That. Or you’re using it as convenient excuse to avoid being completely honest.
Quinn shoved aside the voice in his head guiltily. “Ask me anything else, Ginnie.”
“All right. What’s the going rate for a lap dance?”
The unexpected question startled him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I want one of those girls…” She pointed toward the closest mini-stage. “To give me a lap dance. Shimmy shimmy shake herself all over me.”
“That is not happening.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s not up to you.”
“You’re drunk, and – ” he cut himself off, sure he was just going to dig a hole he couldn’t readily climb out of.
“And what?”
Quinn ran a hand over his hair. “And something obviously happened in that elevator that’s affected your judgement.”
“You don’t know a damned thing. And being unreasonable is my prerogative.”
“You’re right. I don’t know a damned thing because you won’t tell me a damned thing. But taking you out of here before you do something you regret is my prerogative.”
“You’re not exactly being forthcoming, either. And you don’t get to make decisions for me.”
“Clearly, someone has to,” Quinn muttered.
“Why do you care what I do with my lap?”
Because your brother is paying me to care.
Quinn clamped down his jaw – hard – to stop the furious, barely true statement from slipping out.
Now isn’t the time.
He leaned back on his chair.
“I don’t care,” he lied. “If you want a damned lap dance, get a damned lap dance.”
For a second, he was sure he saw hurt mingled with surprise in her eyes, and then it was gone. “Fine.”
“Hell, I’ll pay for it myself.”
He dragged his wallet from his back pocket, peeled out two fifties, and held them up until the waitress bounced over.
“Tell her what you want,” he ordered.
Ginnie’s eyes widened nervously, and her voice had a distinct tremor in it. “A lap dance.”
The waitress shrugged. “For you or him, sugar?”
Quinn watched Ginnie inhale and smooth her hands over her very short skirt, visibly steeling herself. “For me.”
“Private room?”
“Yes, pl – yes,” Ginnie said firmly.
The server’s eyes flicked back to Quinn. “It’s an extra twenty if you want to watch.”
He opened his mouth to tell her how little interest he had in seeing someone grind all over Ginnie, but when he actually spoke, what he said instead was, “I wouldn’t miss it for the fucking world.”
Twenty-Seven
On shaking legs, Ginnie followed the waitress across the bar.
You should stop this before it goes too far, ordered a voice in her head.
But she couldn’t.
She didn’t even know what too far was. And she needed…something. She didn’t know what that was, either. The liquor hadn’t washed away the sickening memory of Lawrence’s mouth pressed to hers, nor had it cleared what he’d said about Quinn not possibly wanting her just for her. And his ink…Who cared about its why? But all of that created a nagging doubt that even the cloud of alcohol couldn’t cover.
And still Ginnie wished she had another shot of vodka.
The waitress stopped in front of a small, curtained-off area in the corner of the club, then turned and faced them.
“You probably know the drill,” she said to Quinn. “But in case she doesn’t – ” A nod toward Ginnie. “Or in case you conveniently forget…I’ll go over the rules. You do not touch the girl. You do not touch the girl. And you do not touch the girl. Got it?”
“Yes.” Ginnie’s voice was an embarrassing – and humiliated – whisper.
The fact that this girl recognized Quinn for the strip club type…Ginnie hated it.
“You?” the server prodded.
“Yeah, I got it,” Quinn confirmed.
“Good. The rooms back onto a one-way mirror. Break the rules and you can bet your ass you’ll wind up with a broken arm.” The waitress smiled sweetly. “Get comfortable. Your dancer will be with you shortly.”
As she flounced away, Quinn reached around Ginnie to grab the curtain and pull it aside. For one, blissful second, the scent of him filled her nostrils. And she felt okay. Drunk. But all right.
Then Quinn stepped back and the feeling was lost, and Ginnie was drowning again.
“You heard the girl,” Quinn said gruffly. “Get comfortable.”
Ginnie took a cautious step into the so-called private room. It was small. Barely big enough to fit her and Quinn, let alone have enough space to fit another girl.
Not a lot of room needed for a dry-hump, I guess.
The thought might’ve made her laugh if it hadn’t been so true.
A wide backed chair – wooden with a green plush seat – sat in the center, and some kind of filtered light hung above it, casting a weird spotlight.
Is it supposed to be sexy?
If it was, Ginnie was going to have to rethink her own definition of the word. To her, it looked like an interrogation room. In fact, if she thought about it, the setup kind of did remind her of the interrogation room at the airport.
One-way mirror? Check.
Solitary chair, bolted to the floor? Check.
Distinct feeling of discomfort? Double check.
“You’re going to have to sit down,” Quinn told her.
“You sit down,” she retorted childishly.
“You don’t have to prove anything, Ginnie. Not to me.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything! Not to you. Not to Lawrence.” She snapped her mouth shut as Quinn’s face clouded.
“What did he do to you in that elevator?”
Sickness rose in Ginnie’s stomach and she fought it off. “Nothing. All I want is a lap dance.”
“All I want is to know what the fuck happened. What changed?”
“Changed? We met a day and a half ago,” she said. “That’s barely long enough for a first impression let alone long enough to decide that I’ve changed.”
“You know damned well that’s not what I mean.” He tapped on his lip ring. “You’re smart and sexy and sweet and too good for this girls-gone-wild bullshit.”
Too good.
The phrase was too damned close to what Lawrence had said in the elevator. Nausea hit Ginnie again.
She shook her head. “I’ve spent the last twelve years – half my life in case you’re counting – trying to be the best me I can be. I’ve always thought that being on the straight and narrow would lead me somewhere good instead of – ”
Quinn cut her off, his face darkening even more. “Instead of what? Hanging out in a strip bar with a man like me?”
Ginnie swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Instead of dead like my mother. Or overwhelmed and then just gone like my father.”
“Jesus, baby.”
“I don’t want your pity, Quinn.”
“I’m not offering you pity. Is that what you think this is? All I want is to help you.”
“I don’t need your help, either.”
“Tell me what you do want from me,” he said, almost pleading.
“I want you to tell me why.”
“Why what?”
“Why me?” Ginnie was surprised at the amount of bitterness in her own tone. “Is it because I’m nice? Because you think I’m sweet? Naïve? You want to put me up on a pedestal? Or would you prefer to tear me down?”
She was driving a wedge between them. She could feel herself doing it, and she couldn’t make herself stop, even though all she really wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and let it all out.
And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why Quinn was putting up with it, why he was sticking around when he could be running in the other direction. Should be running.
He
paced the tiny room, once, then twice, then a third time, then ran his fingers through his faux-hawk and slumped into the chair. He looked from Ginnie’s face to his rough fingers, then back again. His expression was haggard enough that her heart lurched.
Weak, she chastised herself.
But she still wished she had the courage to reach for him.
“Baby – ” he started, then stopped abruptly as the curtain behind them slid open.
Ginnie spun to face the dancer and sucked in a gulp of air at the girl’s appearance.
No wonder Quinn’s suddenly tongue tied.
The girl was leggy and exotic, with full, pouty lips, and kohl-rimmed eyes a color that Ginnie couldn’t quite pinpoint. Her skirt made Ginnie’s look like a burka, and her sheer blouse left nothing to the imagination.
Until that moment, Ginnie had never thought of herself as plain – not that she was high on her own looks, but she wasn’t oblivious to her appearance, either. But in comparison to the dancer, she felt like a troll.
Are those jewels on her nipples?
Yes. Yes, they were.
As a low, rhythmic beat filled the room, the girl shook, and the jewels caught the spotlight and sent little shimmers bouncing along the black curtains. Ginnie guessed that might be the very reason for the light’s existence.
With a red face, she realized she was staring, and she jerked her eyes away from the dancer’s ample chest. But the only other place to look was at Quinn, and the last thing she wanted was to see his attention on her.
You can’t just stand here with your eyes closed.
Reluctantly, her gaze sought the big, tattooed man.
The other girl had taken another, shimmying step toward him, and too late, Ginnie clued in to what was about to happen. He was in the chair. He was going to have the girl gyrating on his lap.
Jealousy hit her like a semi-truck.
Oh no.
But he wasn’t looking at the dancer at all. Not even when she reached his knee and spread her thighs overtop of it and thrust her hips forward in time with the music. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Ginnie, burning with intensity.
“I don’t want to do either of those things you mentioned. Not tear you down from a pedestal or hold you up on one.” His voice was just barely louder than the music, and thick with emotion. “You want to know if I like you because you’re sweet and naïve and good? Yes. Plus a hundred other reasons that are going to take me a lot longer than a three-minute bump and grind to explore. But saying I like you because you’re sweet is like saying I’m attracted to you because you have pretty eyes. It’s so much more than that. It’s more than a fucking strip bar and a fight about a lap dance and a weekend in Vegas. You’re so much more than that, baby. From the second I laid eyes on you at that airport bar, you’ve been the only thing I think about. The only thing in my head. And you know what? I don’t want to get you out. I don’t even want to try. That’s why – the biggest reason anyway – that I didn’t just jump into bed with you and why I’m trying to stop you from going ass-crazy and doing something you’ll regret and why I need to make sure you’re okay. Can’t you see that I care about you this much and it’s only been a couple of days and – fuck. Not even a couple. Whatever this connection is between us, Ginnie, I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to make it less than it is by saying it’s just about your goodness or my badness or ideals or those tidy boxes you like so much. What I do want is to take it and see how much further it can go.”
When he finished his speech, the room felt still, and Ginnie was surprised to see that the dancer was still going, moving as though he hadn’t said a word.
Maybe she doesn’t care. Or maybe she’s used to it.
Quinn didn’t seem fazed by the other girl’s attention, either. His gaze continued to hold Ginnie.
“There’s no way in hell you don’t feel it, too.”
She couldn’t deny it, even if she wanted to. But her mouth was too dry to speak. And her heart was pounding unevenly in her chest, and she didn’t know whether it was from fear of Quinn’s declaration, or from the rapidly waning effects of the alcohol, or whether it was because she was still hung up on what happened in the elevator with Lawrence.
All three, probably.
The way Quinn pulled at her, made her heart beat fast and ache at the same time…it terrified her. The liquor made her worry that she couldn’t control it. And Lawrence. She felt like the six years she’d spent with the man was a blank. A black out. Two thousand, one hundred and ninety-one days of nothing. He didn’t know her. He probably never had.
“He kissed me,” she finally managed to choke out.
“What?”
“Lawrence kissed me,” Ginnie repeated. “And in my head, I know it doesn’t make sense for me to be so horrified. I didn’t kiss anyone but Lawrence for six years. But how dare he call me pretty and think that I’m going to kiss him back? How dare he make me not good enough, and then make me the other woman and make me doubt myself and kiss me?”
“Ginnie – ”
She cut him off. “I can still taste him. I thought the vodka might help wash it away. But he tasted like booze and now I taste like booze and I think I might’ve made it worse. I don’t want to taste him, Quinn.”
And for the first time, Quinn acknowledged the dancer.
“Off,” he commanded roughly.
But the girl didn’t move. Not quick enough, anyway. He shoved his chair back, put a hand on her arm, and moved toward Ginnie.
And he only made it two steps before a three-hundred pound bouncer shoved his way into the room and slammed a meaty fist onto Quinn’s neck.
Twenty-Eight
The bouncer shoved Quinn along, his grip tight.
Quinn balked against the aggressive contact, but he knew better than to start a fight with a man who outweighed him by eighty pounds or more. Sure, he might be able to win. Speed, agility. Quinn had both. What the big man behind him had, though, was friends. Probably eight or nine of them back in the club, just waiting for an excuse to jump in and help.
Self-control.
He prided himself on that, didn’t he?
Maybe not with Ginnie. Maybe not with anything that had something to do with protecting her.
And not just physically, either.
No.
Quinn wanted to protect her heart, too.
And that sonofabitch former husband of hers was making it harder.
He watched Ginnie’s defeated form move along in front of him, shoulders slumped as they moved to the back of the bar and through the service exit into a dimly lit corridor.
Her ex isn’t the only one making it hard.
Quinn swallowed guiltily.
The bouncer gave him another, rougher shove, and Quinn gritted his teeth.
Self-control.
He needed to get a hold of some. Right now.
No. Not now.
Five minutes ago. Or forty hours ago.
He felt torn in a dozen directions, all of which needed freedom. His emotions were tumbling over themselves for supremacy.
He wanted to toss off the bouncer’s firm grip and throw himself down to beg Ginnie to forgive him for not being more patient and understanding.
He wanted to maim that douchebag, Lawrence Michaels, with a blunt object.
He wanted to take Ginnie in his arms and kiss away the fucking taste of her ex.
Then maim the asshole.
The taste. Jesus.
He’d kissed her. Kissed the mouth that Quinn had laid claim to.
It could’ve been worse.
So much worse.
So why does this feel so fucking bad?
He was near-blind with the feeling of wrongness. Even more so with the feeling of needing to make it right.
Self. Fucking. Control.
Quinn opened and closed his fists, trying to hold on.
You’re okay, he told himself. We’ll get out of here and go upstairs and sort everything out.
His
eyes focused on Ginnie’s silhouette. He would make her forget Lawrence for good, make her see herself the way he saw her.
Then, without warning, the lights above flickered and the already dark hall grew momentarily darker, and Ginnie stopped moving.
“Keep going,” the bouncer growled.
Ginnie took a step. In the dark, Quinn saw her stumble, saw her reach for something to steady herself, saw her fail. She landed on the ground with a stifled cry.
Goddamn.
Quinn went for her, tearing away from the rough hold on the back of his neck. For a second, he was free. His fingers even grazed Ginnie’s soft, bare shoulder. Then the bouncer was on him, dragging him back with one hand.
Automatically, Quinn fought against him. He writhed away and moved toward Ginnie again. The bouncer took a wide step in between them, and Quinn’s temper flared.
And then it happened.
Ginnie righted herself.
The bouncer threw back his arm while yelling something angrily at Quinn.
And the other man’s fist smacked Ginnie hard enough in the jaw that she reeled backwards.
The bouncer spun to face her – maybe even to apologize – but it was too late.
Red.
It was all Quinn could see.
Any pretence of self-control went out the window as he jumped at the big man. His hands closed around the bouncer’s waist and he pushed with all his might, trying to get the other man to fall.
He’s too damned big.
He was a tank.
An angry tank.
The bouncer shook like a wet dog, trying to dislodge Quinn, but he held fast.
“Keep your hands off my girl,” he breathed.
The bouncer grunted. “You don’t like it when I put my hands on your girl? Well, guess what? My boss doesn’t like it when you put your hands on his girl, either. One goddamned rule and ninety percent of you feel the need to break it. I should break you in return.”
With a snarl, the other man backed up and slammed Quinn into the wall, and he couldn’t hold on no matter how badly he wanted to. His arms released and he sank to the ground.
Shit.
Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1) Page 19
