Linchpin

by Jodi Payne

“I’m getting a beer, do you want one?”

  “I don’t guess you have anything stronger?”

  “Bourbon?”

  “Perfect.”

  Quinn nodded. Apparently, Mr. Cooper had done some math of his own. Quinn came back with two glasses and a bottle of Wild Turkey. He poured a generous splash into each and handed one to Tony. “I’ll tell you what. This is a much better idea.”

  Tony nodded and swallowed his drink down in one gulp, then held his glass out for more.

  Quinn was on it. “I got ya.”

  Chapter Three

  When Quinn woke, the sun shone in through the windows, blasting him in the face. He squinted and rolled over to get away from the brutal assault of light, and hooked his arm over the warm body in bed with him.

  The warm body in bed with him.

  He opened his eyes. “Whoa!” He backpedaled out of bed, landing on his ass on the freezing cold floor. “Whoa!” He yelped again and stood quickly. Okay, think. What the fuck had he done? “What the fuck did you do, Quinn?”

  Wait, he had the skills for this. Check out the scene, right? He scanned himself first, finding that he was in the same sweatpants he’d put on to warm up after dragging frozen Tony in from the yard. He wasn’t wearing his T-shirt, however. Quinn scanned the bed next, finding Tony shirtless, as well, and covered from the ribs down by Quinn’s thick down comforter. Quinn hesitated for about one second before reaching over, throwing the comforter off Tony and jumping back again. Tony had on a pair of sweatpants, too. Since Tony had arrived in black dress pants, Quinn had to assume the sweats belonged to him.

  “Fuck.”

  Tony moved just then, but only enough to find the covers and pull them up over his back again. The man had a point, it was freezing in there. Quinn grabbed his robe and pulled it on, stuffed his feet into his slippers and headed for the main room to stoke up the fire. On the way by the potbelly he hovered his hand over the top, finding it ice cold. That one had gone out. Unfortunately, he made the same discovery with the big stove as well.

  “Fuck.”

  So while he searched his mind for anything he could remember from the night before, he busied himself with the big stove, first taking the opportunity while it was cool to clean it out. He dumped the ashes into a cast-iron pail he kept for that purpose, then started fresh, stacking the wood, lighting kindling, stoking the fire to life.

  The distraction didn’t help. The last thing he remembered was drinking. Literally. He had no memory of why or how Tony had ended up in his bed. He had no explanation for why his captive wasn’t tied up—why he’d been allowed to freely move around the house, or why he was in Quinn’s sweatpants. He also had no explanation for the disturbing reality that his gun sat right out in the open on the coffee table, apparently ignored by them both.

  “This is fucking weird.”

  “What’s weird?”

  Quinn jumped. “Shit, you scared the piss out of me.”

  Tony had pulled on the insulated flannel shirt Quinn had given him the night before. Quinn remembered that part.

  “Those sweats are mine, right?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Oh, wow. How’s your head?”

  “My head? I’m not feeling too hung over.”

  “No, I mean the bruise.”

  “I have a—” Quinn reached up and touched his face.

  “Other side.”

  Quinn’s fingers landed on a sore spot and he winced. “Ow. Well, I don’t have a headache but that fucking hurts.”

  “It’s not quite the softball I’m sporting but it’s a pretty color.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Did you hit me?”

  “What? No.”

  “You better not have fucking hit me.”

  “I didn’t! I mean. I’m sure I didn’t.”

  Quinn eyed Tony. “So what the fuck happened?”

  “No idea.”

  “Why were you sleeping in my bed?”

  “Also have no idea.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I swear to you, I was just about to say thank you. I assumed you put me to bed. I obviously overindulged. Where did you sleep?”

  Okay, this was getting weirder by the minute. “Couch,” Quinn lied. How much had they had to drink? He stood, closing the door on the wood stove. “That should warm us up real soon.”

  Tony moved closer and held his fingers over the top of the stove. “Ah.”

  “Gonna make coffee.” As Quinn headed toward the kitchen, he spotted the empty bottle of bourbon on the floor by the big chair and picked it up. Okay, that would explain the memory loss and the muzzy fog in his head. Quinn also scooped up his gun and took it with him, hiding it in a kitchen drawer.

  “Coffee would be awesome.”

  “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Well? I am definitely hung over. But I can see a little out of my eye today. I’m not sure how much of my headache is the alcohol and how much is maybe a concussion. My side hurts like hell but it’s not a sharp pain, it’s more like…a really bad ache.”

  Quinn nodded, fairly confident that the actual injury wasn’t as bad as it looked. He still planned to call the doc, though. “I don’t have cream, just milk.”

  “I drink it black, anyway.”

  Quinn did, too. What the fuck? They were suddenly an old married couple? The house was quiet for a bit while the coffee brewed, then Quinn brought a mug to Tony.

  Tony took his mug and looked at Quinn with his good eye. “Okay you’re right, this is weird.”

  “Fuck, yeah. Enjoy your coffee because when you’re done I’m going to have to restrain you again.”

  Tony sighed. “And here I thought we were getting along so well.”

  “Yeah, well. I did the math. You run, I’m most likely a dead man. So, there’s no fucking way you’re running.”

  “I did the math, too. Without your car, I won’t get very far.”

  “You can give up that idea for sure. You’d have to fucking tear this place apart to figure out where I stashed the keys.”

  “But,” Tony added, “if I don’t run, it’s only a matter of time before I’m dead.”

  “You have quite the dilemma.”

  “Couldn’t we work something out?”

  “Work something out?” What the fuck were they going to work out? Quinn headed for the kitchen again. He needed breakfast.

  Tony followed him. “I don’t have money.”

  “I don’t need money.” He didn’t. He’d been working in a very lucrative business for over ten fucking years. Quinn stopped a minute, his brow knotted and he turned to look at Tony, a sudden doubt creeping into his mind. “Tell me something, Anthony Cooper.” Quinn turned to face Tony and took a step toward him “Why does the Boss want you iced?”

  “What? I have no idea.”

  Of course that’s what he would say. Quinn wasn’t in the mood for fucking games. If he was going to lose his deniability, he sure as fuck intended to be taken seriously. He closed the gap between them with one angry stride and gave Tony a hard shove into the kitchen counter, then took the fucker by the chin and leaned in hard.

  Tony grunted and cried out as Quinn pinned him.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Quinn growled.

  “I’m not. I swear.”

  “I have never heard of you. What the fuck is your real name?”

  “What? Tony! That is my real name. Fuck, you’re hurting me!”

  “Oh, yeah? Maybe not enough.”

  “I’m telling you I don’t know why they did this to me,” Tony protested, his one good eye comically wide. “I was hoping you would let it slip.”

  “I can’t let something slip that I don’t know about, you ass hat.”

  Tony was panting and grimacing, and had given up even trying to fight him.

  “I can make a phone call. I can get permission to kill you, and fuck my contract. So don’t fuck with me, you understand? I plan on not dying. You had better not fucking run because when I catch up with you, y
ou’re going to wish those boys had finished the job right the first time. You’re going to beg me to put you out of your fucking misery. Am I clear?”

  Tony nodded.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Quinn let go and Tony slid to the floor. He left Tony there, leaning against the kitchen cabinets while he got some eggs out of the fridge.

  That’s what this was really about, wasn’t it? It was him or Cooper. It was fucking Survivor, and one of them was about to get murdered off the island.

  Quinn shivered. His heart raced, his palms were slick with sweat and he couldn’t quite get a deep breath. This was panic, right? He was pretty sure it was. He really didn’t want to die. He was fucking panicking and he had just taken it out on—

  Tony groaned.

  Him.

  He had just taken it out on that guy. That was reasonable, right? Since Quinn’s chances of not dying kind of depended entirely on what Tony decided to do?

  Quinn knew he should tie him up. Restrain him. Gag him. Stop talking to him. Find out when the boys were coming to take care of things.

  Was it possible, though, that Tony was telling him the truth? Was it seriously possible that Tony had absolutely no idea why there was a contract out on him? Quinn had never considered the possibility that the bodies he’d disposed of might once have belonged to people who truly believed they were innocent.

  What a fucking disturbing thought.

  With that notion in mind, he considered that he might have been a tad bit overly emotional with Tony. Too much alcohol and caffeine, and no food. His blood sugar was low, that was all. He’d make some eggs and some rye toast, then he’d find some not-painful way to keep the guy in the house and out of trouble. That would set his mind at ease.

  “Quinn.”

  Quinn set down the eggs and crouched next to Tony. “Sorry, man, I got a little carried away.” They stared at each other for a long, silent moment. “One of us is gonna die. Are you okay with my life on your conscience?”

  Tony shook his head and dropped his chin, letting it hang from his shoulders.

  “Well, that’s comforting.” As in not at all. He realized that possibly he was being hypocritical, too. Never mind, time for breakfast. Quinn stood again. “Hungry?”

  “I guess?”

  Quinn offered Tony a hand up, which Tony accepted with the arm on his good side. “So. We’ve got a deadlock, here. A standoff.”

  “Well, not really. You have a gun, a car, a phone, and you’re bigger than I am.”

  “And, yet, ironically, none of those things is as much of an advantage at the moment as one might expect.” Quinn started scrambling eggs. “There’s a loaf of rye in that drawer.”

  Tony glanced at him.

  “Rye bread? In the drawer?”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  The guy wasn’t looking good at all. “You okay?”

  Tony shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “We just need to eat.”

  Tony blinked at him.

  “What? You can’t think straight with low blood sugar.”

  Tony shook his head and opened the bread. “Toaster?”

  Quinn pointed.

  “Got it.”

  In no time at all they were sitting across from each other at the square table in the main room, eggs and toast and coffee in front of them. Quinn took a big bite and chewed thoughtfully. “So,” he said with his mouth full, “you really have no idea why you’re on the Boss’ shit list?”

  “I don’t even know what Boss you’re talking about.”

  “Ever committed robbery?”

  “No.”

  “Run drugs?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Own a pawn shop?”

  “Quinn, I’m telling you. I freelance. My worst crime has probably been taking a day off when I have a deadline.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I swear to you. I swear to God. I swear on your really hot car.”

  Well, okay, then. “It is hot, right?” Quinn picked up his toast. “So, you think maybe you’re the wrong guy?”

  “Maybe.”

  Quinn sighed. “Wow, that sucks for you.”

  Tony rolled his eyes. He was eating, though, that was something. Quinn pulled out his phone. “Gonna call the doc.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  Quinn stopped right before he hit send. “No?”

  “I think it’s just really bad bruising.”

  “Your neck?”

  Tony lifted his hand and slid his fingers across the bruising there. “It’s not even swollen today and I can swallow. I really think I’m good. Plus, if I’m going to be dead in a couple of days, why call in the favor?”

  “How did you know I was going to call in a favor?”

  “Oh.” Tony shrugged. “I watch TV.”

  “I am not a TV gangster,” Quinn replied, laughing.

  “That’s for sure. A TV gangster would have shot me by now. Maybe chopped me up and burned me in the wood stove.”

  “That’s just sick.”

  Tony laughed.

  “See? Blood sugar. You feel better, right?”

  “I guess.”

  Quinn winked at him then picked up their plates and took them into the kitchen.

  “So, Quinn. I gotta ask. Did we— Um. I don’t know where my pants ended up.”

  Quinn nodded. “Yeah, about that? I didn’t wake up on the couch.”

  There was a strange silence, kind of awkward and yet kind of not, then Tony appeared in the kitchen entryway, clutching his coffee mug in his fingers. “No, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, where did you wake up?”

  “In bed. Next to you.”

  “Well.”

  “I’ll just let you chew on that for a while.”

  “Right.” Tony wandered away while Quinn did the dishes. Quinn wasn’t sure why he felt like he should fess up, except that Tony obviously had his suspicions and you shouldn’t take secrets to your grave. A few minutes later, Tony reappeared in the doorway. “Do you remember anything?”

  “Not a fucking thing.”

  “Was that a pun?”

  “Oh. Fuck, no. I mean, no. It wasn’t. Sorry.”

  Tony laughed. “While we’re confessing things, did you wake up…dressed?”

  “In sweats.”

  “Ah.”

  “You know, Tony, I’m getting a vibe here, and… Correct me if I’m wrong but you strike me as being into—”

  “Hot cars.”

  Quinn laughed. “Ah.”

  “And yeah, men.”

  “Great. Marry me.”

  Tony snorted.

  “I’m sure we were just cold. The wood stoves had both gone out when I got up.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s probably it. Of course.” Tony leaned on the counter. “Completely blackout drunk, but cold.”

  Hm. “Could happen? Maybe I was too hammered to make a fire.”

  “Oh. Right.” Tony nodded. “That works. And I probably decided the dress pants were too stiff to sleep in.”

  Did Tony just say ‘stiff’? Jesus Christ, he was twelve.

  Quinn finished up in the kitchen and got dressed. He needed to bring in more wood, and he wanted to start hanging the storm windows. Assuming he lived out the week, it was only going to get colder.

  “So you have two choices, Tony,” Quinn said as he passed through the main room. “You can come out and help me get some work done, or you can hang in here where it’s warm, but then I’ll have to restrain you.” In his bedroom, he pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and a warm sweater. It wasn’t until he sat on the bed to pull on socks that he discovered Tony watching him from the doorway.

  “Been there a while?”

  “I guess I’ll come help.”

  Quinn sized him up. “Well.” He got up and pulled out a pair of jeans from the very bottom of the drawer. “These are tight on me, they might work. There are sweaters and flannels in the closet. Actually, in the back you’ll find
some Timberlands that might work for you, too. Socks in the top drawer.”

  Once he got his socks on, he padded into the bathroom. It was honestly going to be nice to have another set of hands on those stormers. They were old and heavy and it would be much easier to lock them down with help. He got cleaned up, shaved and brushed his teeth. Tony was sitting on the bed when he came out, totally dressed. The sweater he’d borrowed was a little big, but not too bad, and the jeans actually fit him well. “Um. You’ll find extra toothbrushes and razors and shit under the sink.”

  “Thanks.” Tony disappeared and closed the bathroom door.

  Quinn found his boots and stomped into them, then bent over to lace them up tight. He pulled on his favorite wool-lined barn coat and snagged a down jacket for Tony, and a couple pairs of gloves. It was about forty degrees, not horribly cold at all, but the gloves would come in handy hauling wood, too.

  “You ready?”

  “Yep, right here. Found the boots.”

  Quinn tossed Tony the down jacket. “We’ll start with the wood.”

  “Sounds kinky.”

  Quinn glanced over his shoulder and fixed Tony with a look. “No.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Need to fill up the rack on the front porch, the one out back, and both of the ones inside, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Quinn handed Tony a log carrier, grabbed one for himself, and headed for the woodshed. Tony followed him silently. In fact, most of their time was spent in silence, working together to haul loads of wood up to the house and stock it up so Quinn wouldn’t have to run out in the cold the way he had when he did when he got home last night. With an extra set of hands, both large porch racks and the smaller ones in the house were full in no time, and Quinn led Tony out to the garage for the storm window project.

  Tony seemed a little leery about following Quinn into the garage—and who could blame him, really? The radiator was in fact on its side, and the padlocks and chains that had held Tony there for at least a couple of hours littered the floor.

  “I’m still impressed,” Quinn said, trying to lighten the mood. He carried two storm windows from the back of the garage out to Tony. “Take those up around back. I’ll grab two more and join you.”

  It wasn’t until after Tony headed off that Quinn realized what he’d done. He’d given Tony warm clothing, good boots and a hearty breakfast. He might very well have just signed his own death warrant.