Broken At Love (Whitman University) (18 page)

An older black man tipped his hat at me. “Evening, Miss. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Quinn Rowland.”

“Mr. Rowland leaves strict instructions about letting ladies onto the property.”

“Ah. As in
don’t
let them on the property, I’m guessing.”

“That’s right.”

I put on my best smile. “What’s your name?”

“Ernie, Miss.”

“My name is Emilie Swanson.” He nodded, and I held his gaze. “How long have you worked for the Rowlands, Ernie?”

It was a shot in the dark but he looked at least seventy. I hoped he’d been here a long time.

“Going on thirty years.”

“So you’ve known Quinn a while?”

“Since he was a babe.”

Sadness clung to the corners of his eyes and mouth. It said I didn’t want to know how bad things had really been for little Quinn. I knew enough from his lack of ability to care about himself.

I lowered my voice, adopting a conspiratorial tone that my mother perfected with years of country club gossip. “Then I’m sure you know that sometimes he needs a little help. He’s in a bad way right now, Ernie, and he needs a friend. I swear that’s the only reason I’m here.”

Indecision creased into his wrinkles, but he must have seen my honest intention in my eyes because he opened the gate. Or he was more worried about Quinn’s health than his wrath at being disobeyed. “Cottage around back. Don’t park at the main house or Mr. Theodore Rowland will see your car. He’s not keen on Quinn having visitors of the female variety.”

I’m sure he wasn’t.

“Thank you, Ernie.”

“You take good care of that boy, Miss Swanson. He needs it.”

Tears clogged my throat. I waved and drove onto the winding path before Ernie could see me breakdown over a few kind words. The path, an expensive mixture of paving and gravel, led me past a main house that was a little larger than my father’s main home. I parked behind a huge extra garage, hoping it would hide my car for a few hours, then walked through clumps of trees until I spotted a small cottage.

The scents of the night-blooming flowers in the gardens took my breath away. The cottage was stucco and brick, big enough to have a couple of rooms and a bathroom, but nothing fancy. White eyelet curtains blew in the breeze, tumbling through the open windows on the front, set on either side of a plain wooden door. The moon began to rise, casting a glow on the scene and making it feel as though it could be the setting of a movie.

Trepidation replaced my wonder as I found the courage to knock. After those pictures I had no idea what kind of mess I was going to find on the other side of this door.

It’s still Quinn. You’ll help him
.

I knocked again.

“Go the fuck away!”

The slurred growl gave me only a split-second pause. At least he was conscious. “Quinn, it’s Emilie. I’m not going the fuck away so let me in.”

Shuffled footsteps approached the door, which swung open a moment later.

“Jesus Christ, you’re stubborn as hell.”

“Full of surprises, remember?” I murmured.

He was naked from the waist up, and from the waist down he only wore a pair of mesh shorts that hid nothing. My eyes devoured his delicious skin, the muscles rippling across his stomach, and the tousled bed hair. The combination took my breath away. If I could paint desire it would be him, standing in front of me like this right now.

“I’m not sober enough to be noble, so you should probably stop looking at me like that,” Quinn said softly.

I shook myself from the trance, fastening my gaze to his. “Sorry. How are you?”

“Happy by myself.”

“Quinn.”

“Seriously, Emilie, can you not take a hint?” The muscles in his forearm tensed as he gripped the door. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want to see you anymore? You show up at my father’s house like some kind of stalker…how’d you even get past the gate?”

I wanted to say something smart but didn’t want to get Ernie in trouble.

“Quinn, don’t be like this. I saw the news about your father, and you’ve been missing for weeks. I’m worried. Let me help.”

“Help? How are you supposed to do that, Emilie?” His eyes hardened into jewels, betraying the fact that he had to work hard to keep his emotions in check. “The way I see it, the distraction of the week it took me to get you into bed caused most of my problems. You’ve been trouble since the day you set foot in my house.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“How many ways do I have to say it? I don’t give a shit if I never see your face again. Ever.” He leaned forward, invading my space the way he had the night we met, and once again I wanted to like it less than I did. “I mean it. Figure out a way to believe it. This is your problem, not mine.”

His words sliced me open as surely as any knife. They beat my pride and my confidence with iron fists, knocked the wind out of me. Tears welled up and I let him see, because I was tired of hiding my feelings for him, tired of taking his abuse because he was too scared or fucked up to admit he had them, too.

Behind his anger lurked loathing. But not for me. For himself.

“I suppose you don’t have a problem.”

“Other than you? No.” He slammed the door in my face.

That pissed me off. His words scrolled through my head like a teleprompter. Calling me a stalker, insisting I was nothing more than every other girl he’d seduced effortlessly and kicked to the curb. If he wanted to wallow in his self-pity, then what did it matter to me?

I’d come here to make sure he was okay. He was drunk and meaner than a wet hornet but he wasn’t dead. He’d smelled only like booze and I hadn’t noticed any telltale signs of drug use—no needle marks or runny nose.

He could damn well deal with his issues on his own.

I started to stomp off when three wrapped packages caught my eye. They were propped against the front of the cottage, under the overhand and out of the elements. They looked like canvases. The paper was torn on the largest and I leaned it back to get a better look.

It was mine. The one I’d painted the day we’d slept together at the loft. I’d drank in the lust spinning through my body, the warmth at being able to sit in the silence with Quinn, and let all of the magic of those first feelings pour onto the canvas. I was proud of the piece, too. It was good.

The sight of these three paintings, the silent reminder that Quinn did care, made me stay. I sat on the stoop until I was sure he’d fallen asleep, then let myself inside.

***

It was the second time I watched him sleep.

The lines on his face, born of fury and loss, of the guilt and regret and self-loathing, smoothed away. It left behind the whispers of the boy he could have been and made me smile. A lock of thick black hair—not curly, not straight—fell over his eye and I resisted the urge to brush it away. It would be best if he slept off most of the booze, even if he felt like shit when he woke up.

I dozed, too, after the battery on my phone died and I didn’t have the internet or texts from Ruby to keep me company. He finally stirred, sending the scent of a rather sour-smelling Quinn toward me; he opened an eye, focusing after a struggle.

I put on my best smile. “Good morning, sunshine.”

A groan answered me. He had to feel like shit. If this was all that had been going on, then he’d been drunk for days. Weeks, maybe. I went into the bathroom and got him a glass of water and some ibuprofen, then perched on the edge of the bed.

“Here.”

He sat up, careful not to touch me, and downed my offering. “I’d rather have more booze.”

“I think you’ve had enough for now.”

His sleepy blue eyes, growing sharper by the moment, swept over me. “You’re still here. Why?”

It wasn’t mean anymore. He honestly had no idea why anyone would stay and it split my pounding heart down the middle. “You need a friend.”

We stared at each other for a long time. His eyes were unreadable, wavering between disbelief, wretched hope, and denial. Finally he shrugged and settled back into the pillows. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

Then wicked Quinn emerged. “Does this friendship come with any benefits?”

“Not as long as you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a bum passed out in a fishmonger’s net.”

“Have you smelled a lot of fishmonger nets?” he asked, scooting forward until his face hovered inches from mine.

Being seduced hadn’t been on my mind coming here, but Quinn’s lips within kissing distance certainly put it there. I pulled back. “I wish to remain a mystery in the area of fishmongering. Please go take a shower. I’ll get you some food.”

“Just ring Ang. She’ll bring us whatever you want.”

“What do
you
want?”

His gaze fell lower. “Not food.”

“Quinn, for heaven’s sake. Following your moods is like watching a tennis match. Go away. Sleep with me. Go away. My head’s going to fall off.” I held up my hand before he could reply. “Shower. Breakfast. And
talking
.”

“I’m only listening because I do stink. Just so you know.”

“Noted.”

I pushed the intercom and introduced myself to Angelica. She knew what Quinn wanted for breakfast and I told her I’d take the same, and that we could also use some black coffee. It could have been the connection but her response sounded almost teary.

Maybe there were people that cared about Quinn. But his father paid their salary so they did what they could, when they could. It made me feel a little better to suppose the little boy that grew up in this house had not been totally alone.

He emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, missed water droplets clinging to the hair on his chest and rolling down his stomach. The desire to lick him dry overwhelmed me and I might have acted on it had Angelica not knocked on the door right then.

When I returned with the food he’d put on a clean pair of shorts but nothing else, I’m sure, to make it as hard as possible for me to breathe. It was working.

The waffles with blueberry syrup were delicious; I realized I hadn’t eaten since the Popsicle I’d shared with Ruby in the DE kitchen yesterday afternoon. Quinn perked up with the food and the coffee but fell silent, forgoing his teasing flirtation for quiet. It wasn’t angry or moody, though. It felt comfortable, like the morning we spent together in the loft.

I remembered what else we did in the loft that morning, but pushed it aside. “Thank you for buying my paintings. It kind of sucks that no one wanted them, but it means a lot that you tried to convince my father I wasn’t a failure.”

He jerked his head up, as though surprised I still shared his space. “
I
wanted them. And I didn’t do it for your father. I did it for you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A sudden thought dawned on me. “You funded my scholarship, too. How did you know?”

“Ruby.” The admission was soft but also strong, daring me to give him a hard time for being my secret benefactor.

“Why, Quinn? Why go out of your way to do these beautiful things for me but refuse to speak to me or see me? Be horrible to me in front of your friends?” I knew the answer. I wanted him to say that he cared about me so badly it hurt.

I didn’t think I could be with him again, as much as I longed to, without hearing the words. A long pause told me they weren’t coming.

“I heard about your dad pulling your tuition and Ruby said you were leaving Whitman. I couldn’t…I can’t imagine being somewhere you’re not.” His eyes seared mine, filled with determination and passion.

The words swelled my veins with happiness; it was by far the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. I needed more, though. Maybe I just needed the courage to go first.

“I feel the same way, Quinn. I went into this whole thing with my eyes wide open and knowing everything people said about you, but that first night in your room, when you got angry, I felt the honesty in that moment. Your pain.” I paused, remembering what he’d said in the game room at the SEA house all those weeks ago. “But maybe that’s how you do it. Get girls to feel for you.”

His hand covered mine. “No. I do
not
typically talk about my father or Alexandria. Ever.”

“Anyway, I figured that was it. But the sparks between us were all I could think about and I started to think maybe I could just have you and get it out of my system, you know?”

“I believe I do.” His toying smile said he’d thought the same thing.

“But the night on the beach and then at my studio, you opened up a little more. And I know now it was because I was forcing you to spend time with me before we had sex, but even so. It started to be about more than the sparks and the way my blood boils when I get within ten feet of you.” I looked up, expecting commentary, but found him watching me with big eyes. “There’s something between us that I’ve never felt before, Quinn. Ever. I want more of it. I want you. I fell for you the first day you came to my studio.”

“When you sent me away.”

“Yeah. I knew it was going to be bad. You were getting too close but you wouldn’t stay. I was scared.” I turned my hand over until our palms touched. “But you came back. I don’t even care why anymore. Whether it was because of Sebastian or some twisted game that made you feel like a man again after Alexandria. I only care that you came back. And that we’re here.”

He said nothing, his jaw tensing and loosening as he stared at me, the emotion in his gaze indecipherable. I moved from my chair and slid onto his lap, surprised and turned on by his immediate response pressed against my rear. With my arms around his neck I leaned in, pressing my lips to his.

It felt a little different—it still ignited a bonfire in my blood, but the urgent need to have him grew slower—but the taste of him still went straight to my head. He groaned into my mouth when I licked his bottom lip, his arms tightening around my waist.

I opened my eyes and he did, too. “I fell in love with you completely by accident, Quinn. But I can’t stop now.”

Chapter Twenty