“You kind of did what, Callum?” But her heart crashed into her ribs because she already knew.
“I kind of said that I thought I could guess your cloud password—just FYI you need to pick a better one than last name and our birthday—and then next thing I knew, we had more shit, and pictures of you in your underwear were all over the internet. I’m really sorry, Quinn,” he went on quickly. “I understand if you want to walk back into the police station and press charges for identity theft, or hacking or whatever. I don’t care. I have it coming. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you forgive me.”
A landslide of thoughts tumbled through her mind. She gripped the steering wheel to get her bearings, but slowing the rush long enough to pick a sensible reaction out of the torrent felt next to impossible. “I’m not going to press charges against you, Callum. You’re my brother, for Christ’s sake, and you have a problem. But I can’t continue being collateral damage to your recklessness. That can’t happen anymore. ”
“I know.”
She barely heard him. “I have to protect myself. I can’t trust you.”
“I’ll change. I swear. I’ll win your trust back.”
“You…” Luke’s voice replayed in her head, and shaped her reply. “You have to earn it. You have to go back to Foundations, and you have to finish this time. That’s step one.”
“I know,” he repeated, sounding miserable but strangely resigned. “I can’t do this anymore, either. I can’t stand myself, Quinnie. I can’t stand that I hurt you. Again.”
Hurt her? Hurt seemed like an insufficient description of the state she was in. Emotions churned to the surface. “I blamed someone else. Someone important to me.” Tears scalded her cheeks. “I called him a bastard to his face and pushed him away.”
“I’ll talk to him—”
“No!” She took a deep breath, and tried to clear an image of that disaster from her mind. She really would be picking her brother up at the morgue if she let Luke get within striking distance of Callum. “No. This isn’t something you can fix.”
“This is the guy you were cozy with on Paradise Bay?”
Exhaling helped her release her death grip on the steering wheel. “It wasn’t like that. He came as a favor to Eddie—to help me salvage my shot at Dirty Games. But for Eddie cashing in a chip, he would have chosen to have nothing to do with me.”
“Then he’s an asshole, Quinnie. I’m not saying that to justify my fucking things up for you, but any guy who doesn’t thank his lucky stars to be near you doesn’t deserve your time. You’re smart, fun, and you’re determined. People like Eddie call in favors for you for a reason. You’re the real deal, Quinn. I mean it. You have your shit together. Even when we were small, and I was the star and you were Callum Sheridan’s sister, I knew there was something inside you—some core of strength. Hell, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s something I didn’t have.”
“My shit is together?” She almost laughed at how off the mark her brother was, but, then again, he spoke from the perspective of a guy who’d just walked out of a jail cell. “Not really. Luke knows better. He saw the absolute worst of me—an ungrateful, argumentative woman with a self-defeating streak a mile wide, hiding her insecurity behind pride and a fuck-you smile. For some reason he stuck by me anyway. He pushed past all my defenses, and actually gave a damn about me. And I paid him back by calling him a lying bastard and accusing him of betraying me. No explanation I offer can undo that.” She swallowed the truth like a bitter pill. “There is no fixing this.”
The weight of that was too much to bear. She rested her aching head against the seatback and let the stinging tears flow from beneath her closed eyes.
Something soft touched her face, disappeared, and then returned with more insistence. Belatedly, she realized Callum was wiping tears from her cheek with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
The little-boy sweetness of the gesture threatened to shatter what was left of the heart she’d broken to pieces all on her own. She ducked away. “Jesus, don’t even. Where has that thing been?”
The snide comment earned her a sheepish laugh. “I’m pretty sure it’s yours,” he confessed, and continued drying her tears. “I borrowed it when I was living with you. Sorry. I’ll get you a new one.”
It was just pathetic enough to wring a laugh out of her. A tired one, but still. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “In the grand scheme of things, I’m not too concerned about replacing a sweatshirt.”
He gave her a patient, almost wise smile. “It’s not really about replacing the sweatshirt, it’s about making amends—acknowledging the harm and restoring justice as much as possible.”
She sniffed, and then gave up and wiped her face with her own sleeve. “Making amends, huh?”
“Yep. We learn about it in recovery. Some mistakes can’t be undone, but you can always make amends in some way. It’s how you fix things.”
“You think?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he replied in his version of Yoda’s simultaneously guttural and sing-song-y voice, and poked her in the shoulder. “Fix things, you must.”
Chapter Eighteen
Luke approached a treadmill where a bearded, tattooed lumberjack of a guy sweated through a warm-up. Six months ago, the warehouse manager and one-time high school wrestling champ wouldn’t have survived the first mile. At intake, he’d been sixty pounds overweight, recovering from a heart attack, and afraid of leaving his wife a widow before he’d seen any of their four kids graduate from kindergarten. Today, thirty-five pounds lighter and far more active, Luke noted with satisfaction Dale Metcalf jogged comfortably at a ten-minute-mile pace.
Apparently sensing an audience, the man’s attention wandered from the news program playing on the flat screen mounted in front of the line of treadmills to the mirrored wall where both their forms were reflected. Teeth flashed beneath the Grizzly Adams beard. “Ah, Christ, McLean, you’ve gotten even uglier since I last saw you.”
“I missed you, too, Dale.” He did his best to muster up a kiss-my-ass sneer, but it felt flat. Flying back from Paradise Bay alone with a hole in his chest where his heart should have been had effectively sucked whatever was left of his sense of humor away. Three days back in his normal routine had done little to restore it. He missed her, dammit. Worse, he was about one more miserable, lonesome night away from doing something pathetic like calling Eddie and asking him if Quinn had mentioned him.
Dark eyes assessed him in the mirror and the grin disappeared. “You know, you look kind of bleak for a guy who just got back from a long vacation at a swanky resort.”
“Wasn’t a vacation. I went there for work.”
“Poor you. My work never takes me to an island in the Carib-fucking-bean.” The eyes narrowed. “And yet, you’re wound tighter than my mother-in-law at Thanksgiving dinner. Is it possible you went to a tropical paradise and somehow managed to not get laid? That’s gotta suck. No wonder you’re all tense and shit.”
“I’m not tense. If you want to worry about something”—out of habit, he checked the heart rate monitor readout and noted it was in a good range—“worry about your own sex life.”
Dale laughed. “Are you kidding? The wife can’t keep her hands off me, and since I’ve dropped some weight, we can get up into some damn interesting…ah…positions. She likes this one—I call it the naked skiing accident—where she goes low”—he dropped his hand to demonstrate— “and I go high, and she does this thing with her leg—”
“Consult your doctor to confirm you’re healthy enough for sex.”
“Consult this.” He flipped Luke the bird. “If I can survive running three miles a day, every damn day, I can fuck my wife standing up. The heart doc gave me the okay months ago. The only thing I have to worry about is baby number five, which is going to happen sooner rather than later if we don’t watch it.”
“There are plenty of reliable ways of avoiding surprises, you know.”
“Not when you marry a good Catholic girl. Just
gotta watch the calendar and plan accordingly.”
“Good luck with that.” Because he noticed the news had transitioned to an ad for a pregnancy test, he took the remote from the holder on the treadmill and punched up the volume.
“Ha. Good to see your raging case of blue balls hasn’t affected your smart ass. Find me some sports or something. I don’t mind putting in two more miles, but I’d rather not be there for them, if you know what I mean.”
Obliging, Luke flipped through the channels.
“Wait. Back one.”
He tuned the TV to the channel Dale requested, and adjusted the volume. “All Access? Seriously?”
Dale shrugged as best he could midstride. “My wife loves this show. She got me hooked. Besides, where else am I going to see something like that, without ending up in divorce court?”
Luke froze. The camera was doing a slow pan up long, lean legs clad in tight, black leather. The shot continued up toned thighs, slender, curving hips, a narrow waist, high, round, painfully familiar breasts cupped faithfully by supple leather, and cleavage displayed to perfection thanks to a zipper that hadn’t found its way north of her navel.
His gut clenched, even before the camera continued its slow journey to her face. Then his heart tripped, because Quinn Sheridan stood there, framed in the lens. Her blond hair was now a disorienting, inky black, which made her look exotic and dangerous, but her lips curved into the daredevil smile still haunting his dreams.
“She is fuckhot,” Dale whispered, almost reverently.
Luke ignored that, and punched up the volume because one of the “reporters” on the show—an avid-eyed brunette with over-styled hair and a big, shark-like smile—stepped up with a microphone and asked Quinn a question.
“Thanks, Nancy,” she said, apparently responding to a comment from the reporter. Her voice sounded almost the same. Almost as smooth and nuanced as in real life. She ran a hand over her hip. “I worked really hard to get into shape for this bad boy.” Then she gave her ass a smack.
“You’ve definitely succeeded,” the interviewer gushed.
“I didn’t do it alone,” Quinn added. “Or gracefully, to be honest. I was coming off an injury, I hadn’t worked out in months, and I was feeling a little panicked at the prospect of slipping into this costume in a few weeks. So I went to this beautiful resort called Paradise Bay, and worked with a guy named Luke McLean who was amazing. Just amazing.”
“Holy shit,” Dale murmured. “You’ve met her. You’ve touched her. You’re single. She’s single. Please tell me you—”
“I’m not telling you anything, other than to shut up so I can listen.” He bumped the volume another notch.
“…designed a safe, healthy plan for turning me from a couch potato to badass Lena Xavier in less than six weeks,” Quinn said. “He cleaned up my diet, revved my metabolism, reacquainted me with the strong, resilient body I’d taken for granted too long, and maybe most importantly, he called me out on some bad habits I’d developed that undermined my goals.”
“You look amazing,” Nancy replied with over-the-top enthusiasm. “Sounds like more than just a six-week boot camp in preparation for a role.”
“So much more.” Quinn looked straight at the camera. “He didn’t just change my body. He changed me. I didn’t properly appreciate everything he did—and how completely in my corner he was—until recently. I definitely owe him…so much.”
Was there a message in there, or was he hearing what he wanted to hear?
“I’ve seen the ‘Before’ pictures someone leaked—”
Quinn rolled her eyes and let out a little laugh. “Nancy, I feel like the entire world has seen the ‘Before’ pictures. I never dreamed there would be such an audience for shots of me standing around in my underwear. Now that I know, I’m bummed I had to leave before I could take the ‘After’ pictures. I want someone to leak those!”
“I understand the studio executives were concerned, to say the least, when those ‘Before’ shots surfaced. They considered going with another actress.”
“I honestly don’t know if they considered other actresses for the role. I can only say I’m excited to be their final choice and…” She struck a hip-jutting, laser-eyed pose at the camera. “What do you think, people? Am I ready for my ‘After’ pictures?”
The reporter laughed. “I think our Twitter feed is about to explode. I vote yes.”
Quinn looked into the camera again, her expression utterly serious. “Hey, Luke, if you’re watching, come get your ‘After’ shots. Anytime. I’m prepared to bare it all to you.”
Nancy aimed a conspiratorial look at the screen. “This time All Access gets the exclusive first peek.”
The program flicked over to a commercial. Luke stared unseeingly at the screen and rubbed his chest where a dull ache throbbed just from watching her, listening to her, in a stupid three-minute interview.
“Are you still here?” Dale’s voice broke into his haze of yearning. Then a big, meaty fist hit him in the shoulder. “What the fuck, man? That goddess just offered to get naked for you.”
She’d offered a whole lot more, he hoped, because he wasn’t going to settle for anything less than everything.
…
Quinn swung through the door to her trailer, barely waiting for the slam of metal against metal before her fingers felt for the zipper to the cat suit. An afternoon of standing, running, crouching, leaping, and rolling in front of a green screen for the technical team verified one important fact. Leather didn’t breathe. She tipped her head to work a kink out of her neck, and then stopped, zipper halfway to her crotch, when she realized she wasn’t alone.
“Luke?” She stood stock-still, but inside, her system raced in reaction to seeing him there. She tried to drink in every part of him at once, as he sat with loose-limbed grace on the small sofa in the cramped space. His sun-burnished hair tempted her fingers. His intent eyes sent nervous energy licking along her skin. His white button-down shirt stretched across shoulders she knew firsthand were strong enough to hold her while he used his mouth to send her to heaven.
“Hello, Trouble. Eddie let me in. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No.” Despite feeling dizzy, she shook her head, and then stepped a little closer and looked around the trailer.
“He’s not here. It’s just me. We’re alone.”
“Oh.” ‘Oh’? For days you’ve been rehearsing what you would say to the man if he ever spoke to you again, and ‘Oh’ is the best you can do?
“Does that door have a lock?”
“Huh?” Holy shit, Quinn, stop with the flowery speeches. “I…yes.”
“Lock it.”
She did as he asked, and then turned back to him.
“Your fingers are shaking. Are you nervous?”
He’d noticed that small detail from all the way over there. He missed nothing. “No. I’m not nervous.”
She was a nervous wreck. She wanted to see him. She’d hoped he’d come. But now that he was here, all her carefully thought-out explanations and apologies fled, and left her with nothing except…want. Need. Love. What if she just threw herself at his feet, and begged him to give her another chance? “You surprised me. That’s all.”
“I caught your interview on that show. I came to take you up on your offer.”
“‘After’ shots?”
He nodded. “Yep.”
“Now?”
“You said anytime. Strip, Trouble. Down to your underwear.” He sat back, and crossed his arms. “Or don’t you trust me?”
“I trust you, Luke. I do.” Her hand hovered on the zipper. “There’s only one little problem…”
The way his eyes heated when she said she trusted him eased her nerves. Now her hands shook for other reasons.
“As long as you trust me, we’ve got no problems.”
“Okaaaay.” She toed off one of the spike-heeled leather booties, the other, and then slowly lowered the zipper that ran down the front of the costume. It t
ook another couple seconds to peel her arms out of the sleeves, and another still to ease her hands under the leather and prepare to slide it down her hips.
“Christ, Quinn, are you—”
“Uh-huh.” She pushed the outfit down to her knees, and undid the zippers running along the outsides of her ankles. “That’s the problem. I’m not wearing any underwear.” She freed her legs, one at a time, and stepped out of the suit. Slowly, she straightened. “Nothing to ruin the lines of the costume.”
He just stared at her.
The nerves came back with a vengeance. “There’s this, like, nylon body-stocking layer inside, so it’s not as uncomfortable as it sounds. Do you have your phone, or a camera, or…” Shit, she was babbling. She was naked, and babbling, and… “I’m so sorry.” Crying. “I’m sorry I accused you of selling me out. P-please forgive me, Luke.” Good lord. Not just crying. Ugly crying. She turned away and tried to get herself together.
Big hands closed on her shoulders and eased her back against a warm, solid wall of man. “You’re forgiven, under one condition.”
“Anything.” She drew in a deep breath, as strong arms enfolded her. “Any condition. Any consequence, or punishment. Name it. I know I deserve it.”
His low laugh fanned her neck. “Don’t give me any ideas, Trouble. The condition is that you forgive me, too.”
Confusion had her turning in his arms. “Forgive you? For what?”
“For allowing you to believe I lacked respect for your career.”
“It’s okay—”
“It’s not okay.” He tightened his hold on her, and rested his forehead against hers. “I disparaged something important to you. Even at the beginning, before I knew you, I realized your career meant a lot to you. At best, I treated it like a frivolous pursuit, and at worst, called it bullshit. What I should have said, weeks ago, was that I admire you for knowing what you’re passionate about, and following that passion. What I should have said, Quinn, is that I love you, and I want to support you in whatever fulfills you. Will you trust me to do better with that in the future?”
Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation Book 4) Page 18