18
Duck! Duckling! Duck!
The words burst into his head, past the red haze of memory, and Quince stumbled backward, horrified to realize that he was looming over Eliza, who looked terrified.
This was it. This was why he’d left. Why he’d been right to stay away. The Berlin mission had destroyed him. He’d lost Shelley. He’d lost himself.
And even though they hadn’t taken her from him, he’d lost Eliza, too.
He sucked in air, his mind a mess of wild thoughts and violent emotions. God, he should have known better than to touch her. He’d been a bloody fool to think it would be okay. To think he could ever have any sort of chance again.
They’d broken him well and good, and he’d do well to bloody remember it.
“Quincy?” She reached for him, her gesture tentative and her expression wary. Smart girl. “It’s okay. You’re awake now. Everything’s fine.”
He made a raw noise—everything was a long way from fine—then backed away from her, shaking his head. He opened his mouth, as if there were words he could say to explain, but of course there weren’t. He was broken, and that was obvious enough just looking at him. What could he possibly add?
He lifted his hands, as if warding off her compassion. Blocking that confused, concerned expression, he turned, saw his jeans folded over the back of a chair, and tugged them on. He didn’t bother with a shirt. Didn’t bother with shoes. He just went out onto the back patio, opened the little metal gate, and followed the path down to the sea.
The sky was clear, the almost-full moon hanging low in the sky, its reflected light illuminating the froth on the tumbling waves. He stood at the edge, letting the frigid water of the Pacific slosh over his bare feet. For a moment, he allowed himself the fantasy that he could walk out into the waters. That he could swim toward the horizon until exhaustion pulled him under, and he would drop down, down, down, only to rise up again in triumph, cleansed of all the evil he’d witnessed. The horrors that clung to him like blood, staining and tainting him.
But he didn’t have time for foolish fantasies, and he knew damn well that the blood on his hands could never be washed off. And so he clasped his arms around his bare chest to ward off the chill, and started walking along the shore, for no other reason than to clear his head and induce exhaustion. So that maybe, with luck, when he got back to the room he could creep in without waking Eliza, lie down on the couch, and sleep.
Of course it didn’t work out that way. He should have known she wouldn’t make it that easy. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to avoid her, because she was sitting on a blanket on the sand right smack in the middle of the path he needed to walk to get back to their room.
“You should be asleep,” he said, standing at the edge of her blanket.
She held his shirt up to him, and he took it gratefully. “So should you.” She nodded at the space on the blanket next to her. “We should talk.”
“I’m tired. I just want to go in.”
“Sit,” she said. “You owe me that.”
“For attacking you.” It wasn’t a question.
She flinched. “No. Duh. For walking out on me. For leaving me in the dark for years. For not trusting me to help you the way you helped me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Seriously? That’s what you think of me? That I’d toss you aside because of a nightmare?”
He didn’t answer. But he did sit down.
To her credit, she didn’t push him. She didn’t even look at him. She just sat with her knees pulled up to her chest and a second blanket around her shoulders. She reached out with her left hand and took his right, and though his first instinct was to pull away, he didn’t. He wanted her touch, the comfort of knowing she was there with him. That she didn’t hate him for what happened. And the reassurance that he hadn’t scared her away.
He didn’t want her to know what had happened in Berlin, but at the same time he wanted to tell her. He missed her so bloody much. Maybe if he’d never seen her again he could have lived with the hole in his gut. But he had. She’d stood there in The Terrace Hotel and he’d seen her and everything had changed.
Him, most of all.
“Quincy?” She started to twist at the waist, obviously intending to check on him.
“No,” he said. “Stay the way you are. Give me a minute.”
To her credit, she did as he asked. And though he never would have thought it possible, he heard himself start talking.
“You’ve probably figured out that I’ve never worked in high finance. And while I’ve been to Hong Kong, China, and Taipei many times, I didn’t go that summer.” He paused, but she didn’t interrupt, and she didn’t turn to look at him. He drew in a breath, grateful, and continued. “Instead, I was tasked with a quick and easy escort job. A favor for a key asset in Berlin. Nothing more. Very low risk. No espionage component. Just a trip like any other trip. At the time I was on the payroll of both MI6 and Deliverance, but I was on vacation from both, and enjoying myself very much.”
She ducked her head, and he saw the hint of a smile. He hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to look at him. “You were the best part of that down time.”
She smiled, then started to turn away again.
“No. It’s okay,” he said, and closed his hand more tightly around hers. “At any rate, like I said, it was supposed to be a nothing gig. The girl had been traveling with friends, who turned out to be more into partying than she was. She called her father to come get her in London and take her back home, but he was in Hong Kong. So he called my boss and asked for a favor. All I needed to do was get her home to Berlin.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t go well.”
“No. It really didn’t.” He drew in a breath, trying to think how to lay it all out quickly and simply. He wanted to tell her, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. And once it was out and the air was clear, he wanted to go to bed and hope to hell he didn’t dream.
“We were ambushed,” he said quickly, just to get it out. “Grabbed and taken to an abandoned warehouse. Five men. I’d never seen any of them before. Or, at least, I didn’t think that I had. Turns out I saw their ankles when I was seven years old.”
He saw her throat move as she swallowed. “Your mother’s murder?”
“I guess they weren’t satisfied with killing her and my father. They wanted to take out the entire family. But more than that, they wanted to torture us, too.” He stood up, because he couldn’t sit still and tell the rest. “They started with Shelley,” he said, his back to her, and his eyes on the ocean. “One simple job. Get the girl back home to Berlin.” His voice hitched, tears clogging his throat. “I told her I’d keep her safe. They took me out with a tranq gun. I woke up tied to a wall, bare ass naked. And Shelley was in a chair in front of me. Arms tied. Ankles tied. Still dressed. They’d combed her hair. Said they wanted her to look pretty for me.”
He turned his head, just enough to look over his shoulder to see her horrified expression. “They took pictures of her. Polaroids. Just let them fall there on the warehouse floor. Then they aimed a gun at her face and told her she was going to die. But if she begged me, maybe I’d save her.”
“Oh, God.” Her words were soft, barely audible, but they cut through his heart.
“She was only sixteen. And, yeah, she begged. And every cry, every plea ate away at my soul. I swear to God, I died that day, too.”
“They shot her.”
He turned back to the ocean, dark and infinite. “Right between the eyes.”
“They let you go?”
He made a scoffing noise. “They raped me.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “Over and over.”
When he looked at her again, he saw that she looked numb. Just like he felt.
“How did you get away?”
He twined his fingers behind his neck and closed his eyes, for just this once letting the memories flow. “Part of my training included drug resistance. Sometimes, they’d drug me and
untie me. Guess they figured it made ripping into me that much more special. They dosed me, but they didn’t want me completely unconscious because where was the fun in that. One time, they didn’t use quite enough. On anybody else, it would have been plenty. But I had some resistance. They touched me, and I exploded. After that initial burst, I don’t remember any of it. Just a red haze in my head, the smell of blood, and the sounds of their screams.”
She had her knees up against her chest and she was hugging them tight, her eyes wide, her mouth open in horror.
“When I got my senses back, they were all dead, scattered and bloody across the floor. Five sprawled and bloody corpses. I left them there on the floor of that warehouse. I got out. Got to our Berlin safe house and radioed for assistance, then passed out. When I came to, I gave them the coordinates, but the bodies were gone. I was in the hospital for weeks. Then I went back to London for physical therapy. I think I’d been back about two weeks when you saw me, but I saw you before that.”
Her head shot up, her brow furrowed. “What? Where?”
“You were with that friend of yours. The thin woman with the curly black hair. You introduced us once at the theater, and—”
“Right. Alicia. I went out to lunch with her a few times after you—well, we hung out a bit.”
“I couldn’t do it,” he said simply. “You were laughing. You looked happy. And I was in a dark place, craving revenge. Not sleeping because of night terrors. And I couldn’t—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head.
“What?”
“Sexually. Emotionally.” He shook his head, rubbing his temples. “I wasn’t in a good place. I’m still not.”
He watched the play of emotions over her face and was certain she was trying to think of some argument. Some magic words to make it all better when there was no magic to be had.
“Sometimes I think I’m cursed,” he said. “My mother. My father. Then me.”
“No,” she said simply, and he just scoffed, then held up his wrist, showing her the Patek Philippe.
“Did I ever tell you why I wear this? It’s a compass,” he continued when she shook her head.
“It’s not just a watch?”
“I mean that it guides me. It was my father’s, you know. They let me go through his things after they found his body. The watch was a gift to him from the royal family. He betrayed them. The country. So the watch became my compass. I wear it to remember that I have to keep a tight rein on myself. To always think before I act.” He drew a breath. “I didn’t do that tonight, and I’m sorry.”
“You were trapped in a nightmare.”
“I should never have taken you to bed in the first place.”
She stood up, took a single step toward him. “You didn’t hurt me. You snapped out of it.”
Her words blossomed inside of him, like a tiny seed of hope. But he didn’t trust it. Instead, he said, “I’ve missed you.”
A small smile touched her lips. “I’m ridiculously glad it’s not just me.”
“I’ve missed you,” he repeated. “And touching you felt so damn good. But I don’t know how to make this work.”
“Can we try?”
Inside him, the monster curled. Cold guilt and red rage. “I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You know that, right? Not what happened to Shelley. Not what happened to you.”
“I know,” he said simply. “But knowing really isn’t enough.”
19
“Is everything okay between you two?”
Startled, I look up from where I’m sitting with my feet in the shallow end of Damien Stark’s pool. Denny is standing above me looking down, her green eyes reflecting the concern in her voice.
“What? Me and Quincy? Of course.” I’m speaking forcefully, as if adding strength to my words will make them true. “What on earth makes you ask?”
Denny shakes her head. “Just a feeling.” She kicks off her sandals then sits beside me, dangling her feet in the crystal clear water as well. “I’ve gotten to know him pretty well, and he just seems off today. You, too.”
“You don’t know me well enough to know if I’m off.”
Denny points a finger at me. “True. We should get to know each other better.”
I laugh. “Today may not be the best time for that. They’ll all be back soon.”
The entire team from Stark Security—including, by default, yours truly—has gathered at Mr. Stark’s incredible house in Malibu for an impromptu welcome reception for Prince Michel of Eustancia, Princess Ariana’s uncle and the National Security Director for the small country. He’d arrived in Malibu with a small cadre of bodyguards while his intelligence team remained in their suite of rooms at the Stark Century Hotel with Liam Foster there as the SSA liaison.
At the moment, the prince and most of the other guests are in Mr. Stark’s massive, underground garage. Apparently Prince Michel is as much of a classic car aficionado as Damien Stark.
“For that matter,” I continue, “I’m not sure today’s the best day to talk about my relationship with Quincy at all. I mean, we really should be focusing on the princess.”
Denny shakes her head. “A little free advice? I promise it’s worth more than I’m charging you.”
“Um, okay.”
“You can’t think like that. Not if you’re going to survive in this business.”
“I’m an actress. I’m not actually in this business.”
Denny rolls her eyes and kicks, sending droplets of water flying. “Fine. I’ll rephrase. If you’re going to manage to have a life with someone in this business you need to learn that you can’t wait for things to be calm. Because things will never be calm.”
She blinks, and I realize that she’s fighting tears. “Denny?”
“Sorry.” She sniffles, then rubs her face with the palms of her hands. “Sorry, sometimes I’m perfectly fine and then, poof, I’m not. But that’s kind of the point. I’d give anything to have Mason here. To talk about things we left unsaid. To just have a life. I took that for granted before—well, before his mission. And now there’s been no word for so long, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever have the chance to say all the things we left unsaid.”
I take her hand and squeeze it. “You will.” It’s a stupid thing to say, because I don’t know that at all. But I want to believe it. And right then, I think it’s what she needs to hear.
She pulls her feet up onto the deck. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to get all maudlin.”
I think about all the years without Quincy. “I get it. Really.”
“Good. So talk to him. There’s something real between you two. Don’t let that get lost in all the noise.” She exhales loudly. “God, I sound like someone’s interfering grandmother. But I just—I guess I figure if I earn enough relationship Karma, then the universe has to send him back to me.”
I have no idea what to say to that, so I just reach over, squeeze her hand, and say, “Thanks.”
She lifts a shoulder. “If I’m meddling, just tell me to shut up. But Quince is like a brother to me, and I really like you. I just want to see you two crazy kids work it out.”
I laugh. “I really like you, too,” I say, which is a total understatement. I hesitate, biting my lower lip as I look at Denny. Then I decide I have nothing to lose and bite the bullet. “How much do you know? About Quincy’s past, I mean.”
“Ah, well, I could ask you the same thing.”
I grin. “But I asked first.”
“Fine. But this is just between us girls, right? If I accidentally tell you something you don’t know, you didn’t hear it from me. And you know that I’m only talking to you because it’s for his own good. And because, well, wine and gossip.”
“Scout’s honor,” I say, then cross myself.
“I think you got that part wrong, but whatever.” She scrunches up her mouth as if considering her words, then says, “Do you know about his dad?”
“Yeah. And his mom.
And that he still owns the house—or he did back when we were together in London.”
“Then you know that eats at him. His dad. Not being able to save his mom.”
Again, I nod.
“There’s something else, too. Something big that messed him up back when he was still working with MI6 and Deliverance. You’ve met Dallas, right?” The latter seems like a non-sequitur, and it takes me a minute to remember that Dallas Sykes is Quincy’s friend who founded Deliverance, which I’ve recently learned is now a defunct vigilante-paramilitary kind of organization that existed primarily to locate and rescue kidnapped children.
“Not yet,” I say. “But I’ve seen pictures of him in the tabloids. Isn’t he here?”
She nods. “He and Stark are friends, and I guess he also knows the Prince Regent—Ariana’s dad. Dallas is like the playboy of the western world. Or he was until he got married. Anyway, not important. I was just saying that something happened back then. Something really bad, I think, but I don’t know the details.”
Since she doesn’t know anything, I’m not sure why she’s telling me this. My confusion must show, because she adds, “I asked him once if he wanted the name of my counselor—I see him sometimes when it gets too hard, dealing with Mason being away.”
“Oh.” I sit up, interested. “Did he?”
“No, and he didn’t tell me why not. But I think it was because he was living and breathing work, so he never cared enough about getting his personal shit together.” She climbs to her feet, then lifts a shoulder as she looks down at me. “I think he might care enough now.”
I grin, ridiculously warmed by her words.
“It’s a party, and I’m having a drink,” she tells me, in a tone that suggests it’s time to leave serious topics behind. “Want one?”
“No thanks. Later.” Right then I’m thinking about what she said. Or, rather, I’m thinking about Quincy and what happened to him. About what I know that Denise doesn’t.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 217