Crazy For You (11 page)

“Well,” Nick said reasonably. “What did he do?” He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, flaunting those great forearms. “It’s easier to understand being dumped if somebody tells you why.”

Quinn shrugged. “I just realized there wasn’t anything there.”
And after that there was something between you and me.

He was nodding at her. “Right, I’ve been there. The thrill was gone, and it wasn’t coming back.”

“There never was any thrill.” Quinn shoved herself off the workbench, irrationally angry that Nick had had thrills that had worn off. “You know me. I’m not the thrill type.”

Nick unfolded his arms and turned back to pick up the rag again.

“It wasn’t just the no thrill.” Quinn watched him crouch down on the concrete to polish the Escort’s wheel cover. “He kidnapped Katie, and I realized I didn’t want to live with a guy who would do something like that because he thought he knew best when he didn’t know me at all.” The last words came out in a rush. “I may not be the kind of woman who has thrills, but I wasn’t going to live with that. And then it felt so good to move out, I knew it was the right thing.”

She stepped closer, trying to make him understand because it was so important that he be on her side, not on Bill’s, not two guys sticking together, but him and her together. “But I can’t tell him that. ‘Sorry, Bill, I just realized that you were not only dull, you were clueless about what I need. See you.’ That would be cruel.” She tried to picture Bill if she said that. “And then he’d say, ‘I’ll learn what you need,’ and I’d have to say, ‘Not in a million years,’ and then I’d just be being a bitch.”

Nick wouldn’t look up at her. She should have known better. He hated getting involved. “So I’m sticking with ‘We’ve grown apart,’ ” she finished. “That doesn’t mention that we were never really together.” She shrugged then, trying to lighten the silence. “Sorry about the books. I’ll figure something out.” Nick still wasn’t saying anything, so she turned for the back door. “I really appreciate you trying to help.”

Still nothing.

She let the door bang behind her, feeling miserable and furious at the same time. A logical woman would have analyzed her feelings and reconciled her thoughts. Quinn just wanted all men dead.

So she thought she wasn’t the thrill type. But he’d seen the flicker in her eyes when he’d leaned close to her that night, heard the soft intake of her breath, felt the heat as her blood had flushed close to her skin, and the need to have that all back, to touch her and make her breathe harder, make her blood pound harder, to take that mouth, move his hand down her throat, over her breast—
I could make you the thrill type,
he thought and then tried to push the thought back into whatever dark hole in his mind it had crawled out of.

Hell.
He sat down on the cold concrete floor and wished the last half-hour had never happened. In fact, if he was going to erase history, he could do without the last five days entirely.

Quinn was a permanent part of his life—hell, he couldn’t sleep with her, he loved her—and
sex
and
permanent
were two words he didn’t want anywhere near each other, not in his life, not ever. He had a good life going—lots of freedom and variety, no responsibility, everything easy—and he was not going to screw it up just because he was hot for his best friend.

Forget it,
he told himself, and turned back to the other problem, the safer problem, which was Bill.

Bill was a great guy, not deep but honest, hard-working, kind—God, he sounded boring, what had Quinn seen in him?—so why was he acting like she couldn’t leave him?

Nick leaned back against the wheel cover and tried to put himself in Bill’s place, something he wasn’t very good at since he usually didn’t care what other people did. Okay, he was Bill. He’d been living with Quinn—his mind swerved a little there, trying to go into the corner where the underwear memory lived—and she moved out. This shouldn’t be hard; women had been getting fed up with Nick and dumping him for years, and it had never bothered him much.

But suppose it was Quinn. Suppose he’d been used to coming home every night and finding Quinn on the couch reading, or laughing on the phone with Darla, or showering—
don’t think about that
—and then one day he’d come home and there was a note.

The showering part was distracting him, lot of soap in that particular image, but he tried to imagine a note that said,
Dear Nick, I’m gone,
and it bothered him a lot more than he’d expected. No more Quinn in his life, no more laughter and bright cool copper hair, no more arguments or “Guess what?”s or surprises like ratty little dogs with persecution complexes.

And if he’d been Bill, no more rolling into bed at night and feeling all that softness against him, no more running his hands down her body, no more taking that lush, hot mouth, feeling her hair slide like silk against his skin, feeling himself slide hard deep inside her—

“Okay,” he said out loud and stood up.

Quinn had problems. Bill wasn’t going to give her up easily. Nick could understand that, he wouldn’t have, either, but Bill was going to have to because Quinn wanted out.

“Then we’ll have two sets,”
Bill had said. And he’d smiled when she’d told him she was moving out.

So it might be a good idea to keep an eye on Quinn. Nothing intense, just a brotherly eye, because all Bill needed was to get used to the idea of Quinn being gone, and things would be fine.

Nick shoved all thoughts of Bill and Quinn and showers and beds out of his mind and turned back to the Escort.

And wondered what color underwear she’d had on under that sweater.

“Red roses,” she said when she’d explained. “Isn’t that just like him? The most generic gift in America.”

“He’s trying to be nice,” Darla said.

“No, he isn’t,” Quinn said. “He’s trying to ignore reality.”

“He probably thinks if he ignores it, it’ll go away,” Darla said. “Men don’t like change.” She sounded grim as she said it.

“Well, it’s not going to go away,” Quinn said. “I have an appointment tomorrow morning at the bank to get a loan application for my house, and that’ll be the end of it. Even Bill is going to have to accept I’m gone after that.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Darla said, but the next day Quinn walked into the bronze and marble lobby of the First National Bank of Tibbett on her planning period, feeling as though she was declaring her independence.

Across the lobby, Barbara—elegant in a powder-pink Chanel-style suit, pale stockings, pink heels, and new hair streaked light brown in a loose French twist—conversed with great adult seriousness with a chubby guy in a gray suit. Quinn tugged a little at her peacoat, uneasily conscious of her own jeans and canvas flats. She’d put on her good navy blouse to do business, even though that meant by the end of the school day she’d have destroyed it with clay and paint, but it didn’t seem enough now. She should have dressed better to go that deeply into debt.

Barbara saw her and waved, and Quinn went over and said, “My mother called about a loan appointment,” which made her feel stupid in addition to guilty. She was thirty-five and her mother was calling about her loans?

Barbara nodded. “You’re buying the old house out on Apple Street, right?” She didn’t seem particularly pleased about it.

“Well, you know, it’s time I stopped renting,” Quinn said, wondering why it was time. The idea of owning her own place, of being free and adult and independent, had been heady, but being in the bank was reminding her that “owning a house” actually meant “owing a lot of money.” She smiled at Barbara, trying to calm her own nerves. “You like owning your house, don’t you?”

“No,” Barbara said.

“Oh.” Oh, hell.

“I’ll get the paperwork.” Barbara pointed behind her. “Take a seat at the second desk.”

Quinn nodded and went to sit on the edge of the massive green leather chair beside the massive mahogany desk. She felt like an obedient twelve-year-old and had to resist the urge to slump down and kick the legs of the chair. Why was buying a house making her regress?

When Barbara sat down with a sheaf of forms, Quinn said, “Why don’t you like your house? Because maybe this isn’t something I should do.”

Barbara put the papers down and said, “Owning a home is an excellent investment that will appreciate over time. Rent is an expense, but a mortgage payment is an investment in equity. And your interest is tax-deductible, so it’s a very sound financial move.”

Quinn looked at her doubtfully. Bank Barbie. “Then why do you hate it?”

Barbara shifted in her chair. “A house really needs a man,” she said finally. “Things go wrong, and then you have to hire people to help, and so many times they’re not competent, and it becomes difficult because you don’t know. Men know, the competent ones. So there really should be a man.”

So much for Barbara, the feminist woman of finance.

Barbara smiled at Quinn. “But that won’t be a problem for you, since you have Coach Hilliard. He looks very competent.”

“I don’t have him anymore,” Quinn said. “I returned him. The house is just for me.”

Barbara’s face relaxed into sympathy, Bank Barbie disappearing. “I’m so sorry, Quinn, that must be awful. I just hate it when they let you down like that.”

Quinn wanted to say
Like what?
but that would result in talking men with Barbara, and all she really wanted was the loan. Sort of.

“You think you can count on them,” Barbara went on, “and then something comes up and they don’t come through for you, and you think, ‘Why did I bother? I can be helpless without you easier than I can with you,’ and they just don’t get it.”

I don’t get it, either,
Quinn thought, but she nodded.

“But then you’re good friends with Darla Ziegler, aren’t you?” Barbara smiled with her whole face this time. “Her husband is
very
competent.”

“Yes, he is—” Quinn began, and then she thought.
Oh, no.

“I heard he even does the plumbing at their house.” Barbara’s face took on a faraway look. “The kind of man you can count on. She’s so lucky.” She pulled herself back. “So I’m sure you can call him. He’ll know everything.”

“Barbara, if you hate owning a house that much, sell it,” Quinn said.
And stop vamping married plumbers and electricians.
And possibly mechanics.

“I can’t,” Barbara said. “It was my parents‘. And it’s a wonderful investment.”

“Maybe you could take night courses in plumbing,” Quinn said.

Barbara drew back, plastic again. “I take night courses in investing. Now you’ll need to fill out these forms and attach the proper documentation ...”

Quinn listened with only part of her mind, the rest of it trying to decide if Barbara’s interest in Max warranted saying something to Darla. Probably not, since there wasn’t anything to go on, it wasn’t as if she was dropping by the station or anything.

Life had been so much simpler a week ago. Her teaching, her apartment, her friendship with Nick—she felt lost for a minute, missing him since he was avoiding her like commitment—but of course, a week ago there had also been Bill and no Katie.

Barbara was pointing at a form with one perfectly shaped shell pink fingernail. “... Fill in this information and sign right here. Do you have any questions?”

Any questions. If she signed right there, she’d be sixty-three thousand dollars in debt and much of her savings would be gone.

But she’d also be free. An adult woman who owned her own house. And couch.

“No questions,” Quinn said. “I’m sure I’m doing the right thing.”

On her way back to school, she stopped at the only furniture store in Tibbett and bought a massive queen-size golden oak four-poster bed to celebrate. After her old twin beds at home and the double she’d shared with Bill, it looked like a golden oak football field, and twelve hundred dollars was a lot of money to impulse, but it felt so right she didn’t even hesitate.

She had some plans for that bed.

He’d run into her—well, he’d been waiting for her by the art-room door—when she’d come back from wherever she’d gone on her planning period, and he’d said jovially—just like they were still together because they were, really, this was just a temporary thing—“Where have you been, young lady?” And she’d looked at him without smiling and said, “The bank. I’m buying a house.”

A house. It made him ill to think of it. And then he’d found out it was that old derelict house on Apple Street of all places. An old house in an old neighborhood too far from school for their kids to walk. What was she thinking?

“You don’t look happy, Big Guy.” The BP came over to stand beside him in hunter green designer sweats. Bill closed his eyes and thought,
Go away, Bobby, before I step on you.
That’s what Quinn always said, “He’s such a bug you want to step on him.” Once she’d said, “Don’t you just want to slap him when he calls you Big Guy?” and he’d said, “No, of course not, he’s smaller than I am.” Besides, poor old Bobby didn’t have much of a life. Bill had a sudden realization of what his own life would be like without Quinn— like Bobby’s—but he shoved it away immediately. Not a possibility.

Bobby sat down beside him, a coordinating towel around his neck, his eyes at Bill’s shoulder level. “Still woman trouble, huh?” he said, and Bill thought about catching him across the nose with his elbow. Just a thought; he’d never do it. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ’em.”

What was that supposed to mean, anyway? He’d had no trouble living with Quinn. And he sure wasn’t going to live without her.

“But you can’t let it affect the team,” Bobby went on. “You got to be up for the guys, you know?”

Bill looked down at him. “Are you telling me there’s something wrong with my coaching?”

“Whoa!” Bobby stood up. “Hey, no, you’re the best, we all know that.” He looked thoughtful. “Although we did lose tonight. Not that I’m complaining.”

“What a twit,” Quinn used to say. She was right.

“But, attitude is everything, right, Big Guy? And let’s face it, your attitude isn’t what it used to be.” Bobby settled in on the padded scarlet bench, a weightlifting man of the world. “Now, I don’t want to put any more pressure on you, but the levy—”

“I know about the levy,” Bill said. “The team will do fine. Everybody loses sometime.”

“It’s not just the levy,” Bobby said, the bluster gone from his voice. “It’s my job.”

He sounded so vulnerable, Bill actually paid attention. “What about your job?”

“I’m only principal for the rest of this year,” Bobby said. “They just gave it to me because I was the assistant principal and they didn’t want to do a candidate search till spring. Hell, they don’t even have to do a search, Dennis Rule from over in Celina wants it bad, and he’s been a head principal for ten years there. Experience.” Bobby said the word as if it were something obscene.

“Well,” Bill said mildly, “you’re doing a good job—”

“It’s not enough.” Bobby’s voice was intense. “But if I pass the levy, they’ll have to give it to me. And then we’ll have the stadium and the fieldhouse started next year, and more championships—” His eyes stared into space, seeing a glowing future. Then he came back to earth. “But only with the championship this spring and the levy. I need you on this, Big Guy. So what can I do for you? You name it, you got it.”

“You can’t do anything,” Bill said, thinking of Quinn in a house without him. If she stayed with her parents, she’d have to come back to him, but if she bought a house—

“You’d be surprised what I can do,” Bobby said.

“Okay.” Bill stood up. “Stop Quinn from buying a house in the wrong part of town. That would cheer me up.”

“She’s buying a house?” Bobby frowned.

“Never mind.” Bill began his final check of the weight room. No point in spending the rest of the night with Bobby. “What I meant was, there’s nothing else you can do.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Bobby got that intense look on his face that meant he was thinking. “Is she going through the First National?”

“What?”

“For her loan. Is she using the First?”

Bill stopped. “I don’t know. That’s where we bank.”

Bobby nodded, satisfied. “Then that’s where she’ll go. Not a problem.”

“What the hell are you talking about?‘”

Bobby folded his arms, cocky as hell. “Carl Brookner is a vice president there.”

Big deal. The president of the Boosters was a bank vice president. “So?”

“So I just mention that maybe Quinn isn’t the best loan risk since she’s been acting so strangely, like moving out on you, and he’ll review the loan and refuse it.”

He wanted to say, No, that’s not fair, don’t do it. But he didn’t. Anything that kept Quinn from moving into that house was good for her in the long run. He couldn’t stand the thought of her staying there permanently, it wouldn’t be safe, it would be a lousy place for their kids, it wasn’t a place they’d bought together, she couldn’t stay there, she couldn’t, it would be bad for her.

“What do you say?” Bobby said.

“Do it,” Bill said.