by Zara Cox
QUINN
Maybe my cracks aren’t so bad.
Maybe the chasm isn’t as deep as I thought.
Maybe she’ll take the leap with me.
Maybe with her, I’ll survive the fall.
Maybe she’ll even save me.
Maybe. Maybe.
Maybe…it’s too late.
***
LUCKY
I step out of the limo and take a bracing breath. Above me soars the skyscraper that holds Quinn’s home. Or so Fionnella tells me.
I’ve been in so many of his properties I’ve lost count. But this Upper East Side building is where he is right now.
Where fuck knows what will happen.
I’m still slightly stunned by my decision. The last minute dash to the airport temporarily silenced the vicious butterflies demanding to know what the hell I was doing.
But here, now, staring at the glass facade, I hesitate. I shouldn’t have come. Hell, I should have fled the other way. But will I ever forgive myself if, after all that’s happened, I lend a hand in the downfall of a man who clearly needs help?
The Monday afternoon sidewalk traffic is light, or as light as can be without all the tabloid frenzy that dogged me a few months ago before I escaped to Vancouver. Everywhere I went I saw my face on the news. Pictures of Quinn and I outside XYNYC alongside a censored one of me and Q in bed seemed to be pictures of the year.
Although humiliation still burns from being publicly exposed by Quinn’s film, I’ve made grudging peace with myself. Even before Fionnella pointed it out yesterday, I accepted that I walked into the Lucky/Q thing with my eyes wide open and therefore was accountable for my own actions.
It’s the Elly part of my story that tore my heart in shreds. And that heart hasn’t recovered.
Pushing my shoulders back, I walk toward the revolving doors. I can’t linger on the sidewalk. I’m already attracting curious glances.
The doorman holds it open for me and the concierge doesn’t stop me as I head for the private elevator.
Fionnella provided me with the security code for the door. The possibility that Quinn won’t be in a state to answer his own front door ramps up the anxiety of what I’ll find behind the slate double doors.
The interior is gloomy when I enter. The air-conditioning is turned up high and the place is dark and cold and desolate.
I want to call out to him, but fear freezes my vocal cords.
What I can see of the minimalist decor looks bleak and clinical. The floor to ceiling glass wall is frosted, blocking out the blazing July sun.
I search the living room until I find the window remote. I’m about to click when I hear a sound behind me.
Quinn.
“Leave it,” he croaks, his voice full of rocks.
He’s a shadow in the darkened hallway, but I know it’s him just by the ferocious awareness charging through my body. It freezes me in place as it rams its presence deep, punishing me for daring to attempt to live without it.
I need to say something. I open my mouth.
“I don’t want you here, Nella. You mean well, I’m sure, but I just want to be left alone,” he says. His voice is low and raw with naked anguish, but the demand is forceful.
I swallow and take a step forward. “It’s not Fionnella. Quinn, it’s me.”
That fearsome deathly stillness shrouds him. For minutes we stay like that.
Then he stumbles forward. “Lights,” he wheezes. Then more forcefully, when the room stays dark. “Lights!”
Soft light floods the room. Contrary to what I thought, there are warmer colors in here. Browns and soft greys blend with the sharper tones. But the decor isn’t what interests me right now.
Quinn staggers forward again, his bare feet soundless on the polished hardwood floors. His black hair is overgrown and wildly unkempt, easily touching his shoulders. He’s also sporting a full beard, which against the brilliance of his eyes makes his face even more hauntingly beautiful.
He’s lost a lot of weight, his hollow cheeks not disguised by the facial hair. His body is leaner too, the T-shirt and jeans hanging off him. My gaze tracks downward.
And that’s when I see it.
The whiskey bottle in his hand. It’s half empty, the amber liquid sloshing around with his forward momentum.
“Elyse…you…no,” He stops and shakes his head. Then he smashes his lids closed and takes a huge gulp of whiskey.
“Quinn.”
He slams out his free hand, as if to push me away, and, eyes still shut, takes another drink.
“Not real,” he slurs. “You’re…not…real.”
Another desperate, memory-wiping gulp and he chokes. He doubles over in a hacking fit. I drop the control and rush toward him. He rears up abruptly, his chest heaving as he stares me down.
One arm comes up and he swipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Feverish eyes rake me from head to toe, and back again.
“Quinn. It’s me. I’m here.”
He takes a tentative step forward. And another.
He stands before me, tall, strong. Half the man he used to be. And my heart breaks. For the childhood he can never look back on without pain and sorrow. For the path he chose because he didn’t manage to do the impossible and save his beloved mother.
For what he’s doing to himself now.
His eyes are severely bloodshot, which makes the silver blue stand out even more vividly.
I’ve missed his eyes…
“Elyse?”
I nod, my throat too clogged to speak.
The hand he lifts shakes uncontrollably. He bunches it into a fist but the shaking doesn’t stop. “Please be real. God. Please.”
My hand covers his fist and he shudders. “I’m real, Quinn. I promise.”
I catch his thick wrist in mine and when I walk backwards into the living room, he follows, his gaze bolted on mine.
“I came…like you asked. But if you want to talk, you need to put the bottle down, Quinn.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” I hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”
His grip tightens around the bottle neck. “No. It’s all I have. It’s the only thing that works. I can’t…you can’t take it away from me.”
This was his plan all along…find a way to end it all.
His whiskey breath washes over me and my heart somersaults in my chest.
He’s trying to drink himself to death.
“Give me the bottle, Quinn.” Alarm hardens my voice, but he’s equally as resilient.
“I said no!”
“Okay. Do you want me to leave? Fine, I’m leaving.”
It’s a lie. I do a quick search and head for the kitchen. Sure enough, he races after me.
He skates to an unsteady stop opposite where I stand at the center isle, hands propped on my hips. “How about we put your precious bottle right here, on the counter? It can stay here while I fix you something to eat. I’m hungry myself. You don’t want me to starve, do you?
The act of frowning makes him dizzy. He sways on his feet. Of course not,” he slurs. “You can eat. But I don’t want anything.”
I shake my head. “That’s not going to work for me.” I walk around and push a stool toward him. “Sit down. I’ll fix us both something to eat. I won’t have you ogling me while I stuff my face.”
That garners half a pained snort. But he sits, the bottle still tight in his grip.
I dart around the massive kitchen, opening and closing drawers, fridges and cupboards. I find enough to make two ham sandwiches and a bowl of mixed fruit. His eyes track me throughout, and when I sit down next to him, his whole body shudders.
“You’re here,” he murmurs.
My breath shakes out, and I close my hand gently over the fist clutching the bottle. “I’m here, Quinn. I promise.”
He slowly releases his stranglehold on the whiskey. I set it down out of arms reach and push a plate in front of him. H
e barely acknowledges it. My throat feels too tight to contemplate chewing, never mind swallowing. But I pick up the sandwich, take a bite.
He makes no attempt to copy my move. So I pluck a couple of grapes off the stem and hold them against his mouth. He slowly parts his lips and takes them. He chews without taking his eyes off my face. Heady with the small triumph, I take turns eating and feeding him.
He’s halfway through his sandwich when his face contorts. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he erupts from the table and darts out of the kitchen on surprisingly steady feet.
I chase after him. “Quinn!”
He doesn’t respond, but I see him disappear into a room at the far end of the hall. I go after him and enter the bedroom to hear the sound of gut-rolling retching.
Shit.
I’m halfway to the bathroom when the image on his large TV screen catches my eye. I stumble to a halt and stare at the shot of myself, asleep in the Hell’s Kitchen loft. There’s a time stamp on it and the footage is frozen in place. I’m more shocked than disturbed by the fact that Quinn is still in possession of images of me. That he’s watching me even after all this time.
Another bout of vomiting refocuses my attention. I enter the bathroom to find him crouched over the toilet. His skin is sallow and beaded with sweat and his whole body shakes as he expels whiskey-drenched stomach contents.
I grab a washcloth and run it under cool water. He groans and closes his eyes when I press it to his forehead. The heaving eventually stops and he collapses against the vanity.
Sinking down next to him, I’m lost as to how to help him.
“Can I get you anything?”
His hand blindly searches for mine, pulls it onto his stomach and clamps tight. “Stay,” he rasps.
He takes a deep breath, two, then he’s surging towards the bowl again.
The retching continues for a better part of an hour, by which time, I’m shaking with fear.
The second he quiets down, I race back to the living room for my phone.
Fionnella answers immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“He won’t stop throwing up,” I blurt.
“Shit, I was afraid of that.”
“Afraid of what?” I demand.
“Possible alcohol poisoning.”
“Jesus. Does he need to go the hospital?”
“No. Keep an eye on him. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
“What?” I shriek, but she’s hung up.
She calls back when he’s in the middle of another vomiting bout. “His doctor is on his way. ETA twenty minutes.”
“Are you sure he shouldn’t be in hospital?”
“Dr. Hanley will decide that. We don’t want to give the press another scoop unless it’s unavoidable. Elyse…are you okay?”
“No, I’m not,” I snap, worry and fear making me cranky. “It’s bad, Fionnella.”
“I know. That’s why you’re there. You’re my last hope,” she says softly, before she hangs up.
Heart in my throat, I return to Quinn. He looks like he’s passed out, but I realize he’s fallen asleep. There’s no way I’m going to get him into bed so I tug the covers and a couple of pillows off the bed and make him as comfortable as possible.
When the doctor arrives, I let him in, my breath held as he examines Quinn.
“He’s severely dehydrated, but he hasn’t quite slipped into poisoning territory.”
Relief shudders out of me, and stupid tears prickle my eyes.
“When he wakes, give him a couple of these, then repeat every four hours. They’re rehydration pills.” He hands me the vial. “And obviously, no more booze,” the small, wiry man says with a wry smile. He extracts a card from his pocket and sets it on the vanity. “If anything untoward occurs, call me.”
I nod and see him out.
Quinn is still sleeping when I return. I don’t want to leave him, so I drop onto the bathroom floor, and curl up next to him.
***
“Elyse.”
I open my eyes. He’s staring at me. His color is healthier, but faint grey lines fan his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters.
I blink, try not to cry. “How do you feel?”
He closes his eyes for a second. “Like hell. But…I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry,” he repeats.
My throat clogs all over again. I try to get up to fetch his pills. His surprisingly strong grip on my arm holds me still.
“Don’t go,” he pleads. “I need you to forgive me, Elyse. Please.”
I shake my head. “I need to get up, Quinn. To get your pills.”
He tenses. “What pills?”
“You wouldn’t stop throwing up. The doctor came.”
A tinge of embarrassment flushes across his face. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
He releases me. I fill a glass with water and shake out a couple of pills. He sits up and swallows them without complaint. He sets the glass down and spears me with surprisingly piercing eyes. “Elyse, tell me what I need to do. I’ll do anything.”
“Can you stand up? I love the under floor heating and everything, but it’s going to play havoc on your bones and mine if we keep sleeping on the tiles.”
He gives a short nod and staggers to his feet. In silence, we return to the bedroom and he slides into bed. I arrange the covers over him, but when I step away, he grabs my arm.
“Stay.” The voice is Quinn’s but I hear Q’s power behind it. I can’t help the shiver that runs through me. How the hell could I have missed the visceral connection? “Please, stay.”
My gaze finds his. Piercing blue eyes plead. My head moves in a nod.
I remove my shoes and get into bed in the jeans and tank top I wore to travel. Quinn turns sideways to face me and the intensity in his eyes grows.
“Can we talk?” he enquires solemnly. “I’ve missed you, Elly. God…so much.” He stops and takes a deep breath. “I need to know how to make you forgive me. Show you how sorry I am for what I did.”
I nod cautiously. “We can talk, when you’re better. Sleep now. I’ll fix us something to eat when you wake up and we’ll take it from there, okay?”
His eyes gleam. “You’re still obsessed with food.”
“And you look like you’ve given up on it.”
His expression turns mournful and dark and he looks away. “Giving up is surprisingly easy when you have nothing left in life to look forward to.”
My heart weeps. I cup his face and compel his attention back to me. “Don’t say that, Quinn.”
He heaves a sigh and lays his hand over mine to imprison it against his cheek. He falls asleep that way. I watch him breathe, dream. Knowing that the love I confessed three months ago outside the loft, still burns as bright.
I must fall asleep too. I jerk awake to the sound of fresh vomiting. But this time, when I rush to his aid, he’s not crumbled on the floor. He stays on his feet throughout. And the bout lasts only a few minutes. When he tugs his clothes off and staggers into the shower, I follow.
“Are you okay?”
He nods, but his whole body is caught in relentless shudders. His hand slips when he tries to turn on the spray.
Without a second thought, I strip down to my panties and top and join him in the shower. If he hears me, he doesn’t make a move to acknowledge me. He just stands there with his forehead against the wall, his chest heaving.
I turn on the shower and wrap my arms around him. Hot water cascades over us, and after a few minutes, his shivering dies down enough for me to release him. I grab a washcloth and shower gel and bathe him from head to toe.
His cock stirs when I wash his groin and when his gaze catches mine, his mouth twitches.
That little smile gives me wild hope. He raises his arms and turns around to let me rinse him off.
When I’m done, he eyes my sodden top. “You’re wet.”
“Yep.”
I wait, a part of me wanting him to do something about
it. But for the first time, I see hesitation in his eyes. I catch the hem of the shirt and tug it over my head. Wild eyes immediately land on my chest. He makes a pained sound at the back of his throat, but he still makes no move to grab me. I don’t know whether to be sad or impressed.
“No bra,” he states gruffly.
I shake my head. “Was in a hurry to get to the airport.”
He lifts one brow. I duck my head and quickly step out of my panties and rinse the transferred suds off my body. When I’m done he follows me out. The towel I intend to pass him stays clutched in my fist as I look him over. His body is still drop-jaw magnificent, but it’s suffered changes.
“You’ve lost weight, Quinn. I don’t like it.”
A twinge of emotion passes over his face. “I couldn’t…didn’t want to live. Not without…” Wary eyes meet mine. “Elyse…”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to take the pills. You’re going to eat. You’re going to get better. Then we’ll talk about us. Do you want there to be an us, Quinn?”
His nostrils quiver as he takes in a huge breath. “More than I want my next heartbeat.”
My lips purse. My eyes drop to his elbow, the almost invisible scars I noticed when I washed him. “See, that’s the thing. I want you to want your next heartbeat. So hearing you say that makes my heart ache. It also makes me mad.”
He frowns for a sec. “Okay.”
“What does that mean, okay?”
His eyes sizzle where they’re riveted on my chest. “It means let’s get the fuck out of this bathroom and get some clothes on before this hard on kills me.”
My eyes drop to the killer erection he’s sporting and shocked laughter bursts out of me.
Okay, so Alpha Quinn isn’t quite down and out.
I hand him the towel. His movements are a little slow, but he dries himself off just fine. He takes the pills I pass him and we head to his dressing room. He pulls on shorts and hands me one of his T-shirts.
We fall back into bed and he’s asleep in minutes. I take the time he’s sleeping to check messages and call Vancouver to let them know I’ve arrived and will be staying for an indeterminate period. In the kitchen, I find boxed up ready meals in the fridge that I missed before in my agitation. I heat up pasta and sauce, grate Parmesan over it and set out the meal on a tray.
