Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1) (20 page)

Twenty-Seven

On shaking legs, Ginnie followed the waitress across the bar.

You should stop this before it goes too far,
ordered a voice in her head.

But she couldn’t.

She didn’t even know what
too far
was.  And she needed…something.  She didn’t know what that was, either.  The liquor hadn’t washed away the sickening memory of Lawrence’s mouth pressed to hers, nor had it cleared what he’d said about Quinn not possibly wanting her just for
her
.  And his ink…Who cared about its why? But all of that created a nagging doubt that even the cloud of alcohol couldn’t cover.

And still Ginnie wished she had another shot of vodka.

The waitress stopped in front of a small, curtained-off area in the corner of the club, then turned and faced them.

“You probably know the drill,” she said to Quinn. “But in case
she
doesn’t – ” A nod toward Ginnie. “Or in case you conveniently forget…I’ll go over the rules. You do
not
touch the girl. You do
not
touch the girl. And you do
not
touch the girl. Got it?”

“Yes.” Ginnie’s voice was an embarrassing – and humiliated – whisper.

The fact that this girl recognized Quinn for the strip club type…Ginnie hated it.

“You?” the server prodded.

“Yeah, I got it,” Quinn confirmed.

“Good. The rooms back onto a one-way mirror. Break the rules and you can bet your ass you’ll wind up with a broken arm.” The waitress smiled sweetly. “Get comfortable. Your dancer will be with you shortly.”

As she flounced away, Quinn reached around Ginnie to grab the curtain and pull it aside.  For one, blissful second, the scent of him filled her nostrils.  And she felt okay.  Drunk.  But all right. 

Then Quinn stepped back and the feeling was lost, and Ginnie was drowning again.

“You heard the girl,” Quinn said gruffly. “Get comfortable.”

Ginnie took a cautious step into the so-called private room.  It was small.  Barely big enough to fit her and Quinn, let alone have enough space to fit another girl.

Not a lot of room needed for a dry-hump, I guess.

The thought might’ve made her laugh if it hadn’t been so true.

A wide backed chair – wooden with a green plush seat – sat in the center, and some kind of filtered light hung above it, casting a weird spotlight.

Is it supposed to be sexy?

If it was, Ginnie was going to have to rethink her own definition of the word.  To her, it looked like an interrogation room.  In fact, if she thought about it, the setup kind of
did
remind her of the interrogation room at the airport.

One-way mirror?  Check.

Solitary chair, bolted to the floor?  Check.

Distinct feeling of discomfort?  Double check.

“You’re going to have to sit down,” Quinn told her.

“
You
sit down,” she retorted childishly.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Ginnie. Not to me.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything! Not to you. Not to Lawrence.” She snapped her mouth shut as Quinn’s face clouded.

“What did he do to you in that elevator?”

Sickness rose in Ginnie’s stomach and she fought it off. “Nothing. All I want is a lap dance.”

“All
I
want is to know what the fuck happened. What changed?”

“Changed? We met a day and a half ago,” she said. “That’s barely long enough for a first impression let alone long enough to decide that I’ve
changed.
”

“You know damned well that’s not what I mean.” He tapped on his lip ring. “You’re smart and sexy and sweet and too good for this girls-gone-wild bullshit.”

Too good.

The phrase was too damned close to what Lawrence had said in the elevator.  Nausea hit Ginnie again.

She shook her head. “I’ve spent the last twelve years – half my life in case you’re counting – trying to be the best
me
I can be. I’ve always thought that being on the straight and narrow would lead me somewhere good instead of – ”

Quinn cut her off, his face darkening even more.  “Instead of what? Hanging out in a strip bar with a man like
me
?”

Ginnie swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Instead of dead like my mother. Or overwhelmed and then just
gone
like my father.”

“Jesus, baby.”

“I don’t want your pity, Quinn.”

“I’m not offering you
pity
. Is that what you think this is? All I want is to help you.”

“I don’t need your help, either.”

“Tell me what you
do
want from me,” he said, almost pleading.

“I want you to tell me why.”

“Why what?”

“Why
me
?” Ginnie was surprised at the amount of bitterness in her own tone. “Is it because I’m
nice
? Because you think I’m sweet? Naïve? You want to put me up on a pedestal? Or would you prefer to tear me down?”

She was driving a wedge between them.  She could feel herself doing it, and she couldn’t make herself stop, even though all she really wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and let it all out. 

And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why Quinn was putting up with it, why he was sticking around when he could be running in the other direction. 
Should
be running.

He paced the tiny room, once, then twice, then a third time, then ran his fingers through his faux-hawk and slumped into the chair.  He looked from Ginnie’s face to his rough fingers, then back again.  His expression was haggard enough that her heart lurched.

Weak,
she chastised herself.

But she still wished she had the courage to reach for him.

“Baby – ” he started, then stopped abruptly as the curtain behind them slid open.

Ginnie spun to face the dancer and sucked in a gulp of air at the girl’s appearance. 

No wonder Quinn’s suddenly tongue tied.

The girl was leggy and exotic, with full, pouty lips, and kohl-rimmed eyes a color that Ginnie couldn’t quite pinpoint.  Her skirt made Ginnie’s look like a burka, and her sheer blouse left nothing to the imagination. 

Until that moment, Ginnie had never thought of herself as plain – not that she was high on her own looks, but she wasn’t oblivious to her appearance, either.  But in comparison to the dancer, she felt like a troll.

Are those
jewels
on her nipples? 

Yes.  Yes, they were. 

As a low, rhythmic beat filled the room, the girl shook, and the jewels caught the spotlight and sent little shimmers bouncing along the black curtains.  Ginnie guessed that might be the very reason for the light’s existence. 

With a red face, she realized she was staring, and she jerked her eyes away from the dancer’s ample chest.  But the only other place to look was at Quinn, and the last thing she wanted was to see his attention on
her
. 

You can’t just stand here with your eyes closed.

Reluctantly, her gaze sought the big, tattooed man.

The other girl had taken another, shimmying step toward him, and too late, Ginnie clued in to what was about to happen. 
He
was in the chair. 
He
was going to have the girl gyrating on his lap.

Jealousy hit her like a semi-truck.

Oh no.

But he wasn’t looking at the dancer at all.  Not even when she reached his knee and spread her thighs overtop of it and thrust her hips forward in time with the music.  Instead, his eyes were fixed on Ginnie, burning with intensity.

“I don’t want to do either of those things you mentioned. Not tear you down from a pedestal or hold you up on one.” His voice was just barely louder than the music, and thick with emotion. “You want to know if I like you because you’re
sweet
and naïve and good? Yes. Plus a hundred other reasons that are going to take me a lot longer than a three-minute bump and grind to explore. But saying I like you because you’re sweet is like saying I’m attracted to you because you have pretty eyes. It’s so much more than that. It’s more than a fucking strip bar and a fight about a lap dance and a weekend in Vegas.
You’re
so much more than that, baby. From the second I laid eyes on you at that airport bar, you’ve been the only thing I think about. The only thing in my head. And you know what? I don’t want to get you out. I don’t even want to try. That’s why – the biggest reason anyway – that I didn’t just jump into bed with you and why I’m trying to stop you from going ass-crazy and doing something you’ll regret and why I need to make sure you’re okay. Can’t you see that I care about you this much and it’s only been a couple of days and –
fuck.
Not even a couple. Whatever this connection is between us, Ginnie, I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to make it less than it is by saying it’s just about your goodness or my badness or ideals or those tidy boxes you like so much. What I
do
want is to take it and see how much further it can go.”

When he finished his speech, the room felt still, and Ginnie was surprised to see that the dancer was still going, moving as though he hadn’t said a word.

Maybe she doesn’t care. Or maybe she’s used to it.

Quinn didn’t seem fazed by the other girl’s attention, either.  His gaze continued to hold Ginnie.

“There’s no way in hell you don’t feel it, too.”

She couldn’t deny it, even if she wanted to.  But her mouth was too dry to speak.  And her heart was pounding unevenly in her chest, and she didn’t know whether it was from fear of Quinn’s declaration, or from the rapidly waning effects of the alcohol, or whether it was because she was still hung up on what happened in the elevator with Lawrence.

All three, probably.

The way Quinn pulled at her, made her heart beat fast and ache at the same time…it terrified her.  The liquor made her worry that she couldn’t control it.  And Lawrence. She felt like the six years she’d spent with the man was a blank.  A black out.  Two thousand, one hundred and ninety-one days of nothing.  He didn’t know her.  He probably never had.

“He kissed me,” she finally managed to choke out.

“What?”

“Lawrence kissed me,” Ginnie repeated. “And in my head, I know it doesn’t make sense for me to be so horrified. I didn’t kiss anyone
but
Lawrence for six years. But how dare he call me pretty and think that I’m going to kiss him back? How dare he make me not good enough, and then make me the other woman and make me doubt myself and
kiss
me?”

“Ginnie – ”

She cut him off. “I can still taste him. I thought the vodka might help wash it away. But he tasted like booze and now I taste like booze and I think I might’ve made it worse. I don’t
want
to taste him, Quinn.”

And for the first time, Quinn acknowledged the dancer.

“Off,” he commanded roughly.

But the girl didn’t move.  Not quick enough, anyway.  He shoved his chair back, put a hand on her arm, and moved toward Ginnie. 

And he only made it two steps before a three-hundred pound bouncer shoved his way into the room and slammed a meaty fist onto Quinn’s neck.

Twenty-Eight

The bouncer shoved Quinn along, his grip tight. 

Quinn balked against the aggressive contact, but he knew better than to start a fight with a man who outweighed him by eighty pounds or more.  Sure, he might be able to win.  Speed, agility.  Quinn had both.  What the big man behind him had, though, was friends.  Probably eight or nine of them back in the club, just waiting for an excuse to jump in and help.

Self-control.

He prided himself on that, didn’t he?

Maybe not with Ginnie.  Maybe not with anything that had something to do with protecting her.

And not just physically, either.

No.

Quinn wanted to protect her heart, too.

And that sonofabitch former husband of hers was making it harder.

He watched Ginnie’s defeated form move along in front of him, shoulders slumped as they moved to the back of the bar and through the service exit into a dimly lit corridor.

Her ex isn’t the only one making it hard.

Quinn swallowed guiltily.

The bouncer gave him another, rougher shove, and Quinn gritted his teeth.

Self-control.

He needed to get a hold of some.  Right now.

No. Not now.

Five minutes ago.  Or forty hours ago.

He felt torn in a dozen directions, all of which needed freedom.  His emotions were tumbling over themselves for supremacy. 

He wanted to toss off the bouncer’s firm grip and throw himself down to beg Ginnie to forgive him for not being more patient and understanding.

He wanted to maim that douchebag, Lawrence Michaels, with a blunt object.

He wanted to take Ginnie in his arms and kiss away the fucking
taste
of her ex. 

Then
maim the asshole.

The taste. Jesus.

He’d kissed her.  Kissed the mouth that Quinn had laid claim to.

It could’ve been worse.
 

So much worse.

So why does this feel so fucking bad?

He was near-blind with the feeling of wrongness.  Even more so with the feeling of needing to make it right.

Self. Fucking. Control.

Quinn opened and closed his fists, trying to hold on.

You’re okay,
he told himself.
We’ll get out of here and go upstairs and sort everything out.

His eyes focused on Ginnie’s silhouette.  He would make her forget Lawrence for good, make her see herself the way he saw her. 

Then, without warning, the lights above flickered and the already dark hall grew momentarily darker, and Ginnie stopped moving.

“Keep going,” the bouncer growled.

Ginnie took a step.  In the dark, Quinn saw her stumble, saw her reach for something to steady herself, saw her fail.   She landed on the ground with a stifled cry.

Goddamn.

Quinn went for her, tearing away from the rough hold on the back of his neck.  For a second, he was free.  His fingers even grazed Ginnie’s soft, bare shoulder.  Then the bouncer was on him, dragging him back with one hand.

Automatically, Quinn fought against him.  He writhed away and moved toward Ginnie again.  The bouncer took a wide step in between them, and Quinn’s temper flared.

And then it happened.

Ginnie righted herself.

The bouncer threw back his arm while yelling something angrily at Quinn.

And the other man’s fist smacked Ginnie hard enough in the jaw that she reeled backwards.

The bouncer spun to face her – maybe even to apologize – but it was too late.

Red.

It was all Quinn could see.

Any pretence of self-control went out the window as he jumped at the big man.  His hands closed around the bouncer’s waist and he pushed with all his might, trying to get the other man to fall.

He’s too damned big.

He was a tank.

An angry tank.

The bouncer shook like a wet dog, trying to dislodge Quinn, but he held fast. 

“Keep your hands off my girl,” he breathed.

The bouncer grunted. “You don’t like it when I put my hands on your girl? Well, guess what? My boss doesn’t like it when you put
your
hands on
his
girl, either. One goddamned rule and ninety percent of you feel the need to break it. I should break
you
in return.”

With a snarl, the other man backed up and slammed Quinn into the wall, and he couldn’t hold on no matter how badly he wanted to.  His arms released and he sank to the ground.

Shit.

Quinn tried to get back up, but the bouncer smacked a fist into his shoulder, sending him straight down again.  With a groan, he rolled over to avoid being hit again, then sprung to his feet, ignoring the shooting pain in his side.  He squared off against the bouncer, hands up defensively.

“What the hell are you doing?” the bigger man demanded.

What the hell
was
he doing? One job. One
fucking
job. Keep Genevieve Silver out of harm’s way. And he was incapable.

His self-control wasn’t just a pretence.  It was a joke.

He drew back a fist and he dove forward and drove it into the man’s solar plexus.  A soft grunt was the only reaction.  Quinn tried again, twisting viciously and throwing another punch.

The bouncer’s palm came up to meet his hand.  It closed around it, crushing Quinn’s fingers under his grip.

Then the other man’s gaze landed on Quinn’s wrist, on the tattooed dagger.  He dropped his hold immediately, and Quinn could see the sudden caution there.  He seized on it, shoving down the self-loathing he felt at using the gang association for his own benefit.  He lifted his arm and shook it at the bouncer.

“You recognize this?”

“I do,” the bigger man admitted reluctantly.

“Think your boss would recognize it, too?”

“Likely.”

“Then you both know better than to fuck with me.”

There was a long, drawn out silence, and Quinn could read the other man perfectly.  He’d seen it before in his time undercover.  That weighing of odds.

“Risk it,” Quinn dared.

The bouncer stepped back. “The exit’s five feet to your left. If you go now…”

Quinn smiled a dark, practiced smile.  One he’d used hundreds of times.  A threat under the thin guise of pleasantry.

“Then what?” he asked. “You won’t try to stop me?”

He watched the Adam’s apple in the other man’s throat bob up and down.  He almost wanted the man to make the wrong choice.  To give him an excuse to embrace the identity attached to that tattoo and everything that went along with it.

“Quinn?” Ginnie’s soft, worried voice drew his attention back to reality.

His eyes flicked in her direction, and his heart squeezed.  She had one hand at her lip and the other pressed to the wall.

“Can we leave?” she asked.

Quinn shot the bouncer a look, half questioning, half-mocking. “Can we?”

The other man gave him a short nod, and it was all Quinn needed.  He pushed past the man to grab Ginnie’s hand.  Without looking back, he yanked her along, focusing on the flickering red exit sign.  When they reached the door, he forced it open with his hip and pulled Ginnie out into the alley behind the club.

Quinn didn’t give himself time to feel the cold, or to acknowledge the snow falling from the cloudy sky.  He grabbed Ginnie and pressed one hand to the nape of her neck and the other into the small of her back.  For one moment, he stared into her eyes.  Their temporarily midnight shade of green was even deeper than usual, and they were full of hurt.

“One job,” Quinn muttered.

“What?”

In reply, he slammed his mouth into hers.  He could taste the rusty flavor of her split lip, and it infuriated him.  He kissed her harder.  The force of his onslaught drove them backward into the exterior, brick wall of the bar.  Quinn’s knuckles smashed against the clay, scraping and burning. 

He didn’t care.

He slid his hand to her soft, thick hair, and pulled.  She yelped, but it didn’t stop him.

Quinn wasn’t sure he
could
stop.

He brought his mouth to her deliciously exposed throat, nipping and sucking, and none of his attention was the least bit gentle.

He moved to her collarbone.  Then her cleavage.  Then along the curve of one breast, his teeth paying no mind to the thin fabric covering her.  His mouth closed on her nipple, sucking it to a firm, hard point, rolling it with his tongue until she gasped.  Then he moved on to the next and did the same.  Hot.  Fast.  Sweet.

Quinn wanted more.

He dragged his hands to her waist, then down to her ass, and he lifted her from the ground.  He drove his hips forward, thrusting his hard, needy self between her thighs.  He rocked back and forth, enjoying the exquisite torture of being against her but not being inside her.

Inside her.

Just like that, a part of him had to be.  It didn’t even matter
which
part.  He wanted to feel her surrounding him.  Needed to.

He pulled away and ran a hand along her thigh, slipped it up her skirt and pressed it between them.  Then paused as his fingers immediately found her waiting wetness and nothing else.

Wasn’t she wearing underwear?

No,
he remembered.
She couldn’t be. She doesn’t
have
any.

Quinn wasn’t going to let the opportunity go to waste.  He pushed his fingers into her.  Deep.  Wet.  Pulsing already.

Oh, God.

Ginnie pushed against him, her knees tight on his hips, and with her thrusts, his fingers went deeper.  Soon, he was moving with her, his erection driving into the back of his hand.  He ached to take her.

No time.

It was true.  He was far too close.

Fuck it.

He circled harder, tighter, faster, pleasuring both of them at the same time. 

“Come, baby,” he ordered.

She
had
to. 

Because
he
was going to.

With a deep, throat-tearing moan, he pressed the top of his palm to her clit, pushed his rock hard self to his knuckles, and as he thrust against her a final, satisfying time, she contracted around his fingers and cried out as he let go too.

For several moments, Quinn held her there against the wall, her thighs shaking and her chest rising and falling.  He didn’t release her until she spoke in a tremor into his ear.

“Quinn…What w-w-was that? Back there? And th-th-this – ”

He cut her off. “That was me.
This
is me. The dark parts. The bad parts.”

“Bad?”

“The part of me that uses everything I know to get what I want.”

“You said there was no black and white. Only grey.”

“I was wrong, Ginnie. There
are
parts of me that are black. And broken.” He moved back, letting her legs drop to the ground, his heart like a stone in his chest. “If you can’t handle that…If you don’t want it…”

“I do.”

He closed his eyes as her hand came to rest on his wrist and traced the dagger there.

“I want to know every part of you, Quinn,” she whispered.

Her words brought his heart to life once again, and in spite of his very recent release, he wanted her once more.  Right away.  Properly this time.