Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1) (26 page)

Crap. How could I be so damned stupidly stubborn?
The answer came immediately.
Because you were scared.

Afraid that she was going to make another mistake like she had with Lawrence.  Afraid that Quinn might leave, like her dad had done.  Or maybe even that he might die, like her mom.

She’d used that fear to get angry.  Yes, he’d deceived her.  But he’d done it to protect her and her heart.  He’d apologized and she’d sloughed it off.

Which was wrong.  And it was wrong to project her past onto Quinn, too.  Wrong to use her own fear to drive him away.  Especially since he’d been so transparent about his own past and how he carried it with him.  And she’d tossed that in Quinn’s face.  Sent him away.  Worse than sent him away.  She’d made him think that she believed she was too good for him.  A doctor’s wife and a criminal.  Ginnie had never felt so desperately sorry. 
She
was the criminal.  The destroyer of love.

Melodramatic much?

But melodrama didn’t shake the truth of it all. 

Could she chase him down?  Push aside her pride and her past and ask for forgiveness, too?

Why would he even let you get close enough?

The answer was simple. No.  Why would he?  And even if there was the remotest possibility…but no.  Ginnie didn’t have his number, or know his address, and she was sure he wasn’t the kind of guy who made himself easy to contact.  No Quinn Mcdavid with a convenient listing in the phone directory.

Maybe she could ask Jase…

She shook her head, her chest hollow.  It was a hopeless situation.  She loved him, and she’d driven him away, and now she had to deal with the fallout.

“Maybe if I hadn’t let him go,” she mumbled.

“What?”

Ginnie’s eyes flicked back to the girl on her bed, and she realized Liv thought she was talking about Lawrence.  She couldn’t even muster the energy to explain.  She just shook her head, whispered, “I have to go,” and dashed out of the hotel room.

She didn’t stop to think about where she was going or what she should be doing.  Not until she’d already fled the hotel, torn up the walkway outside that led from the hotel to the airport, been thoroughly soaked by the snow-turned-to-rain, and was standing in the throng of travellers.

Home.

She needed to go home.

Thirty-Four

By the time he’d downed his first cup of shitty, airport coffee, a hundred scenarios had run through Quinn’s torrential mind.

They all started out fine.

Quinn, turning Lawrence in to airport security.

Quinn, demanding to speak to the TSA agent, Gilligan, then turning Lawrence over to him, specifically.

Quinn, coldcocking Lawrence and hightailing it back to the hotel to take Ginnie into his arms.

Somehow, though, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make the fantasized upsets work out in his favor.

Airport security turning on him.

Gilligan locking him up beside the doctor.  Or releasing him, revealing his undercover status to the world, and exposing Ginnie to retaliation.

Ginnie not taking him back.

The last was the most often repeated result, and the most feared.  A big deal, for a guy like Quinn who feared so little.  Who’d never – by his own admission – had much to lose, and ergo little to be afraid of.

“Scared?”

Lawrence Michaels’ smug voice, asking a question that so closely echoed Quinn’s thought, made Quinn want to snarl.  He kept his own voice even, though, as he answered without lifting his face to look at the other man.

“Scared? Hardly.”
Not of what
he
thought, anyway.

“Oh, really?” Lawrence countered.

Quinn shot him a glare, annoyed at how self-possessed the douchebag appeared.

That’s what you get for ordering him to shape the hell up.

It was true that it had been Quinn’s idea to pause at the busy café.  Lawrence needed to sober up; there was no way in hell Quinn was taking him to PJ if the man was going to keep looking and acting like a deranged lunatic.

He just hadn’t expected Dr. Douchebag to transform into someone so very…doctor-ly…in a matter of an hour.

Somehow, in between the furious exchange and threats that took place at hotel, and the hastily booked flights with the ticket attendant, who was filing people onto planes like a sheepherder…Somehow, Lawrence had managed to smooth over everything from his face to his hair to his clothes to his attitude.  There was no evidence of the fact that he’d stashed a gun somewhere before getting onboard.  No evidence that the man had threatened Quinn’s life, or that he was working with a gang to peddle prescription drugs.  Charming and collected.  Tanned and relaxed.  Arrogant and articulate.  It was how he’d scored them two seats in business class on a near-full flight that would start boarding in an hour.  He’d used his toothy smile that matched Leila’s perfectly.

Is that the kind of man Ginnie prefers?

Of course it was.  She’d married the fucker, hadn’t she?  Made it
clear
what she did and didn’t want.

Quinn forced his eyes back to his plate of dry toast again, unable to deal with the reality of it.

Obviously, if Ginnie had found out about Lawrence’s little gambling problem, the charm might’ve faded.  Then again, who knew what people would do for love?  No one understood better than Quinn how that particular, thunderous emotion affected rationality.  Never in a million damned years would he have described himself as the kind of guy who would fly to Vegas with a man he despised to bargain with another man whom he’d vowed to never interact with again, all to protect a woman he loved.

Christ.

He clamped his jaw shut to keep from giving in to an urge to tap at his lip ring.  His tell.  That’s what Ginnie had called it.  When his nerves were on alert, or something pissed him off, or when he was thinking too hard.  She was right, obviously.  He had never felt so on edge. 

Which is why, when a server came by a second later, smiled at the too-suave man across from him, and set down a distinctly alcohol-scented beverage in a paper cup in front of Lawrence, Quinn lost control for a heartbeat.  He snapped up the cup, slammed back the drink – rum and coke – then crushed the paper, ice cubes and all.

And finally, Lawrence’s placid façade slipped.  His eye widened, revealing the still-bloodshot rims, his mouth worked silently, and his gaze darted nervously around the café before he leaned across the table.

“Are you fucking
crazy
?” the other man hissed.

The question made Quinn even angrier.  His tongue inched toward his lip ring and he just barely managed to keep from biting down on it.  The asshole sitting in front of him was the crazy one.  The one who’d annulled his marriage to the most incredible woman in the world. 

Breathe.

Quinn tore his mind from Ginnie and reminded himself that he needed to be far less emotional, far less soft, if he was going to accomplish what the not-so-good doctor wanted.  What he needed to do was crush the man he’d become over the weekend and channel his inner criminal.  A man who could look down the barrel of a gun and grin.  Who wouldn’t possibly become weak-kneed when he thought about a girl getting hurt.

Quinn steeled himself.  No, not steeled. He coated himself in Kevlar, then met Lawrence’s glare with a wide grin.

“I
might
be crazy,” he said. “I mean, in all likelihood, one of us is.”

“One of us?” Lawrence sputtered. “You think that cup-crushing was a display of normal behavior? Someone could’ve seen it. Your reckless – ”

Quinn cut him off, grin still in place. “This is a business trip, Lawrence, so you shouldn’t be drinking. You asked for my help and I’m giving it.”

“By causing a scene?”

Quinn dropped the smile, signalled the server for another drink and waited for her to bring it.  When she set it down, he picked it up immediately and repeated his overly aggressive move.  It made the girl jump.  It made Lawrence clench his teeth.  And it made Quinn stretch out his legs and lean back as he slid more comfortably into both the seat and the role he wanted to play.  He ignored the muttered outrage coming from his travelling companion and let his eyes linger on the server’s ass as she hurried away.  He even managed to shove aside the voice in his head that pointed out the woman’s rear end wasn’t near as fine as Ginnie’s and that it did nothing for him.

“Listen,
doctor
,” Quinn said, his tone a jagged edged knife. “Maybe you asked me to come with you because you were desperate. Maybe thought you had an understanding of what I’m capable of.  Or maybe you believed that because I was a cop first and a crook second, that I’m good man, or a kind man, or a man with a greater sense of justice. But you don’t have a fucking clue. Because I don’t fit into a box.”
Ginnie. Yet again. 
He shoved it off.  Also yet again. “A good, kind man wouldn’t be going to Vegas to speak to PJ on your behalf. A good, kind man wouldn’t have put himself in a position to know PJ in the first place. So if you’re looking for something other than a quick, dirty deal, you’ve come to the wrong person. You can go back to day-drinking and telling yourself you’re too good to pay off your own debts. Just let me know. I’ve wasted enough time on you already.”

Lawrence looked taken aback for second, but recovered quickly, his face growing shrewd. “Say what you want. I know you’re doing this to protect Ginnie. You told me as much.”

Quinn’s heart banged against his ribcage.  He hated the other man saying her name.  He hated
himself
for having shown the other man his vulnerability.

Calm down. No tell. No reaction. No goddamned vulnerability to speak of.

He tossed out a knowing smirk. “Let’s just say I’ve never been the kind of guy who lets something beautiful be destroyed out of sheer stupidity.”

“Oh, c’mon,” the other man cajoled. “I saw your face back there. You’re telling me Ginnie was a piece of meat to you? I call bullshit.”

Douchebag,
Quinn thought, but in response just raised an eyebrow. “
Art.
Not meat. And what you saw was a connoisseur of art protecting an asset that you already discarded. When you were done with Ginnie, you walked away. You broke a perfectly good thing. Shattered it. Such a waste.” God, how he hated talking about her like a commodity.  He pushed on anyway. “I picked up those pieces, and in one weekend I created a masterpiece. Now I’m done with Ginnie, too. But unlike you, I still see value in my creation. If I ever want to visit that work of art again, I can. If that’s bullshit to you, then – ” He paused, shook his head, and sneered. “Fuck it. Who am I kidding? I don’t give a rat’s ass
what
you think. I’m done talking. Another word and – Ginnie or no Ginnie – I’ll suggest to PJ that the best way for him to get payment from you is to take one of your balls, got it?”

Lawrence opened his mouth, and Quinn raised a warning finger.  The doctor slammed his lips shut.

Good.

Quinn leaned back again, then closed his eyes.

He didn’t have Ginnie anymore.  He was about to swallow his last bit of pride – his last bit of decency, too while he was at it – to ask a
favor
of a notoriously un
favor
able man. 

He told himself it was the right thing to do, that there
was
a greater justice.  But he felt like hell.  Like he and the asshole beside him were a matching set on the inside.  And it was almost more than he could bear.

Thirty-Five

You have
got
to be kidding me.
The incredulous thought temporarily cut through Ginnie’s heartbreak as she finally got close enough to see the check-in counter.

There stood Leila.  Hair shining.  Teeth shining.  Stupid airline badge on her lapel…Shining. 

What was she even doing there?  Didn’t ticket agents normally work a solitary desk in a solitary city?

The woman probably decided to come to Vegas just to piss me off,
Ginnie thought.
Then she got stuck, too.

And more importantly, how did the woman manage to look so perfect and perky, even after two days stranded in Asscrack, Colorado –
pause for a serious gut-punch because that was Quinn’s name for the town –
and with a lineup of cranky, frazzled passengers at her desk?

Ginnie glanced down at herself.  She was a train wreck.  She wore one of Quinn’s T-shirts –
another gut-punch because why the hell hadn’t she changed out of it? –
and a pair of boxer-style pajama bottoms courtesy of an airport souvenir shop.  Because as per security, flying completely pants-less wasn’t an option.  Or shoeless.  As evidenced by the one-size-too-small flip-flops on her feet.  Given to her by the pitying clerk in the same souvenir shop which sold her the PJs.

She shuffled forward a bit more in the line, careful to look anywhere but directly at Leila, and instead caught sight of her appearance in the too-reflective surface behind the too-shiny ticket agent.

I’m worse than a train wreck,
she thought immediately.

Her hair was a mussed-up disaster.  Her mouth had a crushed, kissed a whole hell of a lot look to it –
ouch, was that gut-punch going to lessen anytime soon? –
and her face was blotchy red from crying.

Ginnie took a breath and decided that this time, when sparkly Leila didn’t recognize her, she might actually believe her.  Because she looked nothing like herself.  She didn’t even fit into any of her own boxes.  Unless she had a special one hidden somewhere.  One that was just the right size and shape for a raccoon-eyed, heart-crushed idiot who used to disguise herself as a doctor’s wife when she was really a girl in love with a tattooed, dangerous, gorilla of a man with a heart of something stronger than gold.

Who’s fond of run-on sentences, apparently.

Grammar?  Who cared?  But grammar was close to semantics and that was another – this time somewhat ridiculous – gut-punch.

Oh, God.

Ginnie needed to go home so very badly.  To surround herself with her things, to immerse herself in her own life – in her
new
life – so she could become whole again.  She only wished that she wasn’t so sure that Quinn Mcdavid was supposed to
be
that new life.

Gut-punch. Punch. Punch!

“Um, hello? Can I help you, Mrs. Michaels?”

Ginnie looked up, once again distracted by Leila.  This time less by her shininess and more by the acknowledgement that the girl actually knew her by name.  The
wrong
name, but by name nonetheless.

Leila gestured to the still-huge line behind Ginnie, teeth glinting. “It’s your turn, Mrs. Michaels. I’m assuming you want to return home and not carry on to Vegas?”

“Yes.”

Clack-clack. 
Pause. 
Clack-clack. 
Pause. 
Clack-clack.

“No. Wait.”

Another pause as Leila looked up and smiled brilliantly. “Wait for…?”

Very briefly, Ginnie considered whether or not she should even bother asking.  But she couldn’t help it.  Maybe because Leila’s jazzy, put-on personality made her dizzy with irritation.

“Mrs. Michaels?” the girl pushed.

“Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Clack-clack.

“Just…” Ginnie trailed off with a frown.

“Yes?”

“Why would you assume I want to go home?”

“Because your doctor husband and cop boyfriend went to Vegas together, so I just guessed that you were out of the picture.”

The near-to-smug tone made Ginnie color. “He’s not my – they’re not my – Okay – Wait. Quinn’s not even a cop.”

“Yes he is.”

“No he’s not.”

“Yes. He is.”

“No. He. Is. Not.”

“Yes. He. Is.”

Ginnie rolled her eyes. “What is this, third grade?”

Leila’s only sign that the back-and-forth bothered her at all was the way her pink-painted lips pursed for a second before she said, “For man who’s not a cop, he flashed an awfully big badge at me.”

“A badge?”

“Yes.”

Ginnie opened her mouth.  Then closed it.  It could be the truth.  Leila had no reason to lie to her, and it actually kind of made sense when she factored Jase into the equation.  Her brother wouldn’t have hired a criminal to keep an eye on her.  He was too stupidly protective.  But hiring a cop
disguised
as a criminal?  Now
that
sounded like Jase.

And if Quinn was a cop…And he went to Las Vegas with Lawrence…Whose new girlfriend was sure he was in some kind of trouble…

Ginnie’s chest constricted with worry.
Why was Quinn getting involved in whatever Lawrence was doing?

Then she connected the dots.  Or some of them, anyway.

Prescription pads. 

Vegas. 

And the desert house that belonged to Quinn’s drug peddling boss, PJ James. 

They had to be going there to see him.  And something in Ginnie’s gut – something underneath the punches – told her that whatever deal was being brokered between the three men, Quinn was in danger.

Oh, no.

Should she call the Las Vegas police?  No.  That might make things worse.  Her brother, maybe?  To confirm the story?  No.  He’d flip out before she even got a chance to explain.  What was the best solution?

Leila cleared her throat, interrupting her worried thoughts. “Um, Mrs. Michaels, there are thirty people behind you. If you could – ”

Ginnie cut her off. “I need to go to Vegas.”

“But I already booked you in for – ”

“I need Las Vegas.”

“Fine.”
Clack. Clack. Clackity-clack.
“Three hundred and forty dollars.”

“What?”

“There’s a cost difference between the two flights and the flight change fee.”

“The airline promised everyone a reimbursing flight!” Ginnie didn’t
quite
stomp her foot.

Leila smiled brightly. “I gave you one. And now you want to change it so there’s a charge.”

Ginnie cast her eyes heavenward, praying for patience.  What she found instead was a mirrored ceiling.  And her dangerously disheveled self.  The woman who’d engaged in a weekend of incredible sex with a stranger who had quickly become the man she loved.  And that was definitely
not
a woman who would take “no” for an answer in the name of manners.

Right.

Ginnie placed her hands on the counter and leaned forward, close enough that she could see the beginnings of a pimple on the end of Leila’s nose.

“I don’t like you,” she said.

Leila’s smile
almost
faltered. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t like you. You’re the cheeriest – but somehow least helpful – customer service person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh.” A slight tightening of the eyes. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“No you’re not. And since you won’t be honest, I will. Right now, I’d far prefer it if you were an utterly awful, utterly painful – but very helpful – bitch. I still won’t like you, but maybe I’ll want to hurt you a little less.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not yet.”

Leila’s face was smiling so hard it looked like it might crack. “Excuse me?”

“Look. My boyfriend is a cop.”
Unstoppable gut-punch.

“You just said that he wasn’t – ”

“I don’t care what I said,” Ginnie interrupted. “My boyfriend is a cop. Which means that I can get away with a lot. And my husband is a surgeon.”
Cringe. Deep breath.
“So trust me when I say that whatever I can’t get away with can be repaired in the operating room.”

Ginnie figured she must’ve sounded more dangerous than she felt, because without a word, the ticket agent clack-clack-clacked, printed out a paper boarding pass, and handed it to Ginnie.  Who smiled her own version of a too-shiny smile, and which – judging from the genuinely nervous look on Leila’s face – must’ve been a little less orthodontist-to-the-stars and a little more feral-cat.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, not actually caring at all.

It was a means to an end.