Quentin (The Bourbon & Blood Series Book 4)

by Seraphina Donavan

  Quentin couldn’t answer that. The truth was, he’d taken one look at Ciaran and he’d known him. Deep down, he’d recognized that same raised chin, those squared shoulders. But it was the challenging glint in his eyes, like he was ready to piss in the face of the world. It was like looking in a mirror and that had pissed him off more than anything. The fucked up psychology of trying to beat the hell out of someone because they reminded him of himself did not escape him.

  “Barnes could have killed her today,” he said and the weight of that came crashing down on him.

  “And why does that matter to you?” Clayton asked pointedly.

  “It just does. She does,” he admitted softly. “Talk to him. See if he’ll help.”

  “And if he says no?”

  Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ease his aching head. “Then ask him again until he says yes. I need her safe, and I’m in no condition to handle Barnes right now.”

  Clayton whistled softly. “You’re in so deep you can’t even see daylight. You poor sunk bastard.”

  The urge to deny it hit him strongly, more out of habit than because he didn’t believe it, but he called it back. He might not tell Clayton everything, but he drew the line at lying to him. They’d all had more than enough lies to last them a lifetime.

  “Let me know what he says.”

  Clayton agreed and then Quentin ended the call without saying goodbye. He prepared himself for the sleepless night ahead, silently acknowledging that the beating he took wasn’t the biggest source of his physical discomfort in that moment. It was the woman lying in a bed only a few yards away and the desperate way that he craved her.

  Four

  It was early. Way early. So early in fact that it was normally the time Lowey was going to bed. Struggling out of her sleep fog, she stumbled from the bed. On her feet, she woke up just long enough to get pissed and marched to the bedroom door and then into the living room beyond. Quentin was snoring on the couch. He’d ditched his clothes and wore only a pair of black boxers that rode low enough on his hips to border on indecent. They also looked so sinfully good on him it made her teeth ache. Even the snoring didn’t dull his sexiness.

  “Get over it. Get over him and get over this, Lowey, you fucking idiot,” she whispered to herself as she made her way to the door. Yanking it open, she didn’t have to question that the man she was looking at was a Darcy. She didn’t know him, but he and the man currently making her crazy clearly shared DNA. The same dark hair, same eyes and chiseled bone structure were similar enough, but the gigantic chips on their respective shoulders was glaringly apparent.

  “Harlow Tate?”

  The lilt of an Irish accent gave her pause. Yeah. He definitely had enough sex appeal to carry off that bad boy attitude. But she had enough bad boys in her life already. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  He cocked a dark eyebrow at her. “I see you share more with my half brother than just living quarters… Careful, love. Any more of his sterling personality rubs off on you and it won’t matter how pretty you are. I’m Ciaran Darcy, lover boy’s half brother.”

  “Don’t call me love. And you’re not exactly a peach yourself,” she said, turning away. She left the door open. It was close as an invitation as she was going to give him. Darcy men in general, and the two currently in her line of sight in particular, were enough to make her lose her mind.

  Ciaran whistled low. “My sympathies are leaning towards the man who shot up your bar… though, I find it hard to forgive a waste of whiskey like that.”

  “Jesus, you’re loud!” Quentin groused from the couch as he struggled to sit up.

  Lowey watched them, saw Ciaran’s satisfied smile when he took in Quentin’s battered face. “You’re a bit worse for wear this morning, brother.”

  Quentin glared at him beneath lowered brows. “I understand your natural inclination to be a dick, but do you think you can restrict to P.M. hours?”

  Ciaran settled onto the arm of an overstuffed chair. “So, your ex-con of an ex-husband is pissed because you’re hooking up with this jack ass?” He directed the question to Lowey, but his gaze was locked firmly on Quentin.

  “No. My ex-con ex of an ex-husband is pissed because I sent him to prison… I wasn’t inclined to take the beatings anymore or tolerate his cooking up meth in our bathroom,” she explained. “He couldn’t care less about Quentin or anyone else.”

  Ciaran shook his head. “As much as I hate to say it, your taste in men has actually improved… a little.”

  Lowey’s gaze was drawn to Quentin as he rose and walked toward the kitchen. He began digging through the cabinets until he emerged victorious with a can of coffee. Muscles rippled with every movement and all she could think about was what it felt like to have him on her, in her. It made her mouth go dry and other parts of her, well, they definitely weren’t dry. She looked away and found Ciaran smirking at her knowingly. It was official. As hot as the Darcy men were, she hated every last one of them.

  Quentin stared impatiently at the coffee maker as water began to trickle through it. When the first bit of dark, bitter liquid splashed into the pot, he relaxed and turned to face them. “I need this if I’m going to tolerate his ass this early in the morning,” he said to Lowey as he jerked his thumb in Ciaran’s direction.

  Taking in Ciaran’s smirk, Lowey rolled her eyes again. “Can we just address why the hell he’s here when we should all still be sleeping?”

  Quentin looked at Ciaran then and admitted, “I had Clayton call you because if Barnes shows up I’m in no condition to face him…. and since you’re the reason why, I figure you should at least pitch in.”

  Ciaran crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d tell you to ask nicely, but you’re incapable.”

  “So you’re here at the ass crack of dawn to turn me down?” Quentin asked, as he pulled the pot from the coffee maker and poured the little bit that had brewed into a cup as it continued to drip and sizzle on the burner.

  Lowey rolled her eyes. “I’m going back to bed. You all can measure your dicks without my assistance and clearly I don’t get to have a say in whatever is happening here anyway.”

  ***

  Quentin watched her walk away, noting the sway of her hips, the slight jiggle of her generously curved ass. God, was there anything sexier? She looked good coming and going.

  “She catches you watching her ass that way and she’ll make the beating I gave you look like a love tap.”

  Quentin turned back to his half brother. He was surprised the guy had shown, honestly. If the tables had been turned, he wasn’t sure he would have and that made him uncomfortable. “So you’re in?”

  “I’ll help,” Ciaran said. “I’ll pay a little visit to your darling’s ex and see if I can’t be a bit persuasive.”

  “He’s probably laying low after yesterday,” Quentin offered. It was the most civil comment he’d offered from the beginning.

  Ciaran grinned. “I find people, Quentin. That’s what I do. You might want to get those ribs looked at. Those bruises have turned nasty.”

  Quentin watched him walking out and muttered under his breath, “Dickhead.”

  Gulping the coffee and ignoring the burn, he crossed to the bedroom door and knocked. “We have to go into Lexington.”

  She opened the door and while she was technically covered, he knew her body well enough to know exactly what was hidden beneath that slinky robe.

  “You have to go to Lexington,” she said.

  “Until Barnes is back in jail or fearful enough of it to behave, you go where I go,” he said.

  “You’re not exactly in any condition to protect me, Quentin. You can barely stand up,” she snapped.

  “Then you’re going with me so that I won’t have to drive myself in my present compromised state,” he replied evenly. He wasn’t leaving her there alone and he had a meeting that couldn’t be rescheduled.

  Caught by her own argument, she just glared at him. Finally,
after the tension in the silence built to an uncomfortable level, she relented. “I can be ready in half an hour.”

  “Don’t use all the hot water,” he said.

  She glanced down at him, her eyes traveling over his body until she reached the unmistakable evidence of exactly how she effected him. “It looks you could use a cold shower anyway!”

  Quentin shook his head, even as he stepped closer to her and whispered in her ear, “I could dip my whole body in ice water and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference… But you keep looking at me like that, Lowey, and you’re not gonna be in that shower alone.”

  The door slammed in his face as she retreated, the sound of it echoing through the room. Quentin dropped his chin to his chest and mentally went down the list of why it would be a disaster to go after her. Pushing Lowey was a necessity. Pushing her too far would destroy any chance of finally getting it right. It was that thought that prompted him to walk away and to sink down onto the couch and ignore just how much he wanted her.

  Five

  Ciaran knocked on the door of the Darcy house. He held a bouquet and a box of chocolates and tried for an expression of contrition. He wasn’t sorry that he’d beat the shit out of Quentin. He’d deserved it. But he was sorry that by losing his temper, by letting the asshole get under his skin, he’d ruined the holiday for Mia. He truly did want to build a relationship with his siblings and he’d put that on the line because he couldn’t control his temper.

  It was Bennett who answered the door. He looked at the flowers and the box of candy and grinned. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  “It’s an expression of goodwill,” Ciaran replied. “I fully intend to grovel along with it.”

  Bennet shook his head and stepped back. “She’s pissed, man. Like really pissed. I thought I was the only one who could make her that mad… but you and Quentin—dude.”

  Given that she was already ticked, Ciaran decided to come clean. “I am here to apologize, but I’m also here to get some information from the two of you. I’d have asked Quentin, but frankly he’s in no condition to talk. I might have overdone it a bit yesterday.”

  “Just a bit? Really?”

  That voice coming from deep within the house was Mia’s and she sounded not just angry, but cold. If there was one thing Ciaran had learned in his life, when women sounded like that, he’d be paying for a while.

  Bennett stepped aside and let him in. Mia was in the study just off the foyer, the room having long been converted into a room for her mother, Patricia. It made Ciaran instantly uncomfortable to walk into that room. Death he could deal with, but what had happened to Patricia Darcy was his definition of hell. Being confronted with the sad and horrible condition of a woman he’d secretly hated, secretly blamed for years, was a grim reminder that there were things far worse than death.

  As a child, he’d built a hundred fantasies to explain why his father was not there, was not a part of his life. For years, he’d laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of the broken woman now lying in that bed. Guilt wasn’t something he was accustomed to. He’d done a lot of horrible things in his life, but recalling the times he’d wished her dead so his father would be free, even if those wishes had been made in ignorance, they dug at him.

  He placed the flowers and the chocolates on the table near Mia and settled onto one of the chairs scattered about the room. “I am sorry. I let my temper get the better of me… but if it helps at all, I’m here asking questions because I’m trying to help Quentin with a problem that he has.”

  “What?” Mia asked sarcastically, her eyebrows raised and her tone impossibly sharp. “You’re driving him to the emergency room?”

  Ciaran dropped his head to his chest. It was that gesture, one so eerily similar to just what Quentin and Clayton did when they were feeling contrite, that prompted her to relent.

  “How are you helping him?” she asked.

  “It’s about a friend of his… Harlow Tate. Apparently her ex-husband is a bit of a jackass. The thing I need to know is where to find this particular jackass,” he said.

  She cocked her head to the side, considering the implications of what he’d said. She’d known that Quentin was seeing someone, even if he had been particularly closed mouthed about who it was. But Harlow Tate was the last person she’d expected. “So go back a little… Quentin and Lowey? Are you sure about this?”

  Ciaran knew he was in then A little bit of gossip could sweeten any deal. “They were staying at Ash Grove. In the carriage house. He was sleeping in the couch, I assume because he’s been a dick. But she’s pissed at him. And if a man can piss a woman off, there’s clearly a relationship there.”

  “Huh,” she said, considering it for a moment. She could see it, oddly enough. They couldn’t have been more different on the surface, except for the giant chips on their shoulders. But maybe that’s what Quentin needed—a woman who wouldn’t bow and scrape and be bowled over by his charm and good looks. Lowey Tate was drop dead gorgeous and took no crap off anyone. If they continually butted heads with one another then maybe they could stop butting heads with the rest of the world.

  “Why are you doing this really?” she asked.

  “Because Quentin wasn’t the only dickhead yesterday,” he replied. “I’m sorry I ruined your Thanksgiving. And I’m sorry that whatever visions you had of us having a happy family reunion were ruined by us behaving like savages…. Now tell me where I can find Joseph Barnes so that I can go behave like a savage in someone else’s front yard.”

  Mia laughed in spite of herself. Her new brother was too charming for his own good or hers. And he and Quentin were peas in a pod. It was no wonder they had clashed. “First off, it’s Joey. No one would ever call him anything as dignified as Joseph. He’s a moron. A violent moron, but a moron nonetheless. He’s probably at his Mama’s house out on Highway 12. But, I’d be careful. The only thing lengthier than his rap sheet is his family tree. He’s got a lot of cousins and they all nest together like rats.”

  “Duly noted. Thank you for the warning,” he said and rose from the chair. “If we do this at Christmas, I promise to behave.”

  “And Quentin? What if he doesn’t?”

  Ciaran shrugged. “That’s not really up to me. I can only promise you that I won’t take a swing at him… even if he begs for it.”

  ***

  “Give me the keys,” Lowey said.

  Quentin looked at her in horror as he pulled the keys in close to his chest. “I’m fine to drive.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You said you needed me to drive you… so I’m going to drive you. Yes, Quentin, that means you have to trust me with your baby.”

  No one drove his car. Ever. But he’d used that as an excuse to keep her with him for the day, and there was no graceful way to get out of it. So with great reluctance, he pressed the keys into her hand. If he let his linger just a second longer than necessary, if his fingertips brushed against the tender crease in her palm, and if even that simple touch set him on fire, it was all worth it to see the slight shiver that arced through her.

  Lowey brushed past him and climbed behind the wheel. Quentin winced as she adjusted the seat. It would take forever to get that right again. He knew he had issues. When it came to being set in his ways, well, Quentin accepted that particular ship had sailed. Patricia had laughed at him for it as a boy, teasing him about it. And yet when she’d served his dinner, none of the food had touched on his plate. She’d tolerated his eccentricities with good humor and patience. Recalling that moment the day before when he’d thought she’d been aware of his presence, he felt the words bubbling up inside him.

  “I thought—.” He stopped abruptly. Telling Lowey about Patricia, about what he’d thought he saw the day before would be a mistake. He didn’t talk about Patricia to anyone, not even to his siblings.

  “You thought what?” she asked, adjusting the mirrors.

  Every fucking thing in his car was going to be perfect for her a
nd he’d be struggling for months to get it put back the way he liked it. And she was enjoying it, he could see it in the gleam in her eyes.

  “When I was in my mother’s room yesterday… I thought she looked at me,” he admitted grudgingly. Just saying it out loud made him feel like an idiot. It had been more than ten years. “It’s stupid,” he added. “If she was going to wake up, it would have happened before now.”

  The teasing glint in her eyes was gone. “I’m sorry, Quentin… I can’t even imagine what that feels like. My own mother was a lost cause. The best thing she ever did for me was drop me on my grandparents doorstep before she ran off. But I remember your mom. When I was little, I remember her. Seeing her in town, always dressed to the nines but never snooty or mean the way some of those women were.”

  He smiled. “She loved clothes. And shopping… God above, she could shop for days.”

  “She was good to me,” Lowey said sadly. “A lot of people in town looked down on my Papaw because of what he did… the bar. All of it. But I remember this time when I was running down Main Street, right on the sidewalk like a wild thing, and I fell. I tore half the skin off my knee. And a bunch of those women just stood there and shook their head like ‘was it any wonder with how I was being raised’.”

  He grinned. “And you got one of my Mama’s famous pep talks, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” she agreed. “She walked over to me, she picked me up and brushed the tears off my cheeks. That’s when she told me to be tough, even when it hurt, especially in front of people who would enjoy seeing me cry… And then she took me to Partin’s for an ice cream and drove me home to my Papaw. Everyone in that bar was gawking when she marched me inside.”

  Quentin couldn’t help but laugh. He could picture every bit of it. And even though it tickled him in so many ways to think of his mother, the lady to end all ladies, walking into a dive bar called The Kicking Mule, it still hurt. It chipped away at the hard shell he’d built around all the pain inside him.