She lowered her eyes for only a second before they flicked up to his, as though it was hard to look away, and she said, “I have class.”
Time to bring out the big guns. He looked at Kennedy and said, “Jelly bean, help me out here. I want to have a playdate with Miss Roni, and she doesn’t want to play with me.”
Roni’s cheeks flamed. But her widening smile told him to pull out all the stops.
“Uncle Quincy has the best playdates!” Kennedy exclaimed. “He plays for hours. We play dolls and dwess-up. Sometimes we play football, but he has to play on his knees because he’s so big. We play house and we dance, and he even lets me put wibbons in his hair.”
Roni laughed, and he’d give just about anything to hear more of that sweet sound.
“Ribbons?” she asked.
Oh man, maybe Kennedy isn’t helping after all.
Kennedy nodded. “Yes, and if you’re good, he’ll take you to Penny’s ice cweam shop. He loves ice cweam. He always says he can eat it all night long. Right, Uncle Quincy?”
He cocked a grin. Best wing girl ever. “That’s right, kiddo. All night long.”
Roni’s eyes flew open wider, and she snapped her mouth shut.
“You should have a playdate with him, Miss Woni!” Kennedy said excitedly, and wriggled out of Quincy’s arms. “I’m gonna get my stuff!”
“You’re so bad,” Roni whispered, looking around them and laughing softly.
“That used to be true in the not-so-great sense. But I assure you, now I only use my bad side to be very, very good.” He stepped closer, the temperature between them spiking. Roni was tall, five six or seven, he guessed, the perfect height to take her face between his hands and kiss her. She smelled enticingly feminine, but he kept his hands to himself and said, “What’s a guy got to do to get a date with you?”
“I don’t really date, Quincy.” She said his name breathily, as if it lingered on her tongue.
“Neither do I,” he said honestly, and glanced at Kennedy, putting her shoes on by the cubbies. All the other kids were gone. “Maybe it’s time we start. What time do you get off tomorrow?”
“I have a late meeting for an upcoming production.”
“What about Wednesday?”
“Sorry. I’m here until eight. I like you a lot, but…”
“No buts, Roni. You can’t hide behind your phone forever.”
“Yes, I can,” she said with a shimmer of playfulness. “I don’t get flustered when we text. It’s easier when”—she waved at his body—“all this isn’t standing right in front of me.”
“Then maybe I need to up my texting game.”
“No!” she said quickly, laughing.
“Laughing is a good start.” He closed the small gap between them, and her chest brushed against him, desire rising in her eyes. Her breathing hitched, but she didn’t look away. Another good sign. He ran his fingers down her arm, and goose bumps rose beneath his touch. She made a sexy, needy sound, awakening the monster behind his zipper. “One date, Veronica, and I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He leaned in and said, “Unless you ask me not to.”
She opened her mouth to respond, and he cut her off. “Do you really want to make up another excuse? Because your eyes tell me that you feel the incredible, inescapable energy between us just as strongly as I do.”
“Mm-hm.” She pressed her lips together, holding his gaze for a beat before whispering, “I feel it, too.”
“That’s all I need to know.”
Kennedy ran over and grabbed Quincy’s hand. “Can we go now?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Quincy winked at Roni and said, “Ticktock, beautiful. See you soon.”
Chapter Two
SOMETIMES QUINCY FELT like he was living the lives of two different people. The hardworking, easygoing guy who was pursuing Roni and the recovering substance abuser currently running the Wednesday-night Narcotics Anonymous meeting in the basement of the Peaceful Harbor Lutheran Church. But there was no escaping the fact that they were one and the same man and one could not exist without the other.
The hum of the overhead lights might be annoying to some, but for him it was the sound of stability and consistency, things he’d gone years without and now craved as badly as he’d once needed drugs. It was almost as strong as his urge to get closer to Roni.
The sound of the lights filled the silent moment of introspection for Simone Davidson, sitting across from him sharing her story with the group. Simone was painfully thin, though she’d put on a few pounds since getting out of rehab last month. Her curly auburn hair billowed around her face. A scar ran down the left side of her face from her ear to her chin, ending just below her lower lip. A battle scar, from one of the many times she’d tried to escape the hands of her ex-boyfriend. Her jeans and sweater were clean, and her brown eyes were clear, though shadowed with ghosts of her past. She picked nervously at her fingernails, which were also free of dirt. Quincy had never noticed the cleanliness of people or their clothing until he’d gotten the drugs out of his system. Now it was one of the first things he noticed, searching for signs of trouble even outside of the meetings. Most of the time he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.
He’d known Simone back in his dark days, when his every move had been driven by the next high, before she’d become the girlfriend of Patrick “Puck” Fulton, the drug dealer whose posse had once beaten Quincy senseless. When Simone had come to Quincy for help, he’d known he was taking a chance of being harassed by Puck, but he’d flirted with death before, and he wasn’t afraid of it—or of Puck. Not only was Quincy’s head clearer and smarter than any dealer’s, but his body was stronger, and his will to overpower anything that tried to drag him down was unstoppable. Knowing Truman, the Whiskeys, and an entire club of fearless bikers had his back sure helped, and it also made him the ideal person to take on the dangerous role of being Simone’s sponsor.
Simone lifted her gaze to the others sitting around the circle and said, “The other day, I was walking through a gas station parking lot on my way to the bus stop, and this guy standing next to a fancy sedan was staring at me like he knew me. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He was wearing a suit and pumping gas. He kept watching me, and it made me nervous, but after living in fear for so long, I refuse to be scared any longer. I promised myself I would confront my fears, so I walked up to him and asked him why he was staring at me.”
She looked down at her hands, picking at her nails again. “He said he was surprised I didn’t remember.” She lifted her eyes and said, “He was one of the guys my boyfriend had pimped me out to. He said we had sex dozens of times. I knew I had lost memories and time when I was using, but it brought it all to the surface, making me wonder how many other men I’d been with, how many hours, weeks, and months I’d lost track of. I used drugs for five years, almost to the day, believe it or not. That’s about forty-three thousand eight hundred hours, and yes, I calculated it. I can say with great certainty that I can’t recall the majority of those hours.”
There were no flinches, gasps, or comments. There were no judgments. Drug addiction was ruthless, and the people there were all fighting similar battles. Quincy couldn’t help but wonder what Roni’s reaction would be if she was there. He quickly pushed those thoughts out of his head, wanting to keep even thoughts of her away from the ugliness of drugs.
“Those hours are my brass ring,” Simone said. “I want to get to a point where I can say I’ve been clean longer than I was using, and I want to remember every minute of it…”
As Simone went on with her story, Quincy remembered his first few weeks after rehab, which had passed in a blur of NA meetings, self-doubt, and loathing warring with confidence and determination and hundreds of unanswerable questions. But probably the worst parts of those, and many other weeks, were the daily looks in the mirror, the accepting of responsibility for the pain he’d caused, and the deep-seated fear and hope he’d seen in his brother’s and friends’ eyes. He’d s
een those same things in his own eyes. Thank God Roni never saw me like that. Quincy was one of the lucky ones. He had, and continued to have, unrelenting support from Truman, the Whiskeys, and the rest of their friends, giving him plenty of reasons to fight for a better life. But he often wondered how people battled the beast without those pillars of support.
“Hour by hour,” Simone said, as if she were answering his question. “That’s what I tell myself. When I think about how many years I wasted, too high to think or feel or speak, it just…” Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she looked at Quincy.
He nodded his encouragement, though he wanted to embrace her and let her know she had what it took to stay clean. Quincy knew how important hugs and encouragement were, both of which had disappeared from his life after Truman had gone to prison. These last two years of his recovery, Quincy had greedily accepted and happily doled out as many as he could. But this wasn’t a group of friends chatting or a therapy session. It was Simone’s turn to share her painful experiences and try to find her way through them, and in doing so, she might also help others. While hugs were encouraged, members were asked to save conversations and comments for after the meetings, which was exactly what Quincy would do.
“I don’t want to go back to being the person I was, and I’m not sure who I’m supposed to become. But I’m going to figure it out,” Simone said more confidently. “Thank you.”
Jacob, the guy sitting next to her, reached over and embraced her, patting her back supportively.
Quincy glanced at the clock and said, “We’re out of time. I’d like to thank everyone who shared tonight. When you walk out that door, remember the reasons you walked through it. The only person who can change your life is the one in the mirror, but you don’t have to do it alone. If you feel yourself slipping, lean on your sponsors. That’s what we’re here for. There’s a list of daily meeting locations on the table. You can do this, but you have to want it.” He pushed to his feet, and everyone else followed, holding hands and bowing their heads as they said the Serenity Prayer.
When they were done, a couple of people left without a word; others thanked Quincy as he put away the chairs, and then they headed outside, where he knew they would linger and talk as late as they could. For people in recovery, too much downtime or time alone opened dangerous doors, behind which the beasts were clawing to get through.
“You did good tonight, Sims. I’m proud of you,” Quincy said as she put on her coat. “How’d it feel?”
“Like I was sitting there naked.”
He remembered that feeling all too well, but feeling vulnerable was so much better than being wasted. “That about sums it up, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but it also felt good, you know? Getting it out there. I still can’t believe the things I did, the way I treated people. The way I treated myself.”
“Recovery is not for the weak. We need clarity in order to accept what we did and find ways to forgive ourselves so we can move forward. We’ve all been there. Just remember, we are all far from perfect. That guy in the suit you talked about? He’s no better than you. In fact, he’s worse. He took advantage of your drugged-up state, and now you’re done with drugs. You’re working to better yourself, and he’s probably still paying for sex.”
Her lips curved up gratefully. “You always say things that make it easy to believe I wasn’t a bad person.”
“My sister-in-law once told me that even good people do bad things. I didn’t believe it then as wholly as I do now, but I draw upon her words often. They’re simple, but they’re true, and a good reminder when things get tough.”
“I’ll remember that. Thank you. I’m going to do this, Quincy,” she said vehemently. “I’ve never had anyone to turn to, and I appreciate you helping me get into rehab and set up at the women’s shelter. I got a job at a convenience store that’s on the bus line that goes by the shelter. I start tomorrow.”
“That’s fantastic.” He’d rather she worked in Peaceful Harbor, where the Dark Knights had been patrolling like rabid watchdogs for generations. Puck wouldn’t dare cross the bridge into Peaceful Harbor. But he’d talked with Simone about it a few weeks ago, and the buses didn’t run regularly enough to ensure she could get to and from a job there. Luckily, the Dark Knights also patrolled the area around the Parkvale Women’s Shelter and kept tabs on drug dealers and anyone else who might be a threat to the residents of the shelter. The patrols weren’t as widespread as they were in the Harbor, but at least they had eyes on her.
“Have you heard anything more from Puck or his guys?” Quincy asked.
“No. After what Diesel did to him when he came after me at the shelter, I don’t think he’ll be back.”
Desmond “Diesel” Black was a Nomad, a traveling member of the Dark Knights who didn’t claim any chapter as his own. He was a massive man, with cold dark eyes and absolutely no people skills. He bartended at Whiskey Bro’s when he was in town, which kept trouble out of the bar, and he was in charge of patrolling and coordinating the other Dark Knights who kept watch over the shelter. A man would have to have a death wish to mess with him.
“I couldn’t have gotten this far without you, Quincy. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Yes, you do,” he said seriously. “You’ll stick with the program, every minute, every hour, every day, and you’ll call me if you need me. I’ve got your back, Sims. Whatever you need, day or night.” He pulled her into an embrace and said, “You can do this. I believe in you.”
RONI WAVED TO the last of the teenage girls from her hip-hop class and locked the studio door behind them. She headed back to the classroom to get her phone, hoping Quincy had texted. Even though they’d never texted on a daily basis, she’d thought she might hear from him after the things he’d said and the way he’d acted on Monday. But she hadn’t heard from him yesterday or today. She told herself to temper the hope that had been building for the last hour and grabbed her phone from the table, deflating at the sight of the blank screen.
With a heavy sigh, she turned off the lights in the classroom and made her way toward the front, turning off the lights in each of the other rooms on her way. She felt stupid for getting her hopes up, but the way he’d looked at her like he didn’t want to miss a second of seeing her had felt special and maybe even intimate.
But what did she know about special and intimate?
A guy like Quincy probably had dozens of friends with benefits.
For the millionth time, she wondered why he was even bothering with her. It wasn’t like she was fantastic at flirting or gave off seductive vibes, the way Angela did with Joey without even trying. As usual, she had only one answer, and Angela had nailed it. Chemistry.
She rolled her eyes at herself for even thinking she was special to him. Those friends with benefits she imagined surely had even more chemistry with him. The butterfly-inducing zing of electricity between them probably only felt special to her because she didn’t have enough experience flirting with guys to realize it was normal.
But it sure didn’t feel normal.
She hit the last of the studio lights in the lobby and stared out the glass doors into the front parking lot, missing her grandmother. If Gram were alive, she’d tell Roni what she always had about matters of the heart. Sparks start fires, and fires feel good when they’re small enough to warm you, but inevitably they either die out or burn everything in their path. Forget the sparks, Veronica. Look into the heart of the person. If you see gray, run the other way. If you see red, take the man to bed. But if you see a clear blue sky, you’ve got yourself a unicorn, and that just might be your good, kind, hardworking guy. The one you’re meant to be with forever.
Roni stared into the darkness, picturing her grandmother’s serious eyes staring out from behind her wire-framed glasses, her face mapped with wrinkles and worry lines, her short gray hair curling around her ears. The familiar weight of loneliness settled into Roni’s chest.
She startled at a knock on the gla
ss, her hand flying to her chest as Quincy stepped in front of her, those all-seeing eyes holding her gaze. Neither of them moved, but a smile lifted his lips, making her smile, too. He reached for the door, his brows lifting in question.
“Oh.” She unlocked the door, and he pulled it open. My goodness. He was gorgeous, tall and broad in a worn black leather jacket over a gray sweater and faded jeans. His hair was brushed back from his face, making his features even more striking.
He parked one black boot against the bottom of the door, holding it open, and said, “Hey there, beautiful.”
His voice was rough and sweet at once, making every inch of her tingle. “Hi. What are you doing here?”
“Taking you on our date.”
She laughed nervously, feeling a little giddy. “Our date?”
“You lost your chance to make your move, so I’m making mine. These are for you.” He lifted his hand, showing her a fistful of wildflowers, which he must have picked for her because the stems were scraggly and dirty.
Oh, how she loved that! She couldn’t have stopped the dreamy sigh that slipped out if she’d wanted to. “Quincy, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“You said wildflowers were your favorite, like the ones on the field by the bridge, right? That’s where these are from.”
She couldn’t believe he’d remembered that from their first few weeks of texting back in May. A wave of emotion stole her voice. He stepped closer, bringing the rich, masculine scents of leather, earth, and man, with an undercurrent of something she had come to know as uniquely Quincy, and her pulse quickened.
“You should get your things,” he said confidently.
“My things?”
“Keys? Purse?” His gaze moved slowly from her face all the way down to her toes, appreciation rising in his eyes as they followed the same path back up her black leggings, lingering long enough on her white ballet wrap shirt to make her traitorous nipples pebble to greet him. A wicked grin appeared as he met her gaze and said, “As much as I hate to ask you to cover up, you’ll need a jacket.”
The Gritty Truth Page 3
