Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1)

by Di Lorenzo, Melinda

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Liv sounded a little desperate, and Ginnie realized that it was quite possible that the other woman did love him. And if Lawrence had run off on her…Well. It didn’t matter how Ginnie felt about him because she knew what it was like to lose someone that mattered to her. So as much as it galled her, Ginnie couldn’t ignore Liv’s feelings…After all, love is love, isn’t it?

  “I’m sorry,” she stated, her tone gentle. “I don’t have any idea where he is.”

  “Oh.” The girl’s body sunk in on itself even more.

  “I do know that even though you see him as spontaneous, with me, Lawrence was always a creature of habit,” Ginnie added. “If he was freaking out – cold feet, or whatever – he’d go somewhere familiar. Home, maybe? Do you want me to – ”

  “I called already. I checked home and the office and even the hospitals. Local and the one he works at.”

  Ginnie suppressed a sigh. After all, it wasn’t like she had anything more important to do. Except chase after Quinn. Which she couldn’t do.

  “How long has he been gone?” she asked.

  More abject misery. “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?” Because Ginnie was sure she could count the exact seconds since Quinn walked out.

  Walked out? You mean after you kicked him out. He’s not your father. Ginnie shook off the snide voice and focused on what Lawrence’s girlfriend was saying.

  “Lawrence came back to the room so late and we had the fight about you, and…I was asleep…” Liv trailed off, and it was obvious that she was trying to fight a sob.

  Shit. Ginnie wished she was immune to the other girl’s suffering. But she wasn’t.

  “Okay,” she said, trying to sound patient. “Let’s build a quick timeline. Even if Lawrence left right after you went to bed, and even if he managed to get a flight out the moment he got over to the airport, he’d still barely have had time to retrieve his bags and make it home. And if he just left this morning, it will be at least dinnertime before he strolls through the door, right?”

  “You’re so right.” Liv’s face brightened a fraction. “Lawrence always said you were smarter than he was.”

  “He said I was smarter than him?” Ginnie knew her question was full of surprise.

  Liv nodded. “Smarter. Higher expectations. It drove me crazy at first, how much he talked about you. Then I decided it was a good thing. Like, a blueprint to what was in his head. A what-not-to-do guide.”

  Ginnie grimaced, wondering just why the hell she was letting this train wreck of a conversation go on, but somehow not being able to stop it. “So you’re purposely being not me?”

  “Actually…it turned out I didn’t even have to try. I could just be me, and I’m what Lawrence wanted all along.”

  It felt like an insult. “What does that mean?”

  Liv shot her a knowing look. “He wanted the trophy wife. You’re more than that.”

  Weirdly, a blush crept up Ginnie’s cheeks. “I’m sure you’re more than that, too.”

  “I don’t want to be. I don’t need to be. All I want is Lawrence.”

  Ginnie stared at Liv, unsure if the sudden, single thud she felt in her heart was a door opening, or a door closing.

  Both, maybe.

  Lawrence had never been all Ginnie wanted. Because she was more than a trophy wife. If anything, Lawrence had been the trophy. The doctor-iffic icing on her cake of a life. And it turned out she wanted pie.

  And Quinn was the pie.

  All she wanted was Quinn.

  And then – just like that – it hit her.

  It didn’t take true strength to stay mad or to hold on to despair. It took true strength to admit that she was wrong. And even more to face what she was actually feeling. Which wasn’t anger at all.

  Love.

  Crazy. Impulsive. Unstoppable. Undoubtable. Love. All for Quinn.

  Her heart bloomed for a moment, full of the realization.

  She loved him.

  Then it dropped again.

  She loved him. And couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

  Crap. How could I be so damned stupidly stubborn? The answer came immediately. Because you were scared.

  Afraid that she was going to make another mistake like she had with Lawrence. Afraid that Quinn might leave, like her dad had done. Or maybe even that he might die, like her mom.

  She’d used that fear to get angry. Yes, he’d deceived her. But he’d done it to protect her and her heart. He’d apologized and she’d sloughed it off.

  Which was wrong. And it was wrong to project her past onto Quinn, too. Wrong to use her own fear to drive him away. Especially since he’d been so transparent about his own past and how he carried it with him. And she’d tossed that in Quinn’s face. Sent him away. Worse than sent him away. She’d made him think that she believed she was too good for him. A doctor’s wife and a criminal. Ginnie had never felt so desperately sorry. She was the criminal. The destroyer of love.

  Melodramatic much?

  But melodrama didn’t shake the truth of it all.

  Could she chase him down? Push aside her pride and her past and ask for forgiveness, too?

  Why would he even let you get close enough?

  The answer was simple. No. Why would he? And even if there was the remotest possibility…but no. Ginnie didn’t have his number, or know his address, and she was sure he wasn’t the kind of guy who made himself easy to contact. No Quinn Mcdavid with a convenient listing in the phone directory.

  Maybe she could ask Jase…

  She shook her head, her chest hollow. It was a hopeless situation. She loved him, and she’d driven him away, and now she had to deal with the fallout.

  “Maybe if I hadn’t let him go,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  Ginnie’s eyes flicked back to the girl on her bed, and she realized Liv thought she was talking about Lawrence. She couldn’t even muster the energy to explain. She just shook her head, whispered, “I have to go,” and dashed out of the hotel room.

  She didn’t stop to think about where she was going or what she should be doing. Not until she’d already fled the hotel, torn up the walkway outside that led from the hotel to the airport, been thoroughly soaked by the snow-turned-to-rain, and was standing in the throng of travellers.

  Home.

  She needed to go home.

  Thirty-Four

  By the time he’d downed his first cup of shitty, airport coffee, a hundred scenarios had run through Quinn’s torrential mind.

  They all started out fine.

  Quinn, turning Lawrence in to airport security.

  Quinn, demanding to speak to the TSA agent, Gilligan, then turning Lawrence over to him, specifically.

  Quinn, coldcocking Lawrence and hightailing it back to the hotel to take Ginnie into his arms.

  Somehow, though, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make the fantasized upsets work out in his favor.

  Airport security turning on him.

  Gilligan locking him up beside the doctor. Or releasing him, revealing his undercover status to the world, and exposing Ginnie to retaliation.

  Ginnie not taking him back.

  The last was the most often repeated result, and the most feared. A big deal, for a guy like Quinn who feared so little. Who’d never – by his own admission – had much to lose, and ergo little to be afraid of.

  “Scared?”

  Lawrence Michaels’ smug voice, asking a question that so closely echoed Quinn’s thought, made Quinn want to snarl. He kept his own voice even, though, as he answered without lifting his face to look at the other man.

  “Scared? Hardly.” Not of what he thought, anyway.

  “Oh, really?” Lawrence countered.

  Quinn shot him a glare, annoyed at how self-possessed the douchebag appeared.

  That’s what you get for ordering him to shape the hell up.

  It was true that it had been Quinn’s
idea to pause at the busy café. Lawrence needed to sober up; there was no way in hell Quinn was taking him to PJ if the man was going to keep looking and acting like a deranged lunatic.

  He just hadn’t expected Dr. Douchebag to transform into someone so very…doctor-ly…in a matter of an hour.

  Somehow, in between the furious exchange and threats that took place at hotel, and the hastily booked flights with the ticket attendant, who was filing people onto planes like a sheepherder…Somehow, Lawrence had managed to smooth over everything from his face to his hair to his clothes to his attitude. There was no evidence of the fact that he’d stashed a gun somewhere before getting onboard. No evidence that the man had threatened Quinn’s life, or that he was working with a gang to peddle prescription drugs. Charming and collected. Tanned and relaxed. Arrogant and articulate. It was how he’d scored them two seats in business class on a near-full flight that would start boarding in an hour. He’d used his toothy smile that matched Leila’s perfectly.

  Is that the kind of man Ginnie prefers?

  Of course it was. She’d married the fucker, hadn’t she? Made it clear what she did and didn’t want.

  Quinn forced his eyes back to his plate of dry toast again, unable to deal with the reality of it.

  Obviously, if Ginnie had found out about Lawrence’s little gambling problem, the charm might’ve faded. Then again, who knew what people would do for love? No one understood better than Quinn how that particular, thunderous emotion affected rationality. Never in a million damned years would he have described himself as the kind of guy who would fly to Vegas with a man he despised to bargain with another man whom he’d vowed to never interact with again, all to protect a woman he loved.

  Christ.

  He clamped his jaw shut to keep from giving in to an urge to tap at his lip ring. His tell. That’s what Ginnie had called it. When his nerves were on alert, or something pissed him off, or when he was thinking too hard. She was right, obviously. He had never felt so on edge.

  Which is why, when a server came by a second later, smiled at the too-suave man across from him, and set down a distinctly alcohol-scented beverage in a paper cup in front of Lawrence, Quinn lost control for a heartbeat. He snapped up the cup, slammed back the drink – rum and coke – then crushed the paper, ice cubes and all.

  And finally, Lawrence’s placid façade slipped. His eye widened, revealing the still-bloodshot rims, his mouth worked silently, and his gaze darted nervously around the café before he leaned across the table.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” the other man hissed.

  The question made Quinn even angrier. His tongue inched toward his lip ring and he just barely managed to keep from biting down on it. The asshole sitting in front of him was the crazy one. The one who’d annulled his marriage to the most incredible woman in the world.

  Breathe.

  Quinn tore his mind from Ginnie and reminded himself that he needed to be far less emotional, far less soft, if he was going to accomplish what the not-so-good doctor wanted. What he needed to do was crush the man he’d become over the weekend and channel his inner criminal. A man who could look down the barrel of a gun and grin. Who wouldn’t possibly become weak-kneed when he thought about a girl getting hurt.

  Quinn steeled himself. No, not steeled. He coated himself in Kevlar, then met Lawrence’s glare with a wide grin.

  “I might be crazy,” he said. “I mean, in all likelihood, one of us is.”

  “One of us?” Lawrence sputtered. “You think that cup-crushing was a display of normal behavior? Someone could’ve seen it. Your reckless – ”

  Quinn cut him off, grin still in place. “This is a business trip, Lawrence, so you shouldn’t be drinking. You asked for my help and I’m giving it.”

  “By causing a scene?”

  Quinn dropped the smile, signalled the server for another drink and waited for her to bring it. When she set it down, he picked it up immediately and repeated his overly aggressive move. It made the girl jump. It made Lawrence clench his teeth. And it made Quinn stretch out his legs and lean back as he slid more comfortably into both the seat and the role he wanted to play. He ignored the muttered outrage coming from his travelling companion and let his eyes linger on the server’s ass as she hurried away. He even managed to shove aside the voice in his head that pointed out the woman’s rear end wasn’t near as fine as Ginnie’s and that it did nothing for him.

  “Listen, doctor,” Quinn said, his tone a jagged edged knife. “Maybe you asked me to come with you because you were desperate. Maybe thought you had an understanding of what I’m capable of. Or maybe you believed that because I was a cop first and a crook second, that I’m good man, or a kind man, or a man with a greater sense of justice. But you don’t have a fucking clue. Because I don’t fit into a box.” Ginnie. Yet again. He shoved it off. Also yet again. “A good, kind man wouldn’t be going to Vegas to speak to PJ on your behalf. A good, kind man wouldn’t have put himself in a position to know PJ in the first place. So if you’re looking for something other than a quick, dirty deal, you’ve come to the wrong person. You can go back to day-drinking and telling yourself you’re too good to pay off your own debts. Just let me know. I’ve wasted enough time on you already.”

  Lawrence looked taken aback for second, but recovered quickly, his face growing shrewd. “Say what you want. I know you’re doing this to protect Ginnie. You told me as much.”

  Quinn’s heart banged against his ribcage. He hated the other man saying her name. He hated himself for having shown the other man his vulnerability.

  Calm down. No tell. No reaction. No goddamned vulnerability to speak of.

  He tossed out a knowing smirk. “Let’s just say I’ve never been the kind of guy who lets something beautiful be destroyed out of sheer stupidity.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” the other man cajoled. “I saw your face back there. You’re telling me Ginnie was a piece of meat to you? I call bullshit.”

  Douchebag, Quinn thought, but in response just raised an eyebrow. “Art. Not meat. And what you saw was a connoisseur of art protecting an asset that you already discarded. When you were done with Ginnie, you walked away. You broke a perfectly good thing. Shattered it. Such a waste.” God, how he hated talking about her like a commodity. He pushed on anyway. “I picked up those pieces, and in one weekend I created a masterpiece. Now I’m done with Ginnie, too. But unlike you, I still see value in my creation. If I ever want to visit that work of art again, I can. If that’s bullshit to you, then – ” He paused, shook his head, and sneered. “Fuck it. Who am I kidding? I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think. I’m done talking. Another word and – Ginnie or no Ginnie – I’ll suggest to PJ that the best way for him to get payment from you is to take one of your balls, got it?”

  Lawrence opened his mouth, and Quinn raised a warning finger. The doctor slammed his lips shut.

  Good.

  Quinn leaned back again, then closed his eyes.

  He didn’t have Ginnie anymore. He was about to swallow his last bit of pride – his last bit of decency, too while he was at it – to ask a favor of a notoriously unfavorable man.

  He told himself it was the right thing to do, that there was a greater justice. But he felt like hell. Like he and the asshole beside him were a matching set on the inside. And it was almost more than he could bear.

  Thirty-Five

  You have got to be kidding me. The incredulous thought temporarily cut through Ginnie’s heartbreak as she finally got close enough to see the check-in counter.

  There stood Leila. Hair shining. Teeth shining. Stupid airline badge on her lapel…Shining.

  What was she even doing there? Didn’t ticket agents normally work a solitary desk in a solitary city?

  The woman probably decided to come to Vegas just to piss me off, Ginnie thought. Then she got stuck, too.

  And more importantly, how did the woman manage to look so perfect and perky, even after two days stranded in Asscrack, Colorado – paus
e for a serious gut-punch because that was Quinn’s name for the town – and with a lineup of cranky, frazzled passengers at her desk?

  Ginnie glanced down at herself. She was a train wreck. She wore one of Quinn’s T-shirts – another gut-punch because why the hell hadn’t she changed out of it? – and a pair of boxer-style pajama bottoms courtesy of an airport souvenir shop. Because as per security, flying completely pants-less wasn’t an option. Or shoeless. As evidenced by the one-size-too-small flip-flops on her feet. Given to her by the pitying clerk in the same souvenir shop which sold her the PJs.

  She shuffled forward a bit more in the line, careful to look anywhere but directly at Leila, and instead caught sight of her appearance in the too-reflective surface behind the too-shiny ticket agent.

  I’m worse than a train wreck, she thought immediately.

  Her hair was a mussed-up disaster. Her mouth had a crushed, kissed a whole hell of a lot look to it – ouch, was that gut-punch going to lessen anytime soon? – and her face was blotchy red from crying.

  Ginnie took a breath and decided that this time, when sparkly Leila didn’t recognize her, she might actually believe her. Because she looked nothing like herself. She didn’t even fit into any of her own boxes. Unless she had a special one hidden somewhere. One that was just the right size and shape for a raccoon-eyed, heart-crushed idiot who used to disguise herself as a doctor’s wife when she was really a girl in love with a tattooed, dangerous, gorilla of a man with a heart of something stronger than gold.

  Who’s fond of run-on sentences, apparently.

  Grammar? Who cared? But grammar was close to semantics and that was another – this time somewhat ridiculous – gut-punch.

  Oh, God.

  Ginnie needed to go home so very badly. To surround herself with her things, to immerse herself in her own life – in her new life – so she could become whole again. She only wished that she wasn’t so sure that Quinn Mcdavid was supposed to be that new life.

  Gut-punch. Punch. Punch!

  “Um, hello? Can I help you, Mrs. Michaels?”