Page 147

36
NOIR
One Week Later
For the first time in forever, I wake up with a smile on my face. I’ve seen Quinn every night for the past week.
Last night was the best night of all. He took me to dinner at a posh restaurant on top of some tower whose name I can’t recall. Our table was the only one on the terrace. And after dinner, we danced under the stars. We ended up at XYNYC after that, of course. He confessed he was part owner and enjoyed going there to relax, which isn’t a bad thing considering I like the music and food there, too. There were fewer paps this time, for which I was grateful.
I replay the previous magical seven days in my head as I bask in my warm bed. Among the many little pockets of awesome, the one I find most precious is the fact that Quinn is willing to give me time, to take things at my own pace.
I’ve never had that. Every significant encounter I’ve ever had to date was on someone else’s terms. What makes it even more special is that I know he wants to fuck the hell out of me. The anticipation alone has my hands moving down my body, wondering how it will feel to have him inside me when the time comes.
My brain rolls through a clutch of superlatives, some of which have me laughing out loud. Until that happens, I intend to enjoy his world class kissing.
Hunger eventually drives me from bed, after which I laze around, watch a movie. The phone stays silent and I breathe an inward sigh of relief as the hours tick by without a summons from Fionnella or Q. I don’t know how to take Q’s ominous silence, but by two, I know I probably won’t hear from either of them, so I’m free to spend the afternoon with Quinn as we planned.
Perversely, that acknowledgement slows time right down. I amble listlessly from bedroom to kitchen to living room. Eventually I turn the TV back on, channel surf aimlessly and stop at an entertainment channel. Some celebrity or other is skydiving naked off a mountain in South America. I roll my eyes and am about to flick to another channel when I freeze.
Quinn.
On TV.
My breath rushes out for two reasons.
One, dear God, the man is beautiful. Almost impossibly so. It hurts just to look at him full on.
Two, the look on his face chills my blood. It’s the same look he wore the first time I saw him. The deathly stillness, the soulless stare. But behind it, I see ravaging anguish. He’s standing at a podium of some sort with a group of people. My gaze moves to the man giving the speech, and I note the uncanny resemblance between father and son. I stare at Maxwell Blackwood for a moment before Quinn once again absorbs my attention.
When his father finishes speaking, he claps, but his expression doesn’t change. Amid the smiles and handshakes, his face remains a rigid mask. He leans sideways as the person next to him, a stunningly beautiful woman with straight black hair and piercing grey eyes, whispers in his ear. He straightens without answering or looking at her, but as they turn to leave the stage, Quinn’s hand slides around her waist.
Then, I watch, stunned, as his hand moves lower to her ass. The squeeze is lightning quick, over before it even begins, but my insides congeal.
I launch off the sofa, my hand fumbling with the control. I hit rewind, hoping, praying that I saw wrong. But yes, there it is. His hand. On her ass. Squeeze.
Oh God!
I stagger backward, force myself to listen to the rest of the newscast. Maxwell Blackwood intends to run for a second term as governor, blah blah blah….support of his second wife, Delilah Blackwood, and his son, Quinn Blackwood.
My heart drops to my feet.
He was copping a feel of his stepmother’s ass on live TV?
The remote drops from my numb fingers as I’m hurled once again into the Twilight Zone.
What the fuck?
Nausea rolls through my stomach. I return to the sofa before my legs give way.
I try to control my breathing. Calm the fuck down. There must be an explanation. But what, though? How do you explain something like that away?
I look back at the TV. The segment has moved on, but it’s still about Quinn. The caption Chameleon Blackwood is now slapped across the screen. Next to his normal clean-cut, suit wearing picture is another one in which he’s sporting a lighter hair color, a chilling frown, and giving the picture taker—most likely a pap—a finger. The background in the second picture looks like the outside of XYNYC. There’s no sound so I can’t hear what the segment’s about. The mute button must have activated when the remote fell. I frown at the two pictures.
My brain is firing warnings at me, but my mind is too fixated on that image of his hand on his stepmother’s ass to accommodate anything else.
The program moves on to another celebrity. I lie back and spike my fingers into my hair. I want to grab my phone, call him and demand an explanation.
But when it comes down to it, what rights do I have? We fell into this…thing…without rhyme or reason. And Quinn has been aware from the beginning that I have something else going on. Something he has accommodated. So really, I don’t have a leg to stand on.