the trees. It looked like it was in the woods, even though that made no sense.
Sick of this shit. But figured you might like it.
I went ahead and smiled down at that damn picture for ten minutes like some lovesick idiot before I went to bed, making myself not write back immediately, not be the girl who was waiting by her phone. Even if I was.
I had been in the store, debating Christmas decorations when I finally reached for my phone, snapping a picture of two boxes.
- Star or angel?
There were barely a few minutes before my phone buzzed.
Star. Putting up your tree?
Normally, I wouldn't. Last year, I had put up a sad little fiberoptic tree, and called it a day. I had no one to share the holiday with anyway, had no presents under the tree, so w
hat was the point in going all out, right?
I guess I never realized how depressing that mindset was until my life got shaken up a bit.
So this year, I dragged out my old six-foot tree from the attic, along with a plastic container full of ornaments, and I had strung colorful lights all over it.
But the topper had been missing somehow.
Hence the shopping.
I had maybe even picked up a few little presents for Fenway, Gunner, and Jules along with my coworkers, seeing as I was seeing them more often. I had been to play games with Fenway three times, plus a few movie nights. House arrest was fraying his nerves. He claimed the part of his case that should have subjected him to such measures was over, that Quin was simply being paranoid. But whatever the threat Quin threw at him was enough to keep him up there, though I knew he had escaped before.
I figured that their Christmases - Jules maybe excluded - would be as lonely as mine. So I planned to bake some cookies, and maybe make some food, and bring it over there late Christmas evening.
- I figured it was time. Only a few weeks left.
There was nothing after that as I perused the store, something that wasn't overly like me. I could make speed shopping an Olympic sport. I would go in, knowing I needed this, that, and the other thing, and have blinders on to everything else. First, it was out of necessity thanks to a strict budget. But also, I just got antsy when I was trapped inside of those fake air and too-bright-light places for too long.
Maybe it was just a desire not to go home and obsess over the fact that the communication between Quin and me since the phone sex had been weird, just like the space between us after having actual sex had been odd.
All I did know was that by the time I walked out of there, I had a gift to wrap for Quin as well.
I was very much becoming that girl that I hated so much.
But I couldn't seem to stop myself from putting it under the tree. And thinking of him as I put the star on top.
I didn't hear from him again until the early hours of Christmas morning. Almost a full two and a half weeks later.
Two and a half weeks.
But this time, it wasn't an informal text.
I had been laying on my couch in the living room, covered in three blankets because we had steadily stepped into the part of winter where it didn't matter how high the heat was set, you always woke up with a chill on your skin, staring at the lazily blinking twinkle lights on my tree, flashing off the shiny bulbs in a way that sparked a warm, swirling sensation I knew only as nostalgia to move through my chest and belly.
My mind moved back to years past, sleep wiped impatiently from my eyes, red and white striped pajamas a wrinkled mess around my small body as I barreled down the stairs toward the front window where the tree stood like a homing beacon, tinsel windblown from the door being opened one too many times. And there were the piles of brightly packaged boxes, all promising a high I had never been able to get ahold of as an adult. My parents would sit and watch me, steaming mugs of coffee between their hands, heavy-lidded, tired eyes that I didn't know enough to realize came from staying up all night arranging what would become my delight.
There would be none of that this morning, I had just been musing on that slight bit of sadness when my phone started ringing on the floor beside me, making Mackey let out a grumble and roll over from where he was sleeping under the heating vent.
I turned to my side, reaching to grab for it, feeling an almost embarrassing thrill inside at seeing Quin's name illuminated on my screen. I was so excited, in fact, that I nearly missed the call before I remembered to swipe my finger across the screen.
"Hello?"
"Merry Christmas, babe," he greeted me, voice not like I remembered it. Maybe strained, a bit sad. It seemed odd to give such a common, human word to someone who seemed too enigmatic, who transcended such things as common holiday blues.
"Merry Christmas," I told him as I pulled the covers back up over me, feeling a little less alone in the world.
"Do you have any snow on the ground?"
"Ugh, no," I grumbled. I hadn't seen a white Christmas in years. "I bet you do."
"I could go a decade without ever seeing snow again and be a happy man. You watching The Christmas Story?"
I smiled as my head swiveled on the pillow to where I had fallen asleep to it on its usual twenty-four-hour marathon. And there it still was, a comforting tradition.
"Of course."
"Has he shot his eye out yet?"
"No, he's listening to the radio. How are you spending your Christmas?"
There was a pause. He, I figured, struggling with how much information was safe to share. "In a shack in the woods with most of my team, eating canned meat and beans, and wishing I was anywhere else."
The depth of truth in his words made a pang move through me. No matter how alone I might have been at the moment, at least I was home, I had the comforts of it, my tree, a fridge full of goodies to make into a proper Christmas dinner. He might have been surrounded by his people, but he had none of the comforts of the season.
"That sucks," I told him, meaning it.
"Yeah," he agreed, and I could hear an odd crunching sound.
"What is that?"
"The ever-loving snow," he growled. "The only privacy in a one-room shack is outside."
He didn't want them knowing he was talking to me. It should have made my stomach twist, but I realized that I had also been keeping him a secret as well. I hadn't told Fenway or Gunner or even Jules about the texts or calls. What we had was wholly between the two of us.
And, I guess, that should have unsettled me. I didn't want to be anyone's dirty little secret, some cliche chick who only knows a man at two in the morning.
But, somehow, it didn't feel wrong and seedy, something I needed to hide. Instead, it felt like something special, something between the two of us, excluding the rest of the world with their loud, unwelcome opinions. It was one of the few times in my life that something was wholly mine, without the court of public opinion.
I liked that.
"Do you think the job will be much longer?" I asked, knowing I couldn't have specifics, but figuring a timeline wouldn't exactly be asking too much.
"Fuck if I know," he grumbled, making it clear the cabin in the woods was getting to him. I guess being locked up with his team in one room must have been irritating at best. It was a surefire way to put your relationships with people to the test - put them in one room in the woods under feet of snow with nothing but unpalatable food to eat, and little to keep you company.
It shook someone as unflappable as Quinton Baird.
"I'm hoping not more than another week. Things are... progressing," he said carefully. "And then it will be coming back. And Gunner will need to be off."
Gunner was known as The Ghost. When I pressed him about it once, he said it was because he was good at disappearing. I would venture a guess that his specialty that Quin found appealing enough to employ - surly attitude and all - was he was able to make other people disappear as well.
Someone on this case needed to get lost.
I wondered who it could be since it wasn't Fenway.
Then, for some reason, an idea occurred to me.
The wife.
The one Fenway was having an affair with.
If these people were bad enough that Fenway needed to go into hiding for over a month, then one could imagine that the wife was not faring much better.
That was why they were still in Russia; they were trying to help her.
God.
Could these people be any better?
I felt like a shitty, selfish person in comparison.
"Well, more than halfway done then, right? Gotta look at the bright side."
"Can you imagine being locked up in one room with Smith, Lincoln, Finn, Kai, and Miller for weeks?"
"It could be worse. Gunner could be there too. And from what I hear, Ranger makes Gunner seem like Mr. Congeniality."
"Wait. What? Miller is a girl?" I asked, sitting up slightly, rolling the tension out of my neck for sleeping butted up against the arm of the couch.
How did I not know this information? I had heard Miller mentioned at least half a dozen times. The Negotiator. Along with Kai, The Messenger, they were the first of the team to go into dangerous situations. But, I guess, whenever someone talked about their coworkers, they said things like the guys or the team. Pronouns weren't often used.
"Yeah, she's a character. But she isn't usually around much. In and out of the office. She's one of the busiest members of the team."
"Interesting. I imagine you don't want to be talking about them right now, though. Since you've been stuck with them so much. How about you finish telling me that story about how you got confused as a big-time opium smuggler?" I asked, pulling my knees to my chest, hugging the blankets around me.
It wasn't a bad way to spend Christmas morning, hearing the crazy stories that spanned decades and several continents. In fact, I would say it was the best one I had spent since my father passed so many years before. Every single one since then had been a big build-up followed by an epic letdown.
This one, though, it was special.
I got to hear Quin laugh too.
Not one of those rumbling chuckles that seemed to ignite my blood, but a loud, rolling laugh that made me picture him knee-deep in the Russian tundra with his head thrown back to the sky, the smile making the skin next to his dark eyes crinkle up.
That was a novelty, something to hold onto.
A Christmas gift, as sappy as that was.
The Fixer Page 19