On the surface, Quentin appeared to have it all together. He dressed nice, drove a nice car, went to work every day, and while he drank more than he should, he never got sloppy. And if the day ever came where he couldn’t just drop the bottle without looking back, she knew he’d quit or die trying. Quentin Darcy was too determined to never need anyone or anything to be an addict. But he was still a hot mess on the inside, and Samuel Darcy was one hundred percent responsible for that. Did she really want to go down that road again?
Parts of her said yes. They said it eagerly and with great enthusiasm. He wasn’t the only lover she’d had since her divorce, but he was certainly the best. No one had ever made her feel the way he did, make her feel the same kind of intense need that he did. Recalling just how good it had felt, how mind-numbing and desperate he could make her with nothing more than a touch, Lowey knew that her willpower had no chance of outlasting her need for him. She’d cave. It was just a matter of time.
The thought had no sooner crossed her mind than the sound of approaching sirens filled the bar. Gravel spewed as they flew into the parking lot like a bunch of stunt drivers, or more accurately, like a bunch of overgrown adolescents in cars they didn’t have to pay for.
“If they scratched my paint…," he muttered.
Lowey rolled her eyes. He babied his car. She was pretty sure he petted it and called it pretty names when no one was looking. “It’s fine. I’m sure your car is fine. If it’s not, either your insurance or mine will cover it.”
“That’s not the damn point, now is it?” he asked.
The door, or what was left of it, flew open with enough force that it banged against the wall. One of the already fragile hinges simply gave way and it listed to one side a little as Sheriff Silas Barnes strutted in. Like the cock of the walk as her grandmother would have said, she thought bitterly. God she hated him—him and his whole damn family.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough day, Lowey. But it’s never an easy thing… running a low-rent establishment like this. Especially when it caters to the lowest population in the town,” Silas said.
“My patrons did not shoot up my bar, Silas,” she snapped. “Your cousin did… the one that is on parole, and that I was supposed to be notified of his release since he tried to kill me and all.”
Silas smiled. “We’re behind on paperwork. Budget cuts. Besides, there’s no way to say for you to be sure that Joey did this. Why, I just talked to his mama, and he’s sitting at home on the couch right now. Been there all day.”
Lowey laughed. “His mother who is so cowed by every single bullying man in your family that she wouldn’t even sneeze unless one of you all gave her permission?”
The smile never left Silas’ face, but there was a coldness in his gaze that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. He was just as cruel and vicious as Joey. He’d just gotten better at covering it up. “I don’t like your tone, Mrs. Barnes.”
“Tate,” she corrected with a little more heat than was wise when dealing with an officer of the law. More calmly, she continued, “My name is Ms. Tate. I took it back the second I shed myself of your worthless cousin… He was here. He shot up my bar. He could have killed either of us!”
“You’ve got no proof,” Silas said. “I’ll be happy to take a statement and write up a report for your insurance company that an unknown assailant allegedly damaged your property.”
***
Quentin wanted to strangle the smug bastard. While he knew that Lowey wanted to handle things on her own, he also knew that because of her history with Barnes, it would never be handled fairly. Silas Barnes was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, to quote Evelyn’s favorite phrase. She’d been with their family for a generation, so clearly she’d know.
“I saw your cousin’s truck driving away, Silas. Cut the bullshit and go pick his ass up!” he said.
“But did you see my cousin?” Silas shot back.
Silas Barnes was a first class asshole, Quentin thought. But there was no way to answer that question to their benefit without lying. His fists clenched at his side, Quentin kept his tone cool. “No, only the vehicle. But I imagine it would be easy enough to ask around town and see if anyone else saw Joey driving it in the last half hour or so.”
Silas wasn’t smiling. He looked like he was choking on something. “Don’t tell me how to do police work, Quentin. The Darcys might have the run of everything else in this town, but they don’t own the law… not yet anyway.”
Quentin knew better. Samuel had been paying Silas off for a decade, ever since he took office. He’d overlooked, covered up, blatantly ignored and pinned shit on other people to benefit Samuel for years. But pointing that out wouldn’t help Lowey. So Quentin did something hated more than he hated the bastard in front of him. He swallowed his pride. “Just a thought, Sheriff. No offense meant.”
“Well there was plenty taken,” Barnes replied. “Make a list of the damages and get it to me, along with a written statement of what happened. I don’t need to tell you that naming a suspect without any proof would not go well for you, do I?”
Lowey sighed. “No. You don’t have tell us anything, Silas. You’ve made yourself very clear. I’ll have the list and the statement to you tomorrow morning.”
“You too, Darcy,” Silas added. “Being local gentry doesn’t get you out of your civic duty.” The last was uttered with a smirk and a tip of his hat as Silas turned and headed for what was left of the door.
When the man had left, Quentin looked straight at Lowey and said, “I hate that fucker.”
“Yeah, well, find me someone that doesn’t.”
Quentin shook his head with dismay. “It’s an elected position, for fuck’s sake. How does he keep winning?”
She looked at him then like he’d grown a second head. “Really? Your daddy is Samuel Darcy and you have to ask how underhanded shit happens in this town?”
There was no refuting the logic in that. Every dirty deal, rigged election and plot that had taken place in Fontaine could be practically be traced back to Samuel in one form or other. The man was like a goddamn parasite. He took root and spread. Deciding to focus on more immediate concerns, Quentin asked, “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Here,” she said. “I’m not letting that son of a bitch run me out of my own home.”
Her ‘home’ was a tiny little apartment above the bar. Looking up at the holes in the ceiling, he shook his head. “Hell, you don’t even know if it’s structurally sound! Not to mention there’s no way in hell you’re staying here alone so that he can come back and finish the job!”
“If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead,” she said. “He’s just trying to make me pay for sending him to jail.”
He wanted to choke her, or shake her, or do something to make her see reason. Instead, he said the one thing neither of them had ever thought he would utter. “You’re coming home with me.”
***
Lowey gaped at him for a second before laughing.There was no mistaking it for a sound of amusement. “Oh no. Hell no. I’d rather take my chances with the dumbass I married!”
“Goddammit, Lowey! He could have killed you today! And maybe, as you say, he wouldn’t have meant to, maybe scaring you was all that he had on his worthless mind, but he’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer! Everything that fucker has ever done in his life has gone wrong!”
All of that was true. But going to Quentin’s house now, when they were well and truly over, when he’d never seen fit to take her there before was too much. Every night they’d spent together—no, she corrected. He’d never spent the night. He’d always left after he’d gotten what he wanted. Every encounter between them had occurred in her tiny apartment, surrounded by the pink frills and white painted furniture he’d found so amusing.
Not many people had ever seen the softer side of her. They expected her to be the same tough chick who worked the bar every night with a ball bat and a sawed off tucked under the counter. He’d thought it was hi
larious, calling her little apartment the dollhouse.
“I’m not going to your house, Quentin. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened.” Her tone was soft and her words were perfectly civil, but there was steel in her voice. They both knew she meant it.
“What the hell is your problem, Lowey? I’m trying to keep you safe!”
The fact that he was so infuriatingly oblivious made her want to choke him. “Do you have to ask? Really? I was your little fuck buddy for months and never made it past the front door… and now, because you’ve crooked your finger, I’m just supposed to go pack my bags?”
He’d never meant to hurt her. Keeping his distance, especially while Samuel was still in town stirring shit up, had been necessary. It had also been a convenient excuse to keep her at arms’ length. Not that it mattered, she’d still snuck under his skin. She’d gotten in his head and now he had to find a way to get back into hers. “Then we’ll go somewhere else, but you’re sure as hell not staying here and you’re not going alone.”
Three
The former carriage house was tucked away behind the two story brick house with its grand, multi-columned facade. As Quentin guided the car along the curved, tree-lined drive, Lowey noted her surroundings and how supremely out of place she was.
He’d made a series of phone calls while she’d gone upstairs and packed. Quentin playing hero was a pretty novel concept, not because she thought he was a coward but because she was simply stunned he’d been moved to care. She’d fully anticipated that he’d just cut and run again. But no, he’d had to actually come through. And now they were pulling up in front of a house that reminded her in vivid, living color of just how far apart they were.
“You’ve got a funny idea of laying low,” she said. “I was expecting some no-tell motel on the shitty side of Lexington. Not Tara from Gone With The Wind.”
“They’re friends,” he said. “And the whole property is secured.”
The gate alone was worth more than all her worldly goods. “Well, if my asshole ex husband shoots it up I sure as hell won’t be able to cover the damage.”
She felt the weight of his stare as he looked over at her. Assessing, curious, and oddly sympathetic, it pissed her off on principal. “What?” she demanded. “What is it now?”
He shrugged, “I could tell you that you’re just as good as anyone else, but it’ll only piss you off more.”
The fact that he was right didn’t soothe her already ruffled feathers. “I always knew we were from two different worlds, Quentin, but my friends only come to houses like this one when they’ve been hired to clean them.”
The car eased to a stop in front of the ivy covered brick of the carriage house. It was picturesque, beautiful and far beyond her budget, but it was exactly the kind of place she loved. It wore its age well, and whoever owned it hadn’t tried to hide that. Instead they’d worked with it and created something charming and beautiful.
Quentin got out of the car and retrieved their bags from the back. He dropped them immediately and placed one hand to his ribs.
“I’ve got these, hotshot,” she said, and picked them up. It would have served him right to let him carry the bags and then collapse in a broken heap from it, but she just wasn’t that person, even if she wanted to be.
“I can carry the damn bags, Lowey,” he protested, his manly pride clearly affronted.
Her only response was an eye roll as she walked toward the door with them. She was out of patience with his he-man attitude, especially since he was so busted up it was a wonder he could even stand upright.
“Lowey!”
She glanced over her shoulder then. “You don’t have to yell, asshole. I’m five feet away.”
“Dammit, can you just not let me be a man here?”
She relented a little bit, but not by much. “You’re a man, Quentin. You just happen to be one who got the hell beat out of him. Now quit being a whiny little bitch and open the door.”
Ignoring his bitchiness and general grumpiness as he turned the key in the lock, she stepped past him and deposited the bags on the floor just inside the door as Quentin hit the lights. The whole place was done in shades of cream and white, the ultimate shabby chic cottage decor. Throw pillows and the dark finish of the hardwood floors were the only colors in the room. She couldn’t have pictured a more romantic getaway spot. If only it was a romantic getaway.
“There’s only one bed. I’ll take the couch,” he said.
Part of her wanted to protest. He was beat all to hell and sleeping on a too short couch wouldn’t do him any favors. But there was just enough mean in her to be okay with it. It wouldn’t kill him, she thought, but it would make him uncomfortable as hell and that he deserved. “Just don’t go wandering in the night… I’d hate to be the second person to have to kick the shit out of you today.”
The look he gave her was pure challenge and one hundred percent pure Quentin. “You’re welcome to try, sweetheart, but you’re going to get more than you bargained for.”
God he was sexy. Even pissed at him, with her heart half broken by him, all she wanted to do was rip his clothes off and climb him like a damn tree. So she did the only smart thing she ever had in her life and retreated, closing the bedroom door firmly behind her.
***
Quentin listened to the echo of the slamming door and smiled. He’d pissed her off and he found that oddly satisfying. It soothed his battered ego to know that he could still get under her skin. God, he craved her. It’d probably kill him he were to try and do anything about it since there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t hurt, but it’d be worth it. Remembering just how hot it was between them, he gave a split second’s thought to just knocking on that door and seeing what would happen. Whatever the cost, it would so be worth it.
Easing down onto the couch, he winced as the pain seared his ribs again. Digging his phone from his pocket, he did the one thing he hated more than anything. It was time to eat a little crow.
Pressing the speed dial number for his older brother, he braced himself for the lecture. He answered after the second ring. “What the fuck were you thinking? Do you have any idea how furious our sister is with you? How mad my wife is? And Loralei Crawford will likely never speak to any of us again!”
“I couldn’t help it. He just rubbed me the wrong way,” Quentin said, referring to their newly discovered half brother, Ciaran. The Irish bastard made him mad enough to chew glass. That wasn’t what had you torn up.
Quentin ignored the little whisper in his mind, the reminder of what he thought he’d seen in Patricia’s room. Every time he saw her, every time he stood over her bed, he still watched for some sign of life, some flicker of awareness. And every time he didn’t see it, the anger came, the cold fury and the pain. God above, the pain of it still cut into him like a knife. He was a thirty year old man, but the thing he wanted more than anything in the world, was just to talk to his mother.
For a split second, he’d thought it was happening. He’d seen her. A slight shifting of the muscles in her face, a tension, an awareness. As quickly as it had come, it had been gone, leaving him to wonder if it had ever really been there at all. The harsh reality, that he’d seen it because he wanted to and not because there was any real change in Patricia, had hit him like a rogue wave, swamping him with all the rage he tried so hard to keep locked down.
And then Ciaran, who had a chip on his shoulder that rivaled Quentin’s own in size, had said something to set him off. He honestly couldn’t even remember what it was. He’d just hit first, lashing out, trying to funnel that fury into anything, anyone else. Because he knew if he kept it inside him for a second longer he would implode.
“Well, he kicked your ass for it. It was worse than watching Rousey and Holmes,” Clayton gloated.
Quentin grimaced. “Yeah, I’m aware. I feel every bit of it… The thing is, I might need his help, but if I ask—.”
“Oh, that’s fucking rich! You two beat the shit out of each
other and now you want to ask for a favor?”
“It’s not for me,” Quentin said. “A friend of mine is in a little bit of trouble. A lot of trouble, actually.”
Clayton went quiet for a second. “Who is this friend?”
He didn’t want to tell him. It wasn’t for the reasons Lowey would imagine. She’d accuse him of not thinking she was good enough. The truth was that admitting to anyone, even his brother, that he cared enough about Lowey to involve himself in her problems—that was opening him up to something he didn’t want to consider. If he let them know he was looking out for her, and then she cut him loose, it would be humiliating. But if it meant keeping her safe, he’d shout it from the rooftops and take the lumps.
“Harlow Tate,” he said grudgingly. “Joey Barnes is out of jail. He destroyed the Kicking Mule today… shot the place to hell and back.”
“And Silas denied his involvement completely, of course,” Clayton surmised. “Why the hell do people keep voting for him?”
“Dear old Dad,” Quentin replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Silas has been one of his cronies for the last decade. It served his purpose to keep him in office and we haven’t been lucky enough to have an election since.”
Clayton sighed heavily. “Look, I’ll talk to him… but you’re like his least favorite person in the world right now. So, don’t hold your breath.”
“I can’t… the fucker broke my ribs.”
Clayton laughed then. “It serves you right. Apparently, he’s the Celtic version of Chuck Norris.”
“You picked a fine fucking time to share that information…Here’s a clue, next time I’m about to go toe to toe with someone, you might want to tell me if their hands are a registered lethal weapon.”
Clayton’s laughter escalated to the point that he was barely intelligible on the phone before finally dying down again to a manageable level. “Don’t put this shit on me. You did it… you and that smartass mouth. And I don’t know why you’ve got such a problem with him anyway. He got just as screwed over by Samuel as we did.”
Quentin (The Bourbon & Blood Series Book 4) Page 2