Catching Serenity (Serenity #4)

by Eden Butler

  DARCY AND GEORGIE are at my feet as though they know there has been a great loss. I don’t move them when I lean back on the swing and the huge bullmastiff lifts his head, moving on his belly to rest his chin on my bare feet when Autumn comes outside to join me.

  It is nearly ten at night. Inside my parents’ home my family recalls the short lived, precious life we celebrated today. Mom has brought out pictures. Carol has allowed this, letting her big sister tend to her, reminding her that she is not the only one feeling this loss, even though hers is the keenest. I suspect that is why Autumn has followed me out here as well.

  Well. That and the bottle of Jameson’s she hands off to me.

  “It’s yours. Your dad thought maybe you’d like one of your own.”

  “Thanks,” I say, scooting over when Autumn sits next to me. Darcy doesn’t move from my feet and my best friend picks up Georgie, scratching on the bridge of her nose until the dog collapses on her lap.

  “Declan says Quinn has gone AWOL.” My face nearly buzzes from the stare Autumn gives me. The way she watches, how closely she monitors my reaction tells me all I need to know about why she mentioned Quinn. She knows. And she’s known me long enough to understand when things are being bottled up tight.

  The whiskey is smooth, holds a bite when I swallow and as I pass the bottle to Autumn, I half expect her to refuse the drink. But then I glance at her, nodding once and she takes two gulps, one right after another.

  “How long?” she asks, resting the bottle on her knee.

  She should run a booth at a fucking carnival, I swear. Ten bucks to slip past the well layered walls I constructed to keep the world out of my head. Autumn navigates them with little effort. “A few weeks, but even before then there was… something.”

  My best friend leans on her side, watching and the guilt I feel for not relying on her is heavy on my chest. “You didn’t tell me.” Autumn brushes my hair off my shoulder, looking past the fence line as we swing.

  “Did you really want to know?” Darcy grumbles when I turn. His whines are low when I pull my feet from under him and onto the swing in front of me. “Me? And Quinn? I got the feeling he was the last person you thought I should end up with.”

  Autumn doesn’t abandon her long stare beyond the fence, remains calm, cool. “I make no judgments, friend.” She lets Georgie jump down, finally handing the bottle back to me. “Am I to take it that he showed you a side no one gets to see?”

  “Oh I imagine a lot of people, a lot of women, have seen that side.”

  “And?”

  I take a drink, sinking further against the back of the swing. “We both wanted to forget ourselves. It hurt too much… Rhea…”

  Autumn pulls on my wrist to hold my hand. “And he helped you forget?”

  “For a little while.”

  “And now?”

  The day, the raw emotion that keeps me open and exposed only intensifies when Autumn’s hold on my fingers tightens, as she watches me as though expecting me to fall apart completely. She won’t let me, pulls me toward her to rest my head on her shoulder so my tears are hidden.

  “Don’t tell Declan,” I say when enough emotion has clogged my sinuses. “He wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re right. He’d only see it as Quinn taking advantage.” Autumn’s nails against my scalp are soothing, lulling. “Seems hard not to given what he’s shown us of who he is.”

  “He’s scared,” I say, wiping my face dry. “Even Rhea knew that, but I think he loved her. I know she loved him and he made her happy. At least for a little while.”

  “Did he make you happy, friend?”

  I can’t look at her directly. Autumn has a way of seeing the things I keep hidden from the world. With one glance she could pull all of my secrets to the surface. The silence deepens between us, and like the friend she is, she lets it. Moves on.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, voice dropping.

  “Does this have anything to do with New Zealand?”

  She sits up, taking the bottle from me when I try to take a sip. “How did you know about that?”

  “Sweetie, seriously? Where are we?” When she refuses to give me the bottle, I sit back, waving off her surprise. “People talk at McKinney’s, especially when they think no one is listening, and you know Sam hears everything.” When Autumn looks as though she might lose her temper, I shrug, stopping her with a shake of my head. “Tell me what this means.”

  “Declan and I… well, probably Dad as well… well, we…” She picks up the bottle, polishing off a quarter before she finishes. “We’re going with him.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

  “Why not?” I grab her hand, squeezing it. “You and Declan, friend, from day one I knew you’d follow him anywhere, and players like him don’t stay stuck in small towns. Not this small town, anyway.”

  “You don’t have to stay either. You can come with us.”

  “That’s your dream, sweetie. He’s your tomorrow.” I nestle next to her, letting my best friend hold me. “I need to find my own.”

  MIDNIGHT IN CAVANAGH is louder than usual. Sunday night, the new year bringing in the cold, taking away the last vestiges of the rugby season and the holidays. It has been two days since Rhea’s funeral. Four since I’ve heard anything of Quinn.

  “He stays in his room all day. Da says he’s only seen him once and that was when Quinn got sick and passed out near the toilet.” Autumn felt it necessary to let me know that he hadn’t completely abandoned life. He was drinking at least.

  Quinn is the least of my worries. With Rhea gone, I am expected to get back to the business of living my life. Ava came to the services, told me to take as much time as I needed before I return to the library. But there is no real sense staying away. It’s what everyone expects of me. It’s what happens. Life moves forward. I’m supposed to as well.

  But I can’t shake the feeling that moving forward, picking up where I left things when Rhea entered the hospital is some sort of betrayal to her. Am I supposed to live a normal life when my little cousin never could?

  Outside, I hear the ending revelry of the weekend. Soon McKinney’s will close down. The bars and clubs, like Fubar, will ask for last call and cut the lights. Quinn might be there, maybe alone, likely not, out in the freezing cold, perhaps in the dim light of a closing pub. I’ve passed his warehouse twice in two days. The mural has been surrendered in a half-finished state and the lights on the second floor have been dark.

  When a siren echoes through my apartment, followed by another, I leave my bed, pulling my terrycloth robe on for a quick peek outside my balcony. The brick tile underfoot is frigid, so cold that my toes feel burnt and, after a glance at the wreck some two blocks from my apartment that has caused all the commotion, I turn to hurry back inside, stopping short when I spot the figure huddled against the railing on the other side of my balcony. It is Quinn.

  “God!” I shout, ignoring my freezing feet to pull him up by his collar. “What are you doing, you idiot?” He smells of whiskey, reeks so bad that I have pull my nose away from his mouth when he starts laughing. “Oh, you are nasty, O’Malley.”

  “You like me nasty, don’t you love?”

  “Not tonight I don’t.” It’s a struggle, pushing him inside my apartment, holding his large frame to keep him upright but I manage, slumping him onto my sofa with a whoosh. “How much have you been drinking?”

  “All of it. The whole buggering lot.” From the inside of his half buttoned coat, Quinn lifts out a nearly empty bottle, head swimming as he tries to make his mouth center on the opening.

  “No. I don’t think so.” He is too drunk to fight me when I reach for the bottle, but not so drunk that he misses grabbing me by the waist to pull me onto the sofa. “Will you stop?”

  “Fecking shite, Sayo, I’ve missed you, haven’t I? C’mere. Give us your mouth…”

  “No, Quinn. I don’t think s
o…” He struggles with me, gripping as I lean away, groping along my chest, at my waist but he is too drunk to do much more than groan when I push him back. “Sleep it off, why don’t you? Unless you want me to call Declan?”

  “Fraser can piss off,” he starts, sitting up, acting as though the only thing he wants is to make for my door. When he has to hang on to the wall for traction, I don’t bother trying to help him. “You can piss off too.” Quinn worries the deadbolt, cursing, swaying as he fights against the lock, then jerking out of my reach when I try bringing him back to the sofa. “Don’t bloody well want to be here, do I? Leave off.” He is a fussy drunk but as I grab his arm, pull him away from the door, Quinn leans into me, resting his forehead on my shoulder. “What… what have you done to me… what have you made me?”

  “Quinn?”

  He jerks up, ignoring how my voice has softened, how my touches aren’t demanding. “Fuck you, Sayo.” He pulls me forward, fingers digging into my arms. “Fuck me, yeah?” And when his open mouth darts forward, seeming with the intent on landing against my lips, I react defensively, knocking him once in the stomach, not meaning to smack him right on the cheek when he begins to fall.

  “Shit!” He is swaying worse than before and I think fleetingly of maybe calling Declan, have him fetch his brother, but that would likely lead to more bother for my best friend’s fella than is really worth the effort. “Ah hell, O’Malley,” I tell him scooting him back onto the sofa as he grumbles, fading sleepily as I cover him with a throw, making sure he’s upright and won’t be able to fall over.

  He is snoring in less than a minute and I move around him, taking off his boots, grabbing a bin from the half bath to set right next to his head. I take a moment to brush the hair from his eyes, run my nails over his scalp until his breathing levels out and those snores are constant. Despite the mess he is now, Quinn is still beautiful. He is lost. He is suffering and, I suspect, he believes I am too. That grief brought us together. Maybe tonight he thought it would have us back again.

  There is a small tremor moving his left eyebrow, the smallest twitch that seems to disturb him as he sleeps. Otherwise, that face is flawless; when he sleeps, there is no tension around his mouth, no lines that make him look frightening or severe. Those soft features, the plump mouth are temptations I cannot resist and I lean forward, holding his face to kiss him once, ignoring the strong scent of whiskey.

  “God, Quinn,” I whisper, knowing he will never remember this, “I wish I could stop wanting you.” I sit up, only mildly surprised when he blinks up at me, then highly disappointed when his eyes close and that drunk asshole’s snores fill the room.

  I HALF EXPECT the living room to be empty when I wake the next morning. It is, except for Quinn’s boots next to the sofa and his coat laying across the coffee table. The noise from the half bath tells me that he’s awake or at least trying to get himself to that point and so I take my time, showering, braiding my hair, washing my teeth before I make it to the kitchen. Quinn is sitting on the sofa, head down, elbows on his knees and doesn’t look up when I reach for the coffee pot.

  He only acknowledges me when I place a mug of coffee in front of him on the table. I get a nod of appreciation for my troubles and nothing more until half of the mug is empty. Then, Quinn abandons the coffee and sits back on the sofa, rubbing his face before he glances at me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  That brings my eyebrows up, surprise keeping me speechless. “Wow.”

  Quinn turns, moves his head to stare up at me. “When I’m sorry, I say so.”

  “Then will you apologize to Carol?”

  “For what?” He sits up straight, shoulders back.

  “You missed the funeral.”

  “No,” he says, fingers together as he stares down at the floor. “I did not. I just missed you and your lot.”

  “My lot. You mean Rhea’s friends? Her family? Or do you just mean me, Quinn?”

  This time when he looks at me, he doesn’t frown. His mouth relaxes but he presses his lips together as though he needs a minute to collect his thoughts. Quinn runs his fingers through his hair, releasing a sigh. “I… don’t do well with…” he waves a hand between us, “this sort of thing, do I?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Just then Quinn gives up the pretense of being grateful to me for bringing him out of the cold last night. “You needn’t be a bitch.”

  “Get out.” I don’t bother to wait for a reaction. Instead I am at the door and it is open before Quinn even leaves the sofa. Even insulted, Quinn is cool, collected. His face looks pale and there are dark circles under his eyes and a large bruise forming under one where I popped him the night before. None of this makes me feel sorry for him. None of this makes me eager to watch him walk out of my apartment, either.

  And when he reaches the door, I tell myself not to be upset that he’s leaving. I tell myself that it is best that we keep our distance. I recall what an insufferable asshole Quinn can be, so I’m actually surprised when the door slams shut and Quinn is still in front of me.

  “I’m too bleeding hung over for a fight so let’s not have one, yeah?”

  “And I’m too damn tired to deal with you. Go home, sleep off your hang over and forget you ever touched me.” I reach for the door again and Quinn reacts, forcing me back, caging me between his long arms at the door.

  “No, I don’t think I can forget that easily, love. Nor do I want to.”

  “Quinn…”

  “Sayo… shut up.”

  Rationally, I know I should reject him, force him out of my apartment, clear him out of my life. But Quinn is insistent to the point of being irresistible. Not many can turn him away. Especially not when he uses his mouth, his hands to convince and cajole.

  “I’ve missed you,” he admits, lips working along my neck, fingers in my hair guiding my head. “This skin, this body, I bloody crave it now.” A squeeze against my ass and Quinn lifts me up, unzips my jeans.

  I don’t stop him. I should. I know I should, but I don’t do anything more than follow his lead, forgetting that he abandoned me when Rhea died. Forgetting how I ached alone, wanting the forgetting he offered. It is too potent now, with Quinn touching me, pushing aside my jeans, my thong, with his fingers gripping, squeezing, insisting.

  “What have you done to me?” He drops to his knees, working his tongue against my hipbone, down the top of my thigh. Quinn looks up, eyes, expression open, eager as he discards my clothes, as he touches, teases, keeping that heavy gaze of my face. I can’t think, can’t focus when he touches me like this, with his fingers and hands grazing, gripping.

  “This is all I think about. This body.” He spreads me apart with his thumb, rubbing the tip of one finger against my clit. “This beautiful, warm pussy.” One lick against my lips and Quinn fingers me, slipping in two while he stands, grabbing my wrists to hold them together with his free hand.

  “Quin… Quinn…” My hands shake against his hold.

  “The way you taste, love, the way you smell, how tight you are, it’s all I bloody well think about.” When I start to pant, when my moans grow louder, more urgent, Quinn releases my wrists to pull my hips against his. “Do you think about me? Want me, Sayo? You want this?” And Quinn is bare, thick, that perfect cock pressing against me. “Tell me. Say it.”

  I’d rather scratch his eyes out, but Quinn insists—with his mouth on my neck, his fingers inside me, his dick teasing. I am helpless, pathetic. “Yes,” I say, pulling him closer. “Yes, please. Now, Quinn.”

  And there is the forgetfulness I’ve needed. We are sensation again, mindless. Quinn touches me deep, holds my chin still to watch my expression as he takes me, pushing further, deeper and I take all he gives. Not thinking about saying no. Not admitting to myself that this is a balm that will not last. He is an easy fix that is not easy to deny. So I don’t.

  “This… this is good,” I say, not looking at him, not thinking of Quinn at all. Not thinking of anything, just
feeling. “This is… fine. It’s fine.” And before I understand what I’m doing, before I register that my face is wet, that Quinn has released my chin, that the jarring thrusts he’d worked over me have eased, slowed, I am near to orgasm.

  “It’s… it’s…”

  “Sayo, love.” And Quinn does something I never expect. He stops moving just to hold my face, just to kiss me slow, like I mean more than a balm. Like he means every touch and wants more.

  “Quinn… what… please stop.”

  “You want me to stop?”

  I glance at him, conflicted, confused, not quite sure why him being sweet, being tender unnerves me like it does. “I want… I don’t want…”

  “So, you want me to rub one out rather than finishing?” His voice is cold, sarcastic.

  The crassness of his remark unnerves me. Can he really not understand? “Quinn…”

  “No worries, pet. I can manage.” He pulls out of me and I feel the temperature in the room drop. That mask is back in place and I am too shocked, too amazed at his response, to find the strength to even care. If that’s the way he wants to be, then who am I to stop him?

  He waits, lingers at the door and I wonder what he’ll say, if I can manage to bring back the tenderness he almost let me see, but then Quinn smirks, shrugging like I am nothing and he is and through the door and out of my apartment before I can stop him. Before I realize how desperately I want to stop him.

  LAYLA IS HAPPIER than I’ve ever seen her. Seeing her new baby, seeing the family Layla and Donovan have made together, takes away the some of the guilt I feel for all the time I missed with them as they went through their ups and downs, got married, bought a small house near Joe’s and settled in to wait out the arrival of their daughter.

  I’d spent that time grieving and numbing that grief with Quinn.

  But now, here with my friends again, that pain is tempered some, the ache of missing so much is eased by the sight of that beautiful baby and the joy that lights Layla from deep inside. Autumn and I leave the hospital arm and arm, impossible-to-remove smiles lingering on our faces.