Something Like Redemption (Something Like Normal #2)

by Monica James

  I gasp, my already needy body loving his suggestion.

  He shakes his head, his sleep tousled hair falling over his brow. “But that could take all day.” He tosses the blanket off our heads, the sunlight blinding us both. “So for now, I’ll settle for breakfast.”

  My lips dip into an involuntary frown because my appetite only hungers for a big portion of Quinn, Quinn, and more Quinn.

  Lost in those mouth-watering thoughts, Quinn nudges forward so we are nose to nose, and whispers deeply, “Oh, Red. Make no mistake… I’ll be having you for dessert.” He kisses my parted lips, leaving me breathless.

  ***

  After my intense dream, my oversexed brain can think of nothing but Quinn and me rolling around naked. Any surface will suffice.

  Looking down at the table in front of me, I can’t help the smile which spreads from cheek to cheek.

  “Glad you’re feeling better,” Justin says, snapping me out of my wicked thoughts.

  “Huh?” I reply a little forcefully, annoyed that my daydream has been interrupted.

  Quinn chuckles to my left while digging into his pancakes, knowing exactly where my thoughts were.

  “You just look better than yesterday,” Justin clarifies, sipping his coffee.

  “Oh, right. Yeah, I am,” I reply, reaching for my juice.

  There’s a motive for me inviting Justin out to breakfast. After last night, I’m onto him. Something is just not right about him, and I need to figure out what that is.

  I’ve yet to tell Quinn that I overheard Justin’s weird phone conversation because I don’t need to add any fuel to that fire. Quinn hates him enough as it is. Telling Quinn I’m suspicious of Justin will only result in Quinn reaching over this table and happily slapping the truth out of him. I don’t think that really qualifies as keeping a low profile.

  As I grip my fork, I hiss out in pain, forgetting my injured palm.

  “What happened?” Justin asks, gesturing with his chin to my bandaged hand.

  Quinn tenses near me, but I use Justin’s question as my loophole.

  “I cut my palm while trying to protect myself,” I reply coolly, sitting backward, attempting to gauge Justin’s reaction.

  He remains calm and collected as he replies around a mouthful of food, “Oh yeah? From whom?”

  “From my father,” I state nonchalantly, watching closely for any changes in his expression.

  Quinn’s back straightens instantly, and his hand grips my upper thigh under the table, obviously questioning my motives.

  “Oh? He still a deadbeat?” Justin casually asks, staring me straight in the eye.

  “Something like that,” I reply just as causally, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Quinn remains silent, watching our exchange with interest.

  “Well, if he’s anything like I remember, he’s a lowlife scumbag,” Justin plainly states before popping a strawberry into his mouth.

  “Your memory serves you well,” I reply, attempting to remain calm while my heart threatens to beat out of my chest.

  “Why is he after you?” Justin asks after a minute of silence, pushing his barely touched breakfast to the side.

  The whole table waits for my answer, and as I take a small, casual sip of my orange juice, I shrug. “Because I shot him.”

  Quinn chokes on his coffee, thumping his chest to clear his throat. But Justin and I never break eye contact, nor does his reaction alter with my earth shattering news.

  So, he’s either not affected that he’s sharing his car with a self-confessed criminal…

  Or, he already knew.

  I’m betting on the latter.

  Justin is the first to look away, clearing his throat.

  “Well, you always were a bad ass. Looks like some things never change.” He reaches for his coffee, his hand wavering slightly.

  But my gaze never falters.

  ***

  The waitress slides us our bill after we finish eating, although I mainly picked at my eggs because I lost my appetite after my talk with Justin.

  Justin throws some money onto the table, excusing himself when his phone loudly rings.

  As he pushes through the glass door, the bell jingling with his exit, Quinn leans into my ear and whispers bitterly, “Care to tell me what that was about?”

  “You’re right; there is something off about Justin. I was just testing the waters,” I reply, matching his low tone.

  Quinn pulls back, eyes wide. “What’s changed your mind? Why do you suddenly distrust him?”

  “I never trusted him, Quinn. The only person I trust… is you,” I reply, biting my lip with my confession.

  Quinn’s eyes soften, and I can’t help myself as I reach forward, brushing a fallen wisp of hair off his brow. His hair has grown so long he can now tie it back with ease, though stubborn strands keep slipping free from his ponytail, framing his handsome face.

  “So, what are you thinking?” he questions, turning his cheek into my palm and sighing when I stroke him softly.

  “I’m thinking Justin knew I shot my dad. The suburb I grew up in isn’t huge, and news like that would have spread like wildfire.”

  “So why is he helping you out? What’s his deal?”

  I shrug, removing my palm. “That, I’m not sure of.”

  Quinn scratches his whiskered chin. “Well, we’ll find out,” he replies with a smirk.

  “How?” I arch an inquisitive brow.

  Quinn sucks on his lip ring, his dimple hinting at the wicked plan he’s currently conspiring. “We get the jockstrap wasted and find out what the fuck he knows.”

  ***

  Justin has been MIA for most of the morning, which is handy, as we’ve just gotten off the phone to Tabitha.

  She advised us not to do anything drastic until she talks to her dad, as she thinks our idea of staying put is a horrible one. We’re to call her back tomorrow, and hopefully, she’ll have some miracle solution, because I’m fresh outta ideas.

  Running may be the best option, but it’s proven not to be the safest. But neither is sitting and waiting to be cornered by two deadly, soulless motherfuckers.

  Quinn has been awfully quiet since speaking to Abi, and I wonder what’s on his mind.

  “Are you all right?” I ask as we stroll toward the hotel, dodging crazy Christmas shoppers with hands filled with shopping bags.

  Quinn shrugs, which worries me.

  “Hey,” I say, placing my hand on his bicep, stopping him from taking another step.

  Quinn rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, meeting my eyes with a look of dread. “I’ve thought of a plan,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “But I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it.” His lips dip into a small frown.

  My hand drops from his arm and I tilt my head to the side. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  Quinn’s green eyes soften, and I wonder what’s going on behind those soulful orbs.

  “We smoke out your dad,” he replies, running a hand through his messy hair.

  I raise an eyebrow and Quinn sighs, closing his eyes briefly.

  As he reopens them, the pain is evident with every deep breath he takes. “Let that fucker find us, and when he does, you let me deal with him… my way.”

  I know Quinn’s way entails a lot of violence, and ultimately, murder.

  “No, absolutely not!” I start to hyperventilate. “No way in hell are you going anywhere near him. It’s too dangerous. You saw what they did to H—” I stop, unable to finish my sentence.

  “If we’re smart, then the only death will be theirs,” Quinn mutters, his voice quivering with wrath.

  “I can’t ask you to—” I pause when an elderly couple walk past us, oblivious to our poisonous conversation. “—kill my dad,” I continue with a whisper when the coast is clear.

  “You’re not asking me to do anything,” Quinn says, hooking his thumb toward his chest. “This is my choice.”

  “It’s not the right choice,” I say
quickly, begging him to listen to reason.

  “It’s the only choice,” he spits stubbornly, shaking his head. “Running from those motherfuckers is no longer an option. I don’t know how, but they keep tracing our steps. So it’s only a matter of time until one of us slips up, and I’d prefer it to be them.”

  By the hard resolve of his jaw, I know his mind is made up.

  Deciding to humor him, I ask, “What do you suggest?”

  Quinn sighs, running a hand over his weary face, weighing up his reply.

  “How do you trap a predator?” he asks, looking as if he’s about to be sick, and suddenly, I know why.

  “With bait,” I reply softly, meeting his grief-stricken eyes.

  So, in other words… me.

  Chapter 25

  Cojones

  So, operation BAIT sounds like an awful plan in theory, but in reality, it’s the only plan we have if we don’t run. I know eventually my dad will track me down if we stay put, and I would rather be prepared when he does.

  The police will hopefully see reason once I confess my story, but my dad and Phil, they won’t. Therefore, I’m more afraid of getting caught by them than by the police.

  So with no other option, my dad and Phil have to die.

  That was always the plan, but I was hoping it would be when I was a little less of a fugitive. I want to make myself known to my dad, but still remain evasive to the police. It’s hard to do both, but I’ve been doing a good job of it thus far.

  Quinn looks incredibly plagued by his suggestion, but I get it, and I know he has my back. There is no cemented plan just yet, but we’ve agreed to stay underground from the police, but wave a red flag for my dad and Phil, and hope like hell they’ll come charging.

  When they do, Quinn and I will be ready.

  And to be ready, we need guns.

  Lots of them.

  The only problem is, how do we obtain an arsenal with no ID and just a wad of cash to back us up?

  We can’t. Well, not legally, anyway. And this is where my street smarts come in handy. I know shady when I see it, and a fruit shop, which doesn’t actually sell any fruit is way shady.

  “Let me go in,” Quinn says, yanking my hand, trying to stop me from waltzing into the alleged fruit shop in a back alleyway downtown.

  “No way,” I reply with half a chuckle. “Leave this to me.”

  Quinn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose when I make it clear I’m going inside.

  To ease the tension, I try and make light of what we’re about to do. “You do remember what I used to do for a living, right?”

  Quinn’s lips dip into a frown as he takes a steadying breath. “Every day, Red,” he replies sorrowfully.

  Standing on tippy toes, I kiss his luscious lips quickly, appreciating the empathy, but it’s not necessary.

  “Trust me?” I say, resting my forehead against his.

  “With my life,” he replies without a second thought.

  I smile, as the feeling is reciprocated.

  Looking up and down the small, cobblestone alley to ensure we haven’t been followed, I give Quinn one final, reassuring look and enter the narrow doorway with Quinn following close behind.

  The heavy set, older Puerto Rican woman behind the front counter eyes us, no doubt committing our faces to memory.

  “What you want?” she scowls in broken English, crossing her arms over her bountiful bust.

  A few bananas and apples decorate the near bare shelves, hoping to convince any poor soul who happens to make a wrong turn, that this is an actual operational fruit shop, but I know I’m right, and that we have come to the right place.

  Looking subtly around the small space, I see the blinking red lights of four security cameras, filming our every move, and I know if we make the wrong move, it’ll be the last we ever make.

  Wishing I paid more attention in Spanish class, I’m forced to utilize my street slang.

  “Roscoe or Gats, you selling?” I ask, taking a look behind her shoulder to where a beaded curtain sways with the steady flow of the air-conditioning.

  Guns have so many street names, it’s hard to know which to use, but often when someone wants to use a code for weaponry, so that bystanders don’t overhear, they’ll pick a word starting with the same letter, so only the insiders understand. For example: Roscoe for revolver. Gat for gun, and so on.

  The lady’s brown eyes narrow as she sizes me up, and Quinn is instantly flush against me, letting me know he’s got my back if things go south.

  “No English,” she says, waving me off and shaking her head, her grey-streaked bun bopping with the momentum.

  I know for a fact she’s lying, so I resort to using the universal language that every individual on this planet understands.

  The language of money.

  Bending slowly with my hand raised in surrender, I use the other to reach into my boot.

  “I’m not carrying,” I say, my eyes never leaving hers as I watch her hand dip under the counter, no doubt to reach for a piece.

  “Dinero,” is all I say, giving her a small nod.

  Bypassing my knife, my fingers twitch for the metal security, but I instead reach for the roll of one hundred dollar notes sitting snugly inside my shoe. Pulling out the cash, I slowly hold it above my head with my hands still raised, indicating I mean no harm.

  Taking two cautious steps toward her with Quinn following in hot pursuit, I place the roll of hundreds onto the bench and simply say, “Pistolas.”

  Taking a step back and lowering my hands to chest level, I watch as she greedily eyes the money. I can practically see her counting the cash in her head and I know we’re good. With a flick of her head over her left shoulder, she directs me toward the storeroom out back.

  “Gracias,” I nod, reaching for Quinn’s hand and walking slowly but confidently toward the back of the room.

  “Why do I have a feeling you’ve done that before?” he whispers into my ear, his long hair tickling my cheeks.

  I only smile over my shoulder in response, as I don’t care to admit how many times I’ve been involved in a situation like this.

  Pushing apart the red and white beaded curtain, I scan over everything, just like I used to when delivering drugs. Old habits die hard, I guess.

  The storeroom is a smallish, dark warehouse, with a roller door as our only other exit if things get dicey. There are a few dozen wooden crates stored throughout the warehouse floor, and I glance above me to the second level, scanning the area for hidden men, waiting for an ambush. Thankfully, there isn’t any.

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, a man with a curly moustache, taupe flares, and heavy gold chains decorating his thick neck comes strolling out from an office, approaching us with a cocky, shit-eating grin. This dude is obviously stuck in the 70’s and lacks zero balls, as he has six beefy men standing closely behind him with machine guns strapped over their chests like badges of honor.

  Douches like this act as if heavy armor makes a man, or gives them the balls to be in this line of work. Little do they know, it’s not the gun that makes the man—instead, it’s his honor. And it’s his heart.

  The man standing behind me is the perfect example of what a real man encompasses.

  “What you want?” he asks in a thick Spanish accent, twirling the left side of his moustache as he eyes me hungrily.

  This dick is making my skin crawl, and the sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can disinfect myself and rid my body of his pollutant scent.

  With no hesitation, I rattle off my list, which consists of a colorful selection of pump action shotguns, Glocks, Berettas, my all-time personal favorite—Colts—and just for fun, two AK47s.

  He smiles a reptilian smirk, and I nearly gag.

  “A girl who knows what she wants. I likie.” He licks his lips, making it more than obvious he’s ogling my boobs.

  Quinn growls and I place my hand behind me, stopping his advance, as that’s exactly what this scumbag wants
.

  I want this Little League hero out of my life, so I’m direct, ensuring I don’t mince my words. “Look, enough with the talking. Do we have a deal or not?”

  “Oh, we do.” He chuckles, motioning with his greasy head for his goons to bring the goods.

  The whole while, the dickhead eyes me off, attempting to intimidate me. But I just match his stare, crossing my arms over my chest defiantly.

  “Senorita, you got some cojones,” he says with a smirk, then flicks his reptilian eyes to Quinn. “Maybe more than your little amigo.”

  Before Quinn can react, I laugh. “He’s got enough cojones for the both of us.” I give him a playful wink.

  He breaks out into a raspy fit of laughter, and thankfully, there’s no more cojones talk.

  Waiting while this lowlife checks me out to the sound of Richie Valens singing “La Bamba,” is as clichéd as it sounds, so when the henchman come back out bearing arms, my heart beats in excitement. This is the first step toward taking my life back.

  This is the first step toward avenging Hank.

  “You know how to handle these?” asks a beefy goon cockily, while handing me a Glock 19.

  Scoffing, I pull back the hammer, cock the gun, and let off a round into the far corner of the warehouse, narrowing missing the goon’s head. All the men jump, startled, not anticipating me to shoot the gun, but hey, a girl’s gotta feel comfortable with her piece.

  “I’ve handled bigger,” I joke, slipping the pistol into the back of my jeans, resting it in the small of my back.

  All the men, excluding Quinn, chuckle, and I roll my eyes.

  Men—tell them a dick joke and they’re putty in your hands.

  The henchmen pass Quinn the rest of the guns and he quickly places them into his backpack, never meeting my eyes. I pull out a wad of bills from my boot and walk confidently toward the hero, handing him the roll of cash.