by Vonnie Davis
He lifted each box and swung at the waist, tossing them into the interior. Hopping in, he began arranging the boxes around his Harley he’d tied to the inner sides of the trailer. He wanted to create a second support system for the bike to secure it in place for the trip to wherever he’d end up going. After careful measuring, he knew how much room to leave for his bed, box springs, mattress and sofa. The rest of his furniture he’d donate to Goodwill.
The U-Haul bounced slightly when she scrambled in behind him. “I’m talking to you. Don’t you dare ignore me!”
“I don’t have time for your drama. And shouldn’t you be in bed with a hangover?”
Her open hand fluttered like a crazed butterfly. “Pffft. It would take more than a hangover to keep me in bed. I want to know when you decided to move and why?”
He jumped out of the trailer, trudging for the building. God, he was bone-tired. “Since when do I have to report my comings and goings to you?” She was in a mood. If he invited her up so he could keep an eye on her, she’d no doubt refuse. Better to ignore her, so she’d storm up to the safety of his apartment to continue her rant.
“This discussion is not over.”
“Yes, it is, peanut.” The gauntlet had been thrown. She’d be pounding on his door within the minute.
The sound of a foot stomp behind him made him smile. “Don’t call me peanut!” The woman was damn adorable when she was pissed. “I’m warning you, Quinn Gallagher, you don’t want to make me blow a gasket. It’s not a pretty sight. You have no idea the extents I’ll go to.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m trembling in my shoes, little one. Go home. Leave me the hell alone.” Yanking the door open, he charged inside and jogged up the steps to his second-floor apartment. With any luck he’d outrun her. Looking into her sad emerald eyes was more than he could handle right now. Her voice may have sounded angry, but her pinched expression cried sadness…and it tore at his soul.
He’d already packed up his closet and chest of drawers, stuffing enough clothes to wear his remaining four days in Clearwater into his duffle bag. Furball had quickly hopped into the open piece of luggage as if he wanted to make sure he wasn’t left behind. Or maybe the cat instinctively knew his owner couldn’t beat holes into the canvas. He’d gone into hiding as soon as Quinn took his first hit on the wooden door, raging at the world, and came out when his owner calmed down enough to place his fist into a sink full of ice cubes.
Quinn scratched under the grey feline’s white chin and was rewarded with a loud purr. “Sorry I scared you earlier. We’ve got big changes ahead, buddy.” He rolled over for his owner to rub his white belly. “Cat’s aren’t supposed to like this.” His palm ruffled fur from the animal’s neck to groin. “Besides, I’ve got work to do.”
Furball nipped the edge of Quinn’s hand. “You little grey bastard, and after the way I saved your ass too.” This was an ongoing argument between the two since the night Quinn found him scratching frantically on the outside of his sliding glass doors in the living room, drenched, wild-eyed and scared all to hell and back. A category two hurricane was blowing through and, the best Quinn could decipher, the hundred-mile-per-hour winds had propelled the scrawny kitten onto his second-story balcony. How it had survived had been a miracle. He’d shown signs of malnutrition according to the veterinarian he’d taken him to as soon as the hurricane abated.
That stormy night back in September, when Quinn slid open the door, Furball teetered in on his last leg of energy and collapsed as if he’d finally found home. The man, who’d never been allowed to own a pet as a child, wrapped the sodden animal in a hand towel—hell he’d been too small for a bath towel—and laid him across his lap while he watched a New England Patriots football game. During halftime, he’d fed the weakened kitten by dipping his pinky finger into warmed milk and allowing its roughened tongue to lick it off. A few minutes later, the power went out, and both cat and new owner snoozed on the sofa.
Five months of constant feeding, deworming, flea dips and care had fattened the Furball. Someone had spoiled the feline, too, and Quinn had no clue who that bastard was. Surely not him. The trouble was the kitten’s harrowing experience in the hurricane had left him traumatized. He trembled during storms, seeking refuge in the crook of Quinn’s neck or in a pile of old beach towels he kept under the bed for the tomcat’s sanctuary, along with a stuffed toy or two.
The cat also hated riding in the Jeep. Quinn wasn’t so sure how he’d handle a long trek on some highway confined in his cat carrier. He’d have to call Furball’s vet to see if he could prescribe some tranquilizers. Still, thank God he hadn’t turned into one of those doting cat owners. His concern was merely…responsibility.
Pulling his extra towels and sheets from his linen closet, Quinn carried them into the kitchen to use as packing material. He shoved his toaster and blender into the interior of his microwave, jamming washcloths around them. After taping the bottom of a box, he set the appliance inside and shoved a sheet around it.
Any minute now Cassie would be pounding on his door.
Tape roller in hand, he put together four more boxes. He pulled containers and junk from his cabinets and drawers, packing everything but his coffee pot and one mug. How had he accumulated so much cooking stuff and plates? Reaching up on the wall, he snatched two roadside fruit signs he and Cassie had found at a church bizarre last spring. All of his cabinets were empty, except for one nosy cat who insisted on sniffing every corner. He’d keep the doors open a few inches so Furball could come and go as he pleased. The food in the pantry remained. He’d make more boxes and tackle that job next.
He stopped and frowned.
Still no Cassie.
Had she given up and gone home? He carried the box containing his microwave into the living room and peered out the sliding glass doors overlooking the parking lot.
Holy Mother of God!
How in the fuck had she gotten his Harley untied and out of the trailer? She’d pushed it onto the small patch of yard in front of the apartment building. All of his neckties flapped from the handlebars and what looked to be his jock strap was stretched across the back of its seat. Jammed into the ground at both ends of his bike were his water skis. The rope that had secured his bike upright in the U-Haul was now strung from one ski to the other with all of his damn boxers hanging from the rope. In a semicircle around the bike sat his high school and college football trophies.
His gas grill had also been dragged from the trailer, and hanging like dogs’ ears from the closed chrome lid was every sock he owned. He narrowed his eyes as his blood pressure exploded through the stratosphere. Because there…there…in the midst of all his previously packed boxes was the object of his wrath, kicking each of the cartons, arms waving, mouth moving as if she were cussing someone out. And he had a damn good idea who that lucky son of a bitch was, especially when she scowled up at his balcony and shook her fist.
Just what the hell did she think all this chaos would do?
She stormed back to the trailer and crawled into its cavernous interior. He leaned toward the glass and cocked the box on his hip. Now what was she after? His gaze scanned his belongs scattered helter-skelter over the lawn. She’d already removed everything he’d worked so hard to pack. Except for his…oh no. Oh, hell no! A flurry of movement flashed in the corner of his eye, followed by an unholy sound, resembling a moose in heat. His narrowed gaze swung to Cassie standing below his window playing his treasured saxophone. If one could classify the metalized shrieking she produced as playing.
Jesus Christ, she’s a dead woman. That horn’s all I have left of Uncle Mat.
He slammed the box onto the sofa and barreled out of his apartment. By the time he sprinted down the steps and charged through the building’s door, every damn dog in the complex was howling along with Cassie’s demented saxophone caterwauling.
“What the hell are you doing?” He tried to grab the instrument from her hands, but she spun and hit a high note he’d never imagined an alto
sax capable of reaching.
“If you don’t stop that infernal racket, I’m calling the cops!” Milt Garland, the old coot who lived on the first floor, ambled out of the building, put-putting as he walked. The senior citizen had a terrible problem with gas and either his hearing was so bad he never heard it or he just didn’t give a damn if everyone else did. “I had to turn down my hearing aid.” He gestured to his trembling Chihuahua, snuggled between his arm and his chest. “Scared poor Killer so bad, he peed on the floor.”
“I’m sorry, Milt. I’m trying to stop her.”
Cassie slipped the mouthpiece from her lips. “I’m serenading the man I love. Don’t tell me you’re against romance, Milt—” She hip-bumped the old man and winked at him. “Not a stud muffin like you.”
Milt’s wire-framed glasses all but fogged up and a cheezy grin spread. “Well, no, I’m all for a little romance, sugarplum.” His gaze shot to Quinn. “Don’t know if this young whipper-snapper can deliver, though.” He smirked and his pigeon chest puffed out. “Maybe you’d be better off with an older, more experienced gent.”
Shit, as if this old man could be as experienced as I am.
She plucked a piece of toilet paper off Milt’s chin. “Did you cut yourself shaving?”
“Yeah, I’ve got four electric razors tucked in a drawer somewhere that the kids got me over the years, but I like the close shave a sharp razorblade gives me.” He rubbed his gnarled fingers over his cheek. “The wife always preferred a smooth face. Said it made kissin’ nicer.”
The neighborhood dogs quieted since Cassie had stopped frantically pounding the instrument’s keys as if she were typing a letter to Santa.
She leaned against Milt’s bony shoulder. “I’m going to marry this young whipper-snapper. I don’t care how much facial hair he’s got.”
Milt narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips while he petted Killer. “Don’t look like the marrying type to me.”
Quinn folded his arms and widened his stance. “That’s because I’m not the marrying type. I’m more the one-night stand type.” This whole conversation was totally bizarre. He glared at Cassie. Thanks to her shenanigans, he’d have to repack everything.
“Oh, you can make book on this, Milt. Hot lips here is mine. His ass is grass and I’m the lawnmower.” Cassie sucked a bucketful of air and blew four sour notes at one time.
Quinn jammed his index fingers into his ears and cursed.
Milt farted, jerking his hearing aid out of his ear.
And Killer pissed on Milt’s shirt.
“Dammit, Cassie!” Quinn reached to snatch the saxophone from her grasp; she swung it out of his range and laughed. What he wouldn’t give to lay her over his knees and paddle her ass. “Look, that horn belonged to my late Uncle Matisse. He used to play in jazz clubs in New Orleans. It’s all I have left of him. Now give it here.”
Although Quinn Matisse was not a blood relative, he had been someone very important in his life. Uncle Mat taught him how to throw a ball, to fish and toss rocks in a stream to make the most circular ripples. In short, the smiling man spent time with young Quinn until a bullet ended the musician’s life.
“You know Matisse is a nice name. We’ll name our first child in his honor. Matisse if it’s a boy or Mattie if it’s a girl.” She placed the brass instrument in his outstretched hand. “I think it’s time we take this conversation upstairs, don’t you?” She smiled so sweetly it looked pure evil.
“First, you repack my belongings.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “When all my things are safely locked away, we’ll talk.”
Milt flapped his urine-soaked shirttail away from his body. His dog stood at his sandaled feet, his tail tucked between legs. “Go on inside, Quinn. Killer and me will pack up your stuff. Looks like you and Cassie have some things to work out.” Milt shot a worried glance at Quinn’s motorcycle. “Don’t know if I want to move your Harley though.”
“Don’t worry about the bike. If you’ll just cram my clothes and trophies in boxes and secure them away in the trailer, I’d appreciate it. I think the bike and grill will be safe enough sitting where they are for a few minutes.” His gaze swept to the feminine pain in his ass standing next to him. “I’d like to say it won’t take long to pound some sense into her head, but any woman who would dye a swath of her hair stoplight red can’t be too bright.”
“Hey!” She poked a finger in his side.
“Your hair was perfect before, peanut.” He smirked at Milt. “See, that’s the difference between men and women. Men don’t diddle with their appearance. They know perfection when they see it. Am I right, Milt?”
The old guy extracted a small black comb from his back pocket and skimmed it over the seven grey hairs plastered to his scalp with some kind of hair goop. Nodding, he slipped the comb into place again. “That’s exactly what I used to tell Louisa.” He crossed himself. “God bless her soul.” He hiked up his baggy khaki pants with the insides of his elbows tucked against his belt. “A man does not mess with perfection.” He hip-wiggled a couple foxtrot steps and passed some gas as he hummed some ancient tune.
Cassie’s jaw dropped and her gaze ricocheted from Milt to Quinn. “Let’s state the facts correctly, shall we?” She planted her hands on her narrow hips and swayed her shoulders one at a time for some kind of goofy feminine emphasis. “Women like change. We have no fear of experimentation the way you men do.”
“Fear?” Was she calling him a coward?
“When was the last time you tried a new kind of food? Or a micro-brew beer?” She spun toward Milt. “When was the last time you wore navy blue pants? Every time I see you, you’re wearing khakis.” Turning her harangue back on Quinn, she pointed to his comfy Nikes. “You need new sneakers. You’ve been wearing those raggedy things for the three years I’ve known you.”
She poked a fingernail through a hole in his beloved Puddle of Mudd t-shirt. Using some of his college expense money to buy a concert ticket to go hear them with a group of Harvard freshmen had been one of the highlights of his life. How great to be out from under the condemning, watchful eye of his father.
“And this faded, tattered rag belongs in the trash bin!” One swift tug and the hole grew from the circumference of a dime to fist-size. “See? It’s like tissue paper!”
Quinn couldn’t believe she’d torn his favorite shirt. Hell, the thing was barely ten years old. His gaze slowly swept from his ravaged, quality rock and roll wear to her green eyes, snapping with righteous indignation.
“Women also like variation in our sexual positions while, according to ninety percent of my female customers, their men do it the same way over and over.”
Something in him snapped. Control? Anger? The need to shut her up? Who the fuck knew? “You mouthy little brat.” He coiled his fingers around her bicep and charged them toward the building’s entrance. “Milt, we’re going to be a while.” He yanked the aqua door open so hard it banged against the front of the yellow stucco structure as he hauled her ass up the steps.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Cassie jogged to keep up with Quinn’s furious movements.
“I’m warning you. Shut. The hell. Up. I’ve had enough of your nonsense. We are not getting married. We are not having children. And I’m about to show you more ways to have sex than your stupid-ass, gossipy customers ever dreamed of.” He pushed his apartment door open and shoved her inside before kicking it shut. “You have an evil heart, Cassie Wolford. You may look like an angel, but deep inside you are one hellacious monster.”
He pivoted to turn the lock and when he looked at her again, she grabbed the hem of the yellow cotton top she wore, jerked it over her head and tossed it aside. One flip-flop flew over his shoulder and he ducked. Furball, who’d come out to greet her, scampered for the kitchen and the safety of the empty cabinets. A flick of her other ankle and the second flip-flop landed on top of his boxed microwave.
Cassie’s thumbs tucked into the elastic of her
navy capris.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting naked so we can have sex.” She shimmied out of the capris and twirled them on her index finger. “You’re falling behind, big guy.” Her head dipped in his direction. “Come on. Show me some skin.” She reached behind her to unhook her bra and stopped after it hit the floor. “Wait, you want me to undress you, don’t you? Cool. I can handle that.”
What the fuck? His cock voiced the same sentiment, throbbing the words in a sensual Morse code as the traitorous appendage filled with blood and lengthened. He shook his head. “No. Now Cassie, we are not doing this.” He focused on that silly swath of red hair because if his eyes devoured her firm naked breasts one more time, he was a goner.
Hell, this was why he’d resigned from a job he loved and was leaving a life he totally enjoyed. Getting into a physical relationship with her was wrong on so many levels. She was seven years younger than he was and his best friend’s baby sister. And he was emotionally damaged by Renata’s betrayal of his team, his heart and his manhood. He had nothing good to offer Cassie. Nothing but raw physicality.
“If we have sex, there will be no emotion to it. Just two adults seeking release. Hell, if all you need is a good climax or two, I’m game. Just don’t expect me to cuddle you afterwards or wax poetically about how grand it was. Because that’s not how I operate.”
His little Pollyanna ran on emotion. Maybe his crude remarks would be enough to cool her mood.
She stalked toward him, her tongue moistening the evil grin stretching across her full lips. “Oh, but we are doing this. You said so just a minute ago when you dragged me up the steps. And you always do what you say.” She lifted a shoulder. “Besides, I could go for a good release right about now.” She fisted his t-shirt and ripped it from neckband to hem. Leaning in, she rubbed her breasts across his chest, her erect nipples tearing apart any self-control he frantically held onto.