Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  The clock on the dashboard was a hope that Rachel might be able to clock out for her lunchbreak. Conor tried to imagine how he might spend an hour with her without thinking about what Troy had told him. He pulled the key from the ignition, climbed out, and started crossing the street.

  Lingering outside the police station was one of the detectives. A good-looking guy who looked in his mid-thirties. He was smoking a cigarette and getting some fresh air, which was practically an oxymoron.

  “Rachel around?”

  The detective stepped on his cigarette as he asked, “Conor, right? Conor Quinn?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You look different than your brothers,” the detective commented and it touched an immediate nerve with Conor.

  He looked different? He felt different. He was different from all of his brothers.

  “It’s the light eyes,” the man decided. “Your brothers have dark eyes.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Conor dryly responded as he moved towards the entrance door.

  “I’m Eddie Friendly,” said the detective, stopping him. As Eddie held out his hand, he commented, “Your brother Dean was helping Adelaide Marple out.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Conor as he shook the guy’s hand.

  Then he felt it. Deep in the front pocket of his jeans. The amethyst crystal he was in the habit of forgetting he always had on him grew faintly warm.

  “Good of Dean,” Eddie complemented as their hands disengaged. The amethyst went cold. “I’ve been a fan of Quinn Security. You guys are really something.”

  “Thanks.”

  To test the crystal, Conor clapped his hand over Eddie’s shoulder good-naturedly as he pulled the precinct door open. The second he made contact with the detective, the crystal warmed in his pocket.

  “Rachel is at her desk,” he mentioned as he followed Conor in.

  “Thanks, man. Have a good one.”

  He watched as Eddie started through the station then found Rachel pouring over what looked like a stack of forms.

  Without looking up, she groaned, “Please tell me you’re not making friends with Eddie. He’s the worst.”

  Conor spied the detective going to his own desk and told her, “I believe you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Thought you might like a lunchbreak,” he said.

  She groaned again, but this time it seemed directed at her mountainous paperwork.

  “You have to eat,” he reminded her.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said as she pushed away from her desk and stood. “We don’t have enough to hold Harry much longer,” she complained as they started through the station.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was. He looks good for the murder and the arson, but his attorney says everything we have is circumstantial. Eddie doesn’t seem too concerned about it.”

  They crossed the sidewalk then waited for a long stream of traffic to clear before jogging to the other side of the street.

  “That guy is working the case?” he scoffed.

  “Thank you,” she said in all sincerity. “I can’t believe it either. Eddie is a hack.”

  “Eddie is a werewolf,” he said quietly as a family of tourists passed them. “And not the good kind.”

  Intrigued, she asked, “How do you know?”

  Conor held the door of the diner open and told her, “I’ll tell you when we’re sitting down.”

  “The energy in the station has been feeling dark and I never talk in those terms,” she softly explained in a hushed voice as they waited at the hostess stand. “All day I’ve been looking around the bullpen and wondering who has been turned.”

  Lucy padded up to the hostess stand and, efficient as ever, grabbed two menus, greeted them in her signature folksy manner, and wasted no time leading them to one of the few red vinyl booths that was available.

  “Coffee?” she asked, all business.

  “Please,” said Rachel.

  “The usual?” she asked.

  “You know what I usually order for lunch?” Rachel returned.

  “A burger cooked medium-rare with a pile of fries?”

  “I’m impressed,” she complimented.

  “The usual,” Lucy confirmed then asked Conor the same question and he nodded.

  When she started off through the busy restaurant, Rachel leaned in and asked, “How do you know Eddie is one of them?”

  Conor produced the amethyst crystal from his pocket and his heart sunk. He couldn’t shake the sunken feeling as he explained, “It warms up whenever I get near one of Dante’s damned. My grandmother gave it to me. All of the Quinn men have one.”

  As Rachel turned the crystal over in her hands, having plucked it from Conor’s palm, he tried not to think about the serious trouble he would likely get in for sharing with Rachel all that he had. Troy, Kaleb, and Shane had all gotten away with it, some of them more than others, but every single one of them had been forgiven for having told the women in their lives about the fact that they were werewolves. That forgiveness had stemmed from the fact that all of those women had been destined to become their one true mates. And here Conor was, sharing every last detail he had with a woman who wasn’t meant for him.

  “Incredible,” she said, passing the crystal back.

  “It certainly used to be,” he agreed, and when she furrowed her brow, he clarified, “They seem to be working less and less and Troy hasn’t been able to figure out why.”

  As Conor went on to discretely update Rachel on the developments that had unfolded at Quinn Security during the meeting, he fought the incredible urge to address the hopeless feeling she’d brought up with him that morning.

  He wanted nothing more than to bring it up, to admit to her that according to Troy and his visions Rachel and him weren’t meant to be, not to discourage her, but to have someone to talk to, someone who would understand. There was a bright side to all of this. It meant that Rachel would not have to become a werewolf. And the fact of the matter was that no one said they couldn’t be together. It was possible they could make it work.

  But there would be an expiration date on their happiness. Conor would barely age as the years rolled on. Rachel would one day pass away, and he would be left to live for two or three hundred years carrying the loss around with him.

  It was a bleak thought, one he honestly couldn’t bear to think about.

  “About this morning…” Rachel began after Lucy had delivered their lunches and they’d eaten in silence, clearing their plates and washing their meals down with more coffee.

  “Please,” he said, trying to brush off her attempt at discussing it. “You don’t have to explain.”

  “I feel like I do.”

  “Here?” he asked, looking around the crowded diner.

  “I don’t want this weighing on me for the rest of the day. I need all the brainpower I can get if I want to keep Harry behind bars.”

  Seeing that he had no choice, he said, “I’m listening.”

  Rachel sighed and began shaking her head as she gathered her thoughts. From where Conor was sitting, it wasn’t a good sign.

  “I think it might be for the best if I move back into my old apartment. I’ve talked to Jack about it and he’s more than happy to have me.”

  Conor wouldn’t have been so hurt if she hadn’t prefaced her decision by mentioning all of this was about what she’d shared with him that morning.

  “Because you don’t think it’s going to work out between us in the long run?” he asked.

  She sighed again and it was enough of an answer for him. He was right. But he didn’t have it in him to fight for her to stay. She went on to explain, “I need space. I need to think. It’s partially about us, but really because I’m close to making detective. I just have to push a little harder for a little longer.”

  It went against every instinct in his body, but he nodded and said, “Okay.”

  Her big, brown eyes widened. She was su
rprised, and a little hurt. She had expected resistance. She’d probably expected him to try to convince her to stay with him at his cabin, but he didn’t have it in him. Right now, space seemed like it might be a good idea for both of them.

  “I can’t believe you’re being so understanding,” she said as he pulled his wallet out of his jeans.

  “Believe it,” he told her, as he placed a few bills on the table, enough to cover the meal and a decent tip.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Seriously, Rachel?” he shot back. He hadn’t meant to sound irritated, but at least he hadn’t sounded how he really felt. Crushed. Thoroughly and irreversibly crushed.

  “Whoa, why are you getting so pissed?”

  That really threw him over the edge. “You tell me this morning that you’ve been imbued with some kind of psychic ability where you know things aren’t going to work out between us, then when I don’t put up a fight over you moving out, you’re taken aback that I’m not trying to convince you to stay? What do you want, Rachel? Because right now you’re sending some pretty convoluted messages.”

  “I need to get back to the station,” she informed him in a stiff voice.

  Before he could argue further, she slid out of the booth and walked briskly through the diner.

  What the hell just happened?

  Conor felt like his head was spinning. How had he just been made out to be the bad guy in this scenario? Because of his tone?

  He raked all ten fingers through his shaggy hair, pulling himself together, and then stood from the booth.

  It felt like a very long walk to get to the sidewalk, and when he did, he could barely feel the sun on his face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  RACHEL

  God, what the hell was she doing?

  As soon as she reached her desk at the station, she held her head in both hands, elbows planted on the desk, and tried to make sense of what she was doing.

  Why had she told Conor about the doomed feeling that had reared its ugly head in the middle of the best relationship she’d ever begun to build in her life? Why couldn’t she have kept that to herself this morning? Did she hate herself or something? Why would she sabotage the one good thing she felt like she had going in her life?

  Rachel drew in a deep breath and sat up straight in her chair as if changing positions could rid her of the awful wave of regret that was now crashing over her.

  But just when it seemed she’d gotten a handle on her emotions, she was slammed with another tsunami of remorse.

  Why had she decided, without thinking or seriously weighing the pros and cons of the matter, to move back into her old apartment? Good grief, it was as though the second the option had entered her mind as she’d sat across from Conor in the diner, she’d voiced it. Where was her mental filter? Why hadn’t she thought things through? Slept on it? Or at least given some time to mentally rehearsing how she would tell Conor? She hadn’t paused for so much as a breath before informing him. It had been careless at best and cruel at worst.

  She cringed, remembering how he’d looked.

  Rachel might as well have slapped him across the face.

  She’d had no tact, that was for damn sure, and there was no excuse.

  The only way she was going to get through the rest of her day was if she pushed every last emotion she was feeling all the way down into the pit of her stomach and left it there. It could twist into sour knots if it needed to, as long as it stayed out of her head so that she could get some work done.

  As if her day couldn’t have gotten any worse, when she lifted her head she saw Eddie Friendly escorting Harry Marple through the station and out the front door.

  When Eddie returned alone, she cut him off at the pass.

  “Tell me you didn’t just release Harry,” she demanded.

  “Okay.”

  A surge of anger fired through her chest. “I’ve been working all day on angles we could use to hold him.”

  “I appreciate it,” he offered.

  “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

  Eddie smiled as though she’d given him a genuine compliment and she groaned.

  “You make me sick.”

  “Then take a sick day.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she sneered.

  She had half a mind to make a formal complaint about Friendly with the sheriff, but something told her they were in sexist cahoots so she returned to her desk instead, buried herself in paperwork, and hoped that the next time she looked at her computer the clock would read seven pm.

  By the time seven really did roll around, Rachel had looked at her clock over thirty times. She left the stationhouse without saying a word to anyone and started east on Main Street, crossing Abernathy Way before she darted through slow rolling traffic.

  When she reached Libations, she didn’t round the corner of Main and Trout to go directly up to her old apartment even though her uniform felt like it was strangling her. She knew the second she was alone—all alone with no one to see her—she would break down crying, and she preferred to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

  Inside the bar, she neared the counter where Jack was drying a line of pint glasses.

  “Howdy, tenant,” he greeted her happily.

  It felt like they were on two different planets, Jack Quagmire floating on Cloud nine and Rachel Clancy wallowing in what felt like the outer ring of Dante’s Inferno—the one from the book, not the one she sensed she was literally living in.

  “What’ll it be?” Jack asked her as he flung the dish rag he’d been using over his shoulder. “It’s on the house, of course. I’m happy as all hell to have my tenant back.”

  Who knew hell could be happy? she thought to herself, letting out a defeated snort of a laugh.

  “How ‘bout a shot of whiskey and your coldest beer to chase it down?”

  Jack lifted his eyebrows and gave her a friendly frown as if he was either impressed or concerned. Everyone knew Rachel wasn’t much of a drinker.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said without grilling her for details.

  He was an expert bartender and probably knew that if he kept serving her and lingering around, she would eventually spill her guts.

  Rachel sincerely hoped that wouldn’t happen.

  Jack served her, setting a stout glass of whiskey on the counter in front of her and then a chilled bottle of beer. Its glass was frosty.

  “Cheers,” he said before resuming his task of drying glasses.

  Rather than shoot the whiskey, she took a cautious sip and Jack stifled a chuckle that soon overcame him.

  “Do you mind?” she snapped.

  She tried to shoot the liquor back. Most of it slapped her in the face, shooting up her nose and dribbling down the hole she apparently had in her cheek.

  Great.

  She took a slug of beer and decided she’d given Jack enough of a show. He’d had to turn his back to her to keep from breaking out in hysterical laughter.

  She frowned at him then made her way over to one of the high tables in front of the large, picture window that faced Main Street, just as Eddie Friendly hopped onto the curb, grinned at her through the glass pane, and breezed into the bar.

  As if things couldn’t possibly get any worse for her.

  “Clancy,” he said easily as he neared her table.

  As he looked her up and down, making note of the uniform she obviously hadn’t bothered to change out of, he commented, “Rough day.”

  “I don’t care whether you’re asking or telling, Friendly. Go away.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat instead.

  It was at that moment that Rachel decided to make him regret his decision.

  In her most confrontational tone, she warned him, “I know exactly what you are, Friendly.”

  As she narrowed her eyes into glaring slits, his expression shifted and if she wasn’t mistaken, she’d succeeded at rattling his cage right off the bat. He quickly covered the
flicker of concern that had flared behind his eyes. He was good at that. Wearing masks and playing games.

  “Your superior?” he guessed with a slap of insult.

  “For the time being,” she coolly allowed. “I’d rather be a temporary subordinate than a permanent one who serves evil.”

  His friendly demeanor slid off his face, chilling her to the bone. Her own determined expression almost faltered, but as her heart rate kicked up, she tempered her resolve, fixed the antagonistic expression she’d managed on her face, and kept delivering as many verbal blows as she could swing.

  “How’s Dante doing?” she asked mockingly. “He give you permission to be here? You have to get his permission before you do anything, don’t you? How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

  “Oh, this is your attempt at humor,” he said, trying and failing to mock her right back.

  “I’m dead serious, Friendly.”

  “Are you sure?” he challenged.

  “You think I’m afraid of you?”

  She thought he might threaten her but instead he responded, “No. I don’t. There’s no reason for you to be afraid.”

  “When did he turn you?” she pressed.

  Eddie laughed, but to her trained ears it sounded nervous. Strangled almost. Intimidated. “You really think Dante is a werewolf?”

  “Is that how you’re going to play it?” she hissed. “Read the reports. His DNA proves it. He’s one and you’re one, and sooner or later the full moon is going to rise and you won’t be able to hide what you’ve become.”

  “A werewolf?” he questioned as though the notion was ridiculous.

  “That’s what we’re talking about,” she allowed.

  “I’m not a werewolf.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, I’ll give you that.”

  “You don’t really think I’m a werewolf, because if you did, you wouldn’t be egging me on like this.”

  “Oh?”

  “Unless you really are as stupid as everyone thinks,” he returned.