Just Say Yes (8 page)

Tim didn't miss Quinn's sudden inhale and the way her cheeks flushed. It was nice to be reminded that Quinn wasn't as innocent as she often seemed. Even her mind ended up in the gutter from time to time. He couldn't help but enjoy watching her squirm for a minute before he added, “I should be able to eat a real meal in a few days, I'm sure.”

“Right,” she said simply as she leaned back in the booth to allow the waitress to set their drinks in front of them.

As Tim watched her take a sip of her drink, his mind instantly wondered how those lips would feel on his, or wrapped around him. He quickly realized he was staring and shook his head slightly.

“You okay over there?” Quinn questioned coyly, as if she knew where his mind had been.

“Never better,” Tim replied as he took a gulp of his water, wincing as the icy-coldness hit his tongue.

“Whatever you say.”

Soon after, the waitress brought their food and they ate quietly. Once they were both finished, Tim ordered a chocolate shake for them to split. He figured putting his mouth anywhere Quinn's had been could only help the throb in his tongue. Plus he'd have the added bonus of watching Quinn suck hard on a straw.

By the time they'd left the restaurant and headed to the pool hall, they were already forty minutes late to meet the guys. Quinn looked at her watch as they entered the dimly lit establishment.

“It's no big deal. We're not punching a time clock or anything,” Tim joked.

“Yo, buddy. Where the fuck you been?”

Quinn turned to glare at Tim, to which he smiled and shrugged.

Tim led them over to the loudmouth, slapping his hand and pulling him into a one-armed embrace. “Dante, this is Quinn. Quinn, Dante.”

“Nice to meet you,” Quinn said as she shook Dante's outstretched hand, smiling widely.

“Whoa, do my eyes deceive me? Did you actually bring a girl to hang out with us?” his buddy Rudy asked.

Tim groaned. “Can it, Rudy.” The rest of the group closed in on them, and Tim continued with the introductions. “Guys, this is Quinn. She's a
friend
of mine.” Tim hoped that emphasizing the word “friend” would keep the guys from embarrassing the shit out of him. “That's Rudy, Dom, and Aidan.”

“Friend, huh?” Rudy asked as he stepped forward to shake Quinn's hand. “So that means you're single?”

Tim slapped the back of his head, allowing that to serve as an answer.

Quinn giggled. “Good to meet you guys.”

“You too, Quinn. Ignore these assholes. Their mamas didn't teach them manners,” Aidan said as he held Quinn's hand and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles.

“And who taught you manners? The Knights of the Round Table? Like she wants you kissing her hand,” Dante scolded.

Quinn laughed again, seemingly comfortable with the group of marauders Tim had just introduced her to. They were good guys, but, like Tim, they each had checkered pasts. They'd all become acquainted on the streets, each simultaneously chasing and running from his own demons. Even though Tim had met most of them at separate times, they'd fallen in with one another, forming a little gang of men who had solid characters buried underneath the rubble of addiction. They'd stuck together through prison stints, rehabs, relapses, vagrancy, and finally, sobriety. Rudy often joked that they were their own five-step program, better than any AA meeting. They were accountable to one another, each knowing the tells of every other person in the group. They could spot a high member in their ranks from a mile away. And the penalty for such a fuck-up was an ass beating and a ride to rehab.

But even Tim had to admit they weren't the most approachable group. Covered in ink, all of them muscled because all addicts substituted one jones for another. The gym had become their drug of choice when they'd vowed to get clean and stay that way. Though in reality, the appeal of the gym was that it was a place they could all go and hang out without the added pressure of alcohol being served. It was years before they started venturing into places like the pool hall, where the smell of liquor beckoned some of them like the vengeful bitch she was.

“You guys are a trip,” Quinn said. “So do you have only one table going?”

“No. We have two. You play?” Dom eyed her skeptically. Out of all of them, Dom was the most serious. Tim couldn't remember the last time the man had cracked a genuine smile.

“A little,” Quinn said as she went over to the pool sticks and selected one.

The men crowded around the tables they'd reserved for the evening and watched her chalk up the tip of the stick.

“Mind if I break?”

The guys murmured
go ahead
s and
sure
s. They continued to stare as she lined up her shot, struck the cue ball dead center, and sank three balls.

“Two were stripes, so that's what I'll take. Who am I playing?”

The stunned group looked at one another until Dom spoke up. “You brought her. You lose to her.” He handed Tim a pool stick.

Tim grabbed it and then walked over to Quinn. “You play pool?”

“Maybe. You look surprised,” she said with a smile.

“Don't try that innocent act on me. I know you too well to fall for that.”

“Can't blame a girl for trying.” Then she winked at him, and he nearly passed the hell out. He hadn't met this Quinn before, though he'd suspected she existed. This was a Quinn who was confident in her own skin and in her abilities. And it was sexy as hell. He wasn't sure why it had taken four burly strangers to bring this side of her out, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

Though the urge to complain did surface after she ran the goddamn table on him.

The Lead

Quinn sat in her cubicle Monday morning alternating her stares between her computer screen and her cell phone. She was completely disinterested in the former, completely obsessed with the latter. Her fingers slid from her mouse to the keypad, then back to her mouse.
I'm not going to text. I'm not going to text.
She repeated the mantra even though she really didn't know what the issue was. She could text him. They were friends.
What's the big deal?

But Quinn knew what the big deal was: the thoughts that were running through her mind were
anything
but friendly. Having his help in her quest to find herself was one thing. Kind of like a good Samaritan looking after a pathetic stray puppy. But all of the things they'd been doing in addition to that—the running, the frequent texting, and the hanging out with his friends—were enough to make her mental.

So she wasn't going to text because that would only make her feel more like a nerdy teenager pining after her hot teacher. And she refused to sink to that level. She'd learned that lesson in high school. But that barely counted because Mr. Driscoll had been a
student
teacher, so her incessant doodling of Quinn Driscoll all over her binder wasn't all that inappropriate.

Frustrated, Quinn opened her desk drawer and tossed her phone inside. She ran her hands through her hair, blew out a deep breath, and willed herself to concentrate on her computer. She had finished reading the second complaint e-mail when she heard her phone chirp. She was almost embarrassed for herself at how quickly she wrenched the drawer open.

Hey, what are you up to?

Such a simple message, but one that infused happiness into every cell of Quinn's body.
Shit, I have it bad.

Just working. So, in essence, nothing important :)

She waited as Tim typed his response, a grin overtaking her face in anticipation of his next words. Pathetic didn't even begin to describe her.

Me neither. How's the nose?

Quinn lightly brushed her finger over the stud.
Pretty good actually. I love it. How's your tongue feel?
Despite feeling her cheeks flush with desire, Quinn couldn't contain her eye roll as she processed the words she'd just sent through cyberspace. God, how she wished she could find out the answer to that herself.

Feels . . . interesting. I'm still getting used to it.

Quinn racked her brain for a response when she noticed that he was typing again.

So I was thinking,
he sent.

She smirked as she replied.
Sounds dangerous.

Very funny, smartass. I was thinking that we should probably hitchhike Sunday because people are nicer on Sundays.

Quinn narrowed her eyes at the phone.
They are?

Of course.

Quinn waited for more of an explanation, but one never came. Though his next text did shed a little light on his decision.

Besides, I can't get off Saturday because I took off this past one. But I'm always off Sundays and don't have to be in until Monday afternoon for inventory.

Do you really think hitchhiking is a good idea?
Quinn bit her lip nervously. Of all the things on her list, that was the only one that had real potential for getting them both kidnapped, tortured, and executed in the woods somewhere.

No. But that's why it's on your list, isn't it?

His response made her smile.

Do you trust me?

And that one made her warm all over. She didn't have to think before replying.
Yes.

Then trust that I won't let anything bad happen to you. I promise.

A part of Quinn wanted to ask if he would let
good
things happen to her. Or more truthfully, if he would
do
good things to her. The thought made her squirm in her seat. But,
I know
, was all she could bring herself to type.

Good. So I'll see you Wednesday for our jog?

Ugh. You know . . . running wasn't on my list. We should probably table it until after my article is complete.

Nice try, Quinn. See you Wednesday.

She set her phone back in her drawer, acting more disgusted by the thought of running with Tim than she actually was.

•   •   •

“What if we get raped?” Quinn was traipsing after Tim as he walked down the highway about five miles outside of Falls Church. They'd, or rather Tim, had decided that it would be a good idea to park their car in a shopping center next to a busy highway that ran the length of Virginia. That way they would be unlikely to encounter anyone they knew who might have them committed once it became clear what they were doing.

“Rapists usually like men
or
women. Not both,” Tim replied as he shifted the book bag he was carrying on his shoulder. He had told Quinn to pack a change of clothes, since part of the plan was for them to go wherever their chauffeur was heading. When she'd arrived, Tim had shoved her stuff into his large Under Armour bag and hit the streets.

“Great. They'll just kill me so they can have you all to themselves.”

Tim looked over his shoulder and shot her a half-withering, half-amused look.

“Seriously, Tim. All of the nice people are at church right now. We're left with the sinners.”

“What do you think we are, sweetheart?” Then he shot her a wink that nearly leveled her. “Now, stick your thumb out. We have a better chance of someone pulling over for you than for me.”

“I'm not sure that's a good thing,” she muttered as she raised her hand in the universal symbol for “Pick me up. I swear I'm not a criminal.”

They walked for an hour, not talking but not minding the silence either. The businesses were becoming more sparse as they walked, and Quinn was suddenly confronted by another unwelcome thought. In addition to one that left them decapitated in someone's basement. “Is it legal to hitchhike?”

“What?” Tim slowed down so he could walk beside her.

“Is it legal to hitchhike?”

Tim thought for a second. “Probably not.”

“So we could get arrested for this?” Quinn's voice was nearly a screech.

“It's a real possibility.” Tim laughed when he turned to look at Quinn. “Relax. I think we'll be okay. We aren't trying to do anything harmful. We're just looking for a ride. I'm sure we'll be fine if a cop stops us.”

“Damn, and here I was hoping to get our prostitution ring off the ground.”

“You know, you're getting much snarkier the more I hang out with you. I'm beginning to think I'm a bad influence.”

Quinn slid her hand into the crook of Tim's elbow. “You know what they say about dancing with the devil,” she joked.

Quinn watched Tim's face fall slightly, and she immediately wished she could take back her words, though she wasn't sure what she'd said wrong. He didn't drop her arm though, so she guessed that meant he wasn't mad at her.

They were back to walking in silence, but it was charged and tense. Quinn actually found herself wishing a mass murderer would pull over just to distract them from whatever she'd done to ruin their easy companionship. And then, as if in answer to her silent prayer, an old blue VW Bug pulled onto the shoulder in front of them.

“Stay toward the back of the car. I'll talk to them,” Tim said firmly.

Quinn sighed and slowed to a stop at the rear of the beat-up Bug. She couldn't quite make out what was being said, the highway traffic creating too much noise. But she turned her head sharply at the sound of Tim banging his hand against the car's passenger door before it pulled back into traffic. “What happened?” she asked when she was beside him again.

“He was a little . . . strange.”

Quinn chuckled. “Well, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black? We're the dopes wandering down the highway looking for a ride.”

Tim's face split into a wide grin, and just like that, the tension that had been between them vanished. “Yeah, but we're not wearing clown suits.”

“Shut up!” Quinn stopped walking. “He was not wearing a clown suit.”

“If you say so.” Tim laughed.

“Wow. How very John Wayne Gacy.”

“My thoughts exactly. I figured everyone driving has the right to be selective, so maybe we should exercise that right too.”

“Good call,” Quinn agreed. “I hate clowns.”

“I never get that. So many people say they're afraid of clowns. Why?”

“Stephen King's
It
,” Quinn replied, as if that was all the explanation that was needed. “Besides, you clearly aren't too fond of them either. You turned Hobo the Hitchhiker-Killing Clown down all on your own.”

“Yeah, but that was more because he had a box of condoms and a bottle of Jack Daniel's sitting on the passenger seat.”

Quinn stared at him. “I know I've been joking about it, but now I'm convinced. We're going to die today.”

Tim wrapped an arm around her shoulders, which warmed immediately at his gentle touch. “At least we'll go together,” he said teasingly.

Quinn didn't verbalize that she didn't feel as bad about that prospect as she should.

•   •   •

Two hours and countless walked miles later, Quinn and Tim were offered and finally accepted a ride from an older woman who looked like she'd spent most of her life performing hard labor. She had a throaty rasp that made Quinn think she probably smoked two packs of Newports a day. She introduced herself as Clarabell, and Quinn had to repress the urge to ask her if she had grown up on a farm.

As luck would have it, Clarabell was also a bit of a Bible-thumper who lectured them on the hazards of hitchhiking as she quoted Gospel verses. Quinn was going to remind her that she'd picked up hitchhikers, which was equally dangerous, but she decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Clarabell was heading to a swine auction in Sceaty, Virginia, which was damn close to North Carolina. It was at least a three-hour drive away from home, and they weren't all that close to their destination yet. Quinn hoped a train passed through Sceaty, since that was how they planned to get home.

Almost as if he'd sensed her worry, Tim turned around in the passenger seat of the rugged Dodge Ram and gave Quinn a small but comforting smile. They would be okay. She was with Tim, and he'd make sure she got home in the same condition she'd left. Though she wasn't sure if that was really what she wanted.