Men Like This

by Roxanne Smith

  “You’re already here. We might as well do this together.”

  She stopped, but refused to face him. “Whatever conversation you came here to have with Vickie you intended to have alone.” She started walking again. “She’s all yours.”

  “You and I are not on the same page, Quinnie. Please, talk to me.”

  She didn’t stop. “Talk to her.” The parting shot rang out as she rounded the corner.

  Jack didn’t give chase or shout for her to come back. No angry exclamations or pleas pierced the air. No dramatics, no devastating declarations of love, or demands for trust.

  She’d never experienced such a painful medley of relief and total heartbreak as when she realized he was letting her go.

  But hadn’t she known he would?

  Jack’s hands remained in his pockets as Quinn stalked away, his lips pressed firmly together to keep from calling after her. She didn’t spare a single glance back, not a single peep, before rounding the corner and disappearing from sight, and he hated it.

  He would’ve looked back.

  In fact, he’d never have left. If he’d caught her in a secret rendezvous with Blake, he wouldn’t have walked away in a million years. Neither would Blake because he’d have broken kneecaps. Possibly a few cracked ribs and a concussion, as well, to round out the injuries.

  He wasn’t in Quinn’s shoes, however, and he had two options at the moment. First, chase after the woman he loved and attempt to convince her this secret meeting with his ex was innocent—without showing his cards.

  Or go back inside and show them to Vickie.

  Quinn came upon a pub called Oliver’s without a single taxi crossing her path. For the second time in her life, she found herself in a questionable drinking establishment in an unfamiliar place, alone and in emotional turmoil. She sought out a secluded spot at the end of the long bar and, because somewhere deep down inside she must’ve believed she deserved to be punished, called her sister.

  Emily listened while she cried like a two-year-old with a stubbed toe. When her sister’s suspiciously pleased-sounding coos and heavy I-can’t-help-you sighs grew tiring, she called her best friend and cried like a stood-up prom date. When Angie’s heartfelt, albeit ineffective, speech failed to console her, she gave in and called her dad to whom she cried like the misguided fool she was.

  “This is exactly the situation I’ve been trying to avoid.” She spoke low and took a shuddering breath. The bartender kept a pitying eye on her and never let her glass run low. He’d probably seen more than his share of wounded, jilted lovers grace these stools.

  Except, as her dad was quick to point out, she was neither jilted nor a lover.

  Ah, yes. The technicalities. How easy they were to forget until they mattered.

  “Quinn, unless you tell Jack where your heart is, what can you expect from him?”

  She used a tiny coaster napkin to rub the mascara from beneath her eyes. “You’re right, and it’s pathetic, but I don’t want him to know he has this kind of power over me, that he can hurt me.”

  “He isn’t Blake.” The reminder wasn’t a gentle one. “It isn’t about power or control, and you aren’t pathetic. The fact is, Quinnie, love hurts.”

  She snorted and dabbed her nose. “The most beautiful flower comes with barbs, doesn’t it? Why wouldn’t love hurt? Makes perfect sense.”

  “You don’t stop growing roses because you get poked a few times, right?”

  Quinn dropped her head in her hand. “No, but if one comes at you with a carving knife, you might reconsider your flora choices.”

  Other than telling Jack her feelings, her father didn’t have much more advice to give her. Suck it up, quit crying, grow a pair. Times like these made her desperately miss her mother. Quinn stayed for a third drink before reluctantly retiring from the tiny pub. In her current state, she might rival Shakespeare in tragedy. Instead, she was going home to write about love.

  Thirty minutes later, Jack followed the same path Quinn had taken. When he came across a familiar pub, he thanked Providence and stepped inside. He chose a spot at the bar and ordered the closest ale on tap.

  The bartender cast a wry glance at the large clock mounted above the back bar that had yet to strike noon. “Long day?”

  Jack didn’t find him remotely amusing. “Don’t make it longer, mate.” Really, who was a bartender to give him a hard time about a morning drink? He was Irish—he’d have beer for breakfast if he bloody wanted to. It was practically a birthright.

  His ale arrived and he drank deeply. He’d played his hand. What awaited him back at Quinn’s flat? A barred door, perhaps. Quinn, hands on hips, demanding an explanation. What might he say?

  Quinnie, my love, I only needed to tell her that I love you. I can’t tell you I love you because there’s a fair chance you’ll kick me out on my ass like you did the last time our little connection made you nervous.

  And it is a connection. You must feel it, too. I can’t be the only one of us who was struck by lightning the night we met. Or am I? Which is it? Either I experienced something you didn’t, or you’re running scared. Do we have something, or am I well and truly crazy?

  He refused to believe he was crazy.

  Infatuation aside, they were perfectly compatible. Both diligent and committed. Their commitment manifested down different avenues but was a shared trait nonetheless. He’d traded in the life he’d wanted in order to care for his mother, whereas Quinn had spent years putting herself second to her sodding dirtbag of a husband.

  That guy. Man, he hated that guy.

  What Blake had ever done to earn Quinn’s love in the first place, Jack would like to know. He hated the gooseflesh that broke out over his skin every time she mentioned her ex-husband’s name. He’d never considered himself the envious, worrisome type. He might’ve caught on to Vickie sooner if he had been, but things were changing.

  Quinn supplied the quiet to his noise. He made her get up and go, and she reminded him to sit still once in a while. She was compassionate, animated, opinionated, dedicated, and intelligent, with a sense of humor to match his. He never worried he might offend her.

  What man walked away from a woman like that? Besides being a complete turd, Blake was a fool.

  A woman like Quinn wouldn’t have an affair with a nancy-boy like Vino because she understood a real relationship had a total sum of two. She definitely wouldn’t plan a wedding under such circumstances. She wasn’t the cloud of beauty and mystery he remembered from their night together in Hollywood. She was better.

  This time there’d be no taking off into the night. He’d throw everything he had at her before walking away again.

  Jack ordered his last drink and admonished himself for wasting precious brainpower. He’d already accepted they were meant for each other.

  The challenge lay in convincing Quinn.

  Chapter 15

  Quinn snapped awake at roughly the same speed a corn kernel pops.

  She rubbed her sleep-caked eyes, ironically the result of a sleepless night, and scrambled out of bed, panicked and disorientated by a tremendous racket from somewhere inside her apartment.

  Jack yelled, at whom or what she wasn’t able to discern, and Biscuit barked, deep, guttural growls alternating with anxious, high-pitched yips.

  She launched herself out of bed and followed the din to the living room where both aforementioned males stood by the window. Jack shook an angry fist at someone Quinn hoped deserved it. Biscuit attempted to do the same with his paws up on the sill.

  She wanted to ask what was going on but had a momentary loss of speech. Jack wore nothing but a pair of snug-fitting boxer briefs. She recalled the night she’d unceremoniously helped him relieve his lower half of a similar pair. With the excitement, the image had no time to linger.

  “What in the hell is going on?”

  He turned and thrust a finger at the window. “Come see for yourself.”

  One thing at a time. Whatever new disaster waiting fo
r her would have to wait. She came over but instead of following Jack’s pointing finger grabbed Biscuit’s collar and dragged him, still yipping, back down the hall and shut him inside her room. The barking ceased.

  The dog’s did, at any rate. Jack remained at the window shouting odd British obscenities at some hidden enemy. She braced herself and came to his side.

  She gripped his arm and covered her mouth against a small cry of shock.

  Photographers, reporters, paparazzi. Gaggles of them.

  She peered out from behind the curtain like it was some kind of shield and estimated at least fifty of them swarmed and buzzed around her door like angry bees. A lot of talking and shouting seemed to be happening, but none gave a clue as to what had brought the crowd to her doorstep this fine morning.

  She drew the curtains closed and gawked at Jack, hoping her expression might invite him to explain. Rather than deliver, he stalked off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Oh, right. Coffee. She trailed after him. She belatedly recalled yesterday and came to a dead stop.

  Okay. He’d gone to see Vickie. So what? She rolled her shoulders. Big deal. If he didn’t bring it up, neither would she. Besides, they had exponentially larger problems at the moment.

  Still.

  No. Not now. There’d be time later to discuss it.

  “I’ll call Glen, my publicist.” He poured two mugs of brewed coffee.

  She nodded. There didn’t seem to be anything to add.

  Jack set the mugs down, planted his palms on the counter, and hung his head, his arms locked to keep himself upright. “I don’t understand. What’ve we done to draw this sort of attention? Have I been arrested recently and forgotten?”

  Well, there was that time they showed up at his ex-fiancée’s home. Separately. “I guess shouting at the window in your underwear isn’t the cause?” she joked instead.

  “Unfortunately, no, I’m afraid it’s the effect.”

  Not even a grin. Where was his famous sense humor when she needed it? “I’m not sure what good you expected to come from yelling through a glass window.” Yeah, she sounded snappy. She was snappy and for good reason.

  Could not a single day pass without some new traumatic event to suffer through, or one outing occur without strangers documenting their every move? Now this, the cherry-bomb topping on the pressure cake.

  If Jack wasn’t going to come at this with his usual bright outlook, then it was too much. If she didn’t laugh soon, she’d cry.

  Normally, he’d smile at having annoyed her.

  Not today. “Sorry, love. You’re right. Besides providing them an excellent cover shot, it was entirely useless.” He straightened with a sigh and faced her, quiet and unlike himself. “I’m angry. Whatever happened to bring them here is bad. There are a hundred people out there if there’re two.”

  She swallowed hard and lowered herself into a chair. Her knees went weak, but she had to bring it up. “Um, well, yesterday, you can imagine the fire we might’ve sparked showing at Vickie’s like we did.” She paused and broke eye contact. “Separately.”

  He nibbled his thumbnail and studied the far wall. “No. Interesting enough to tickle the gossipmongers, but not enough to draw the flock we’ve got here. No, this is big, whatever it is.”

  “Okay, so what are we going to do?” Besides ignore the giant elephant in the room that had nothing to do with the drama playing out on her front stoop.

  “Have a hearty breakfast. Drink a lot of coffee. Here’s yours, by the way.” He handed over a mug. “Last, I ring a few useless people and make them earn their bloody salaries.”

  He left the room and returned punching numbers into his cell. A few nods and several words were exchanged. Jack grew quiet at the same time his eyes went hugely round. His face went from a crimson flush to alarmingly ashen. He dropped the phone onto the table and stared straight ahead.

  “What? What is it?” She put her palm to his cheek. “Jack, what’s wrong?”

  “Vickie. I can’t believe her.”

  Quinn barely made out the mumbled words.

  “For nothing. I did it for nothing.”

  “Jack, please.” She grabbed his arm, prepared to shake him if he didn’t snap out of it. “What happened?”

  He finally turned to her, but his eyes remained unfocused. “Vickie. She’s really gone the extra mile this time. She’s accused me of abuse, said I used to hit her. The scary thing is, right now I wouldn’t mind making it true.”

  On the front step of Quinn’s flat a short time later, Glen the publicist held an impromptu press conference. Quinn waited for the uproar when Glen told them the allegations were false, but one never came. He pleaded with them for understanding during this difficult period and asked for their continued support.

  Done and done.

  Once it was over, Glen waited in the living room while Quinn pegged Jack with a little hard truth. “Your publicist sucks.”

  They were back in the kitchen, the room they always seemed to be in when crisis struck. Quinn tapped her cell phone against her palm in an agitated staccato.

  Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me? At least I brought one to the party.”

  “Well, I might’ve invited my literary publicist to make the trip had I known how Glen was going to handle it. He addressed everything except the very story that brought those vultures to my doorstep this morning. The single worst bit of press you’ve ever had, and he ignores it? I don’t get it.”

  Jack shook his head in a show of stubborn resistance. “I’m not responding to that rubbish. It’s like accusing me of wearing diapers. Would you even reply to such nonsense, or would you let it fade away like the bad joke it is?”

  “It won’t fade. As long as there’s an iota of doubt, which there will be because you didn’t bother to deny it, someone will believe it, and those people out there are dying for this to be true.”

  He held his arms out in a plea. “What would you have me do, Quinn? You have no idea how this works. People already believe it. I can say anything I want, but if I were to walk outside, we’d have an old-fashioned stoning in a matter of minutes. How long before they ask if I put my mum in that chair of hers?”

  Horrified, she gaped at him. “No one would make such a leap—”

  The sharpness of his condescending smile cut her off midsentence. “Don’t stop now, love. Go on. You’re the expert. Tell me what else they won’t do. Won’t accuse me of cheating on my fiancée for nothing more than hugging an old friend? Won’t believe I took you in the very bed I shared with her?”

  Her phone went off. Saved by the beep.

  “This isn’t over.” She glanced at the small screen. Emily. Oh, Emily. Worst timing ever.

  Jack kept wide eyes trained on her like he expected an answer to his ridiculous question.

  She crossed her arms. “Quit looking at me like that.”

  “Quit rolling your eyes. It’s childish and unladylike.”

  “Oh, because you’re such a gentleman, is that it? You started it.”

  “I’ll finish it, too.”

  An image of Vickie in her invisible tunic popped into Quinn’s head. “I believe you already have.” This time when her phone rang, she gave Jack a tight smile and answered. “Hi, Emily. How are you?”

  Jack frowned. “Personal foul. Unnecessary roughness.”

  Quinn covered the mouthpiece. “You keep American football out of this. And again, you started it.”

  “Started what? Hello?” Emily’s confused voice broke between them.

  “I only meant I’d start a tickle war or something. Relax, will you?”

  “Don’t tell me to relax,” Quinn snapped. “It’s hardly the time for relaxing.”

  “Hell-o-o?” Emily’s voice warbled through the earpiece.

  “It’s hardly the time for a little chat with your sister, either, but there you are taking calls like we’re not in the middle of a crisis.”

  Quinn sucked in a breath. Her free hand flew to he
r hip in the universal stance of angry female. “Maybe I want to warn her about the man in my apartment liable to kick my ass if I rub him the wrong way.”

  He wanted to be offended. It was in his eyes. She’d gone too far, but his lips twitched like he might laugh, and he seemed in a sudden hurry to leave the room. “Suit yourself. I’m going to have a word with my sucky publicist.” He stalked out.

  Sweet victory. “You do that.”

  “Damn it, Quinn, him or me.”

  She flinched from the phone. “No need to shout. Jack left.”

  “Good. Tell that jerk to stay gone. Now, was this your first fight or one of several? And who’s kicking whose ass? Real or pretend?”

  Quinn sank into a chair like a sack of potatoes and cradled her face with her free hand. Karma, thou heartless bitch. She’d only answered the phone to annoy Jack. The childish tactic had worked but it also came with built-in payback—she was stuck talking to her sister.

  “Not a fight. Just tension.”

  “Yeah, okay. Tension. Sure. How did he have the nerve to come back after yesterday? I mean, you were literally sobbing in public when you called me. How can you forgive him after that?”

  Big sisters, always there to remind you of your most embarrassing moments in case you were going to do something silly like forget. “Actually, Jack’s right, now is a bad time to talk. I can’t get into it with you this second but I talked to Dad, and he offered a different perspective. I’m not sure I can be mad at Jack. And he came back, right? If he wanted Vickie, he’d have her.”

  “Well, what was he doing there yesterday?”

  “He said he wanted to talk to her, but we haven’t had much time to discuss it. It’s been one of those mornings.”

  “You mean like a mob-at-your-front-door kind of morning?”

  “Exactly.” A beat passed. “Em, I never mentioned the mob outside. You’re here. Oh, my God, you’re here. Why are you here?”