Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense)

by Noir, Mila

  Or maybe she just wanted that to be the case because of her history with the Saints. She didn’t really like being the kind of person who wasn’t sorry other people were dead. But try as she might, she couldn’t muster much sympathy. Maybe they’d really pissed off the wrong person this time.

  Taylor was just beginning to start writing about the different kinds of people you find in a local bar and the private things people will air out in a room full of drunk strangers when the door opened again. She looked up at who was entering on reflex…and froze.

  Anton Quinn. Alive and in the flesh. She immediately noticed that his hair was shorter, but still thick and dark and beautiful. Just like his face. There were a few more lines in it, the features were harder, but he still had those devastating blue eyes that pierced through you with dark, wing-like brows over them, pulled down in a serious expression at all times. And then the feature that softened all of the rest and had made her positive he wasn’t what he seemed; full lips, almost like a woman’s. They rarely smiled, but when they did? It was the kind of smile that could melt your heart. Or break it.

  It was like something out of one of her nightmares. She’d been so sure he wasn’t in Sweethollow anymore. That he must have moved on years ago. He was the last person she ever would have expected to become a “townie.”

  He hadn’t changed the way he dressed much, though it looked like he’d come up a bit in the world in terms of quality. The leather jacket he was wearing looked custom and, unlike in school, nothing was torn or had holes in it. And he wasn’t sporting any suspicious bruises these days, either.

  She watched him stride with an easy confidence to the bar and get something hard and amber colored which he downed straight away. The next one he held and drank more languidly, eyeing the room. Taylor could feel herself trying to shrink, pulling her whole body inwards, trying to melt into the shadows in the corner of her booth.

  Someone in the crowd distracted him with a congenial yell and he walked over to a bunch of guys who looked like the sort he had kind of hung around with in high school. Rough, blue collar, probably also into cars and bikes. She could see he had some new tattoos; just a hint of one was creeping up past his coat collar onto his neck. She wondered how much of the skin below was covered in ink and stopped herself. She was not going to revert to her stupid, naïve high school self, crushing so hard it was almost like being stepped on. She knew better. Much better. Only a complete idiot would ever look at Anton Quinn as anything other than a complete shithead after what he’d done.

  Taylor could feel her heart racing and started to map out an escape route. The only problem? The table with Anton and friends was right next to the door. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her. It was pretty likely he wouldn’t, she looked so different. And with all the noise and people in here, what was one short woman leaving? Nothing, that’s what.

  She paid her check, left too big a tip on principle, and prepared for a quick getaway. She dodged, ducked, and sidestepped dancers, laughing couples, and a stumbling drunk. She sidled around the jukebox that was currently playing “Africa” by Toto at full volume. It seemed like a weird choice, and you couldn’t hear much of it anyway over the general din. Taylor knew all the lyrics, though. She had a fondness for bizarre eighties ballads and had to stop herself from doing an awkward little dance. This wasn’t her apartment, where no one could see her.

  Taylor glanced briefly at the small round table Anton was standing by, drink still in hand. He was listening to two other men as they told some story, laughing loudly, beer bottles clanking together. He wasn’t adding much to whatever they were talking about, just watching them, then those piercing eyes darted around the room. She turned her face away just as they were about to find hers.

  She grasped the door handle. Everything felt weird, slightly askew. Had he seen her? She opened the door and left quickly, breathing heavily as she moved away from the door, making little puffs in the cold night air. She was holding her bag too tight, feeling like she was strangling. She took some more deep breaths, steadied herself. The fall air cooled her cheeks. She ran her fingers through her hair, felt the hot skin on her face. But she’d gotten away.

  The gravel under her feet was reassuringly bumpy, and she took three steps before she heard the bar door open behind her and the sudden sound of loud laughter, music, and glasses clinking that came with it. Then it was shut again, quiet.

  Until a familiar, deep voice, one she’d never thought she’d hear again, said her name.

  “Taylor? Taylor Harlow?” It sent chills up her spine, made the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand up, the way he said it. She closed her eyes for a moment, wondering if she could make herself disappear.

  Then she turned around and looked him straight in the eyes with a small, utterly fake smile on her lips. “Hi, Anton.”

  They stood across from each other in awkward silence for at least a minute, simply looking at each other with a mixture of shock and wariness.

  Taylor noticed the way the light from behind him made Anton look taller than she remembered, broader in the shoulders and chest, too. He wasn’t the slightly slim youth she’d known; he was a man now. Strong and well muscled and striking. He’d gotten better looking with age, which seemed unfair. She was trying to decide how she felt, other than confused. This was the one thing she hadn’t expected when she came back to Sweethollow and it was the one thing she’d wanted, more than anything, to avoid.

  Except now that he was there, breathing and beautiful, she wondered if maybe she hadn’t wanted this all along.

  ***

  For his part, Anton was in complete shock. Not just because Taylor was the last person he’d expected to see in The Horned Owl that night, but because he’d recognized her at all. She looked incredibly different. Gone was the gawky girl, the braces and the fuzzily, endearingly, bad hair. The person who stood before him was a stylish young woman, curved and confident, with soft auburn hair and the kind of figure men dreamt about. He shouldn’t have been able to tell who she was, but something about the tilt of her head and the look in those big dark eyes and he’d just…known. Like some kind of extra sense.

  “Hi, Anton. Good to see you. Although, I have to be honest, I’m sort of surprised to. I never thought you’d stick around Sweethollow,” Taylor said. Her voice was soft, a touch deeper than when they’d been in school together. Anton could tell the smile wasn’t really real. It didn’t reach those hypnotizing eyes. They were so dark, he couldn’t tell the color and couldn’t remember it from before, either.

  “So it is you. It’s been awhile,” he said. She put her hands in her pockets and nodded.

  “About ten years,” she answered a bit curtly. But then, she had no reason to be nice to Anton Quinn, no reason to give him anything more than the bare minimum. Not even that, if she didn’t want to. She owed him nothing. She was merely being polite, he told himself. Probably so she could move on knowing she was definitely the bigger person. Not that that was ever really in doubt, he thought.

  “What have you been up to?” he asked, feeling stupid. The truth was, he didn’t know what to say to her, now that she was in front of him. “I’m sorry” seemed inadequate.

  “I’m a journalist in the city now. Came up here for a little holiday, maybe write a little something on the festival.”

  “Seems like a boring-ass thing to write about, really. Why not write about the Saints’ deaths instead?” he said, eliciting a look of surprise and irritation.

  “Since I’m the writer, I’ll decide what to write about, thanks. If you don’t mind, I’m heading out. I had a long drive,” she said, and he mentally slapped himself. He’d basically just accused her of being boring, or incompetent, or both. Great, good going, that was definitely the approach he wanted to take.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around town. Catch up some more,” he said, trying to sound like it didn’t matter. He wished it didn’t, but now that he’d seen her again, he wanted very much to ask her out for coffee and t
ry to explain things. To make amends. And maybe see her in the daylight, where he could fully appreciate those mature curves.

  “I wouldn’t count on it. I’m not really in the mood for any trips down memory lane. I think you know why,” Taylor answered, her voice sharp.

  “That was a long damn time ago,” he said quietly, feeling guilty. Which made him feel something else: angry.

  “Yes. Thankfully. But we’re not friends, and we never were. And we’ve clearly gone in very different directions in our lives,” she said with a sniff. He felt himself get flushed. She was looking down on him, judging him. She thought she was better than him. Well, isn’t she? a little voice in his head sneered. He hated that voice. It sounded a lot like his dad’s.

  “Well, I can see one thing hasn’t changed about you. You’re still a snotty little know-it-all who thinks they’re better than everyone,” he said, voice rough. He saw her eyes flash and her cheeks flush. It was incredibly becoming.

  “Thank you for that. I was wondering if you’d changed at all. I guess not. And for the record? I’m certainly better than some people. Good night,” she said, and walked off. He heard her car door slam and watched her hightail it out of the parking lot. He rubbed his forehead, feeling stupid and angry and frustrated. That hadn’t gone at all how he’d always pictured it in his head.

  To be honest, his fantasy of telling Taylor Harlow he was sorry had always been a bit one-sided. He’d say he was really sorry, she’d forgive him, and it would be done. No muss, no fuss, he’d be absolved of his sin and everything would be fine and dandy forever. What she had never been in his fantasy of it was so…pretty. And sexy. And confident. She’d still been that gawky teen he’d known, grateful for his attention and his sincere apology.

  The woman she’d become was clearly not even remotely interested in him or how sorry he was. And why should she be? She’d had ten years to get over it. To probably remember him as nothing but an asshole that she’d made the mistake of liking at one point or other and trying to befriend.

  Anton looked back at the bar, but all interest in drinking, socializing, and even screwing had fled. He just wanted to crawl into bed and forget this night had ever happened.

  And he especially wanted to forget the way Taylor Harlow’s dark eyes had looked at him with contempt, or the way he’d caught himself looking at her soft, sweet lips and wondering what they’d feel like under his.

  But mostly what Anton wanted to forget was that he was who he was and had done the things he’d done.

  You can’t escape yourself, though. And he knew it.

  ***

  Taylor drove back to the hotel with the window open, the cold air keeping her overly hot face from catching fire. Or that’s what it felt like. She was still shaking from her run-in with Anton, and her stomach felt wobbly.

  She wasn’t sure how she’d pictured running into him again. Maybe she’d always avoided even considering the possibility. She’d certainly avoided it while driving up to Sweethollow, convincing herself he was long gone and couldn’t possibly still be around. Well, that had blown up spectacularly.

  Consequently, she wasn’t at all prepared for the onslaught of emotions she was currently feeling. Was she angry? Scared? Tired? Excited? Hungry? A million things spun around her head, memories, conversations she’d rather not relive. And, of course, this recent scene outside the bar. That had been…stressful. She’d wanted to project a kind of nonchalance, like she just didn’t think about him and hadn’t in years. And instead, with the slightest provocation, she was basically insulting him like a schoolgirl whose pigtails had been pulled. Real mature.

  She pulled into the lot by the hotel and put her forehead against the steering wheel.

  “Damn,” she muttered.

  She’d hoped, she realized, that if she ever did run into Anton again he’d have gone the way of the Saints. Paunchy, shrunken somehow, meaner and looking older than their years. Once their youth had gone, they weren’t even conventionally good-looking any more.

  But Anton. Whew. He was definitely still beautiful. More so, even. The years had given him more of an edge, strengthened some of the softness, almost prettiness of his teen looks. He’d clearly kept in excellent shape. And he carried himself differently. Probably because his awful father was gone and there wasn’t anyone who was going to try to hurt him anymore.

  And those eyes. She’d forgotten how riveting they were. Like chips of ice at first. Cold and distance, with glaciers behind them you could never touch. But then, when you got to know him? Warm blue waters of the Caribbean fringed with lashes so dark and thick they were like birds’ wings.

  She’d looked at those eyes for hours, it seemed, in school. When he wasn’t looking, of course. Not that anyone would have noticed her back then. Not in a good way, anyway. But sometimes he’d been nice. Friendly, even. They’d chatted when no one else was around. She’d listened to him and he’d opened up a few times. She’d even thought a few times that…well…it didn’t matter now and it was stupid then.

  Which was one of the reasons why what had happened between them had hurt so much. She’d thought he was different. But he’d turned out to be just like everyone else. Maybe worse, because she’d allowed herself to trust him and he’d exploited it.

  She made her way back inside, suddenly utterly exhausted. It would have been nice to pretend it was the drive and all the prep she was going to need to do for her story. But it was Anton, of course. It was hard enough being in Sweethollow with the good memories of Grams and the bad memories of just about everything else. But to have been confronted with her worst memory, in the flesh, her first night?

  Taylor crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her head, not bothering to even take off her boots or jacket. She curled up like a child, hugging her knees. She wished her grams was there now, to stroke her hair, sing her a lullaby, or offer a treat. She could really go for some pie right about now.

  She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Was all of this worth it for a story? Was she really going to get what she wanted out of this and keep her emotions in check? Maybe writing about face creams and weight loss wasn’t all that bad. She could pack up now, go back to her cramped, shared apartment, go to work and tell them there was no story, just an unfortunate accident. She could make a clean getaway.

  Sighing, she pulled the covers back over her head. That wasn’t her way. Grams had taught her better than to just give up because things got difficult. Okay, so, this was definitely not going according to plan. But she could manage it. She’d dealt with worse.

  Taylor drifted off and slipped into sleep, trying not to think about a pair of beautiful blue eyes, dark brows like wings, and the sound of mocking laughter.

  ***

  The Rider could sense her in the dark, and she could sense it. Whether it had been male or female didn’t matter; it was a Thing now, a thing of shadows and pain and death. And something more. Something like justice, just without trial or jury or law. It was the justice of beasts. Of the wild. It was pure, somehow. True.

  It wanted something from her, but she didn’t know what. It was calling to her from behind eyes blind to anything but vengeance. To anything but blood.

  She stood on the bridge in her nightgown, small again, cold and alone and afraid. It was coming for her. Bearing down on her, the eyes of the horse it rode red and insane, smoke curling from its flaring nostrils, something dark dripping from its haggard face.

  Her bare feet moved without her thinking, beginning to run, to pound across cold ground that was hard and treacherous with dry leaves. She ran, her breath like knives in her lungs, her head aching, feet getting cut, legs scratched from brambles and twigs. But the bridge was still too close, the Rider was still coming, faster and faster.

  She was grown now, in a different nightgown, still white, still cold, still night. The Rider stood above her, too tall, like a giant. The horse snorted and she thought she could hear it, sniffing for her. She stood still, like a statue, a
fraid to move or breathe.

  The Rider dismounted and walked towards her, invisible spurs clanking, big boots thumping.

  Suddenly she wasn’t afraid. She was excited. The way it walked, it was familiar somehow. The face was covered by a large dark hood, so all she could see were burning eyes, like embers.

  Embers that became blue.

  The Rider stood before her and reached out a gloved hand…to softly touch her cheek. She smiled up at it and gently pushed back the hood.

  Anton’s face looked down at her, blue eyes dark with passion. She could look at his face forever, the lines, the shape of his mouth, the feel of his hair. Then she was in his arms, swept up against the heat of him, and his lips were descending.

  And she wanted him. Like she had always wanted him. Would always want him. She wanted this. Craved it, even. She’d dreamed of it and fantasized about it since high school. Since she’d been old enough to know what wanting was. She’d wanted him more than anything. More than air to breathe or food to eat.

  His face had captivated her, his voice, the smell and feel of him. And now he was here, against her, pressed tight and warm. She could feel the stubble on his cheeks, feels the long strands of his silky hair between her fingers. She could see every lash on his eyes, feel his chest rising and falling beneath her hands.

  Their lips were nearly touching, she could feel his breath against hers…just a little closer. A little closer and she would finally get to know what it was like to kiss him. To be with him. To feel him and know him with her body. To know what all of these feelings led to, to follow them to their inevitable end. To die a little, in his arms, and wake up someone new. Just a little closer. So skin could meet skin. A little closer and she could love him. Wrap herself around him, bring him into her, and be complete. Just…a little closer…a little closer and his lips would be hers. He would be hers, forever. Just a little closer…