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10

WARREN

She didn’t answer my text, and I don’t know why I expected her to. Don’t know why I bothered to send it at all.

What did I think was gonna happen? That she’d suddenly decide to open up, to let me in again? That she’d text back and say, Thank you for checking in, Warren , like we were civil, like we were people who actually knew how to be gentle with each other?

Ridiculous. Foolish. My own fucking fault.

But maybe it’s worse than I think. Maybe she hasn’t even looked at her phone. Maybe she spent the last few days in the hospital waiting on news that didn’t come, and the idea of that makes my chest pull tight.

My stomach twists, and I give her the benefit of the doubt. I tell myself not to jump to conclusions.

That is, until I show up to work the next morning, and she’s already there. Perfectly fine. Smiling at the Davises like nothing happened. Joking with one of the servers. Laughing, even.

Not so much as a glance in my direction.

And that pisses me off to no end.

God, what the fuck is wrong with that woman?

I should let it go. I know I should. But every time I see her, it’s like a live wire sparking under my skin. Like my whole body tenses on instinct. Like she flipped some old switch I forgot I still had.

And worse, she knows it. Knows exactly how to dig her nails into my brain and squeeze until I’m thinking sideways.

I shake it off, shove my sunglasses higher on the bridge of my nose, and step onto the pool deck. It’s early still, and the place is calm. A few retirees drifting through their laps, toddlers squealing in the shallow end while their moms half watch, half scroll.

At least today won’t be a total disaster.

But when Robbie flags me down, my stomach dips. I know, the second I see that apologetic grimace on his face, that I’m about to get screwed.

“We’re consolidating coverage,” he says, nodding toward the pool. “Barely anyone swimming, so we’ve got Kayla running both stations.”

I glance toward the shallow end. Kayla, the youngest lifeguard on staff, is already perched like she owns the place, grinning like she won something.

“And?” I ask, dread curling in my gut.

Robbie claps a hand on my shoulder. “That means you’re on drinks duty.”

I blink. “No.”

“Yes.”

I exhale hard. “I hate serving drinks.”

“I know.” Robbie’s already walking off, grinning like this is the highlight of his day. “Think of it as character-building, Mercer.”

I grumble a curse under my breath but don’t argue. What’s the point? I’d rather not miss out on a full shift again. Yesterday, when they shut the pool down early, I lost three hours of pay. Not exactly devastating, but still annoying as hell.

I’m here to make money. So, if I have to play waiter for entitled assholes, then fine—I’ll do it. Although most of them can’t even be bothered to say please when they order their overpriced cocktails.

Management does this sometimes. Reallocates lifeguards to other “hospitality duties” when it’s slow. It’s the club’s way of making sure no one’s just sitting around.

And I hate it.

Hate being in the middle of people. Hate making small talk, pretending to care about drink orders and whether someone’s cocktail has exactly the right ratio of ice to liquor. I’d rather be up in the chair, baking in the sun, watching the water, not talking to anyone.

Now, I’m stuck slinging drinks for a bunch of trust fund kids and country club moms who think boundaries are optional.

I step behind the outdoor bar, already irritated, already counting down the minutes until I can go back to not doing this. The first half hour is fine—mostly iced teas and lemonades, a single mimosa, and a vodka tonic.

But then the poolside moms show up.

Two of them, already tipsy despite the fact that it’s barely noon. They have designer sunglasses perched on their noses, sheer cover-ups barely concealing expensive bikinis, and flashy rings that sparkle in the sun.

“Oh,” one of them purrs, sliding up to the bar. “Where have you been hiding?”

Her friend tilts her head, appraising. “You’re new.”

“I’m not,” I say flatly, already reaching for the vodka before they even order.

She smirks, leaning her elbows on the bar. “Must’ve been before my time, then.”

I don’t answer, just grab two glasses, fill them with ice, pour.

Her friend hums. “You play sports? You look like you could pick me up and not break a sweat.”

I keep my expression blank. “I swim.”

The first one drags her nails over the rim of her glass. “Mmm. Swimmers’ bodies are the best.”

Her friend giggles. “Toned, lean, so much stamina .”

Jesus Christ. I slide their drinks across the bar, resisting the urge to rub my temples.

“Anything else?” I ask, already knowing I regret it.

The first one grins, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I level her with a look. “It’s on my name tag.”

She laughs, eyes flicking to my chest, to the small WARREN stitched onto my polo.

“Oh, I like that,” she muses. “Strong name.”

The friend nudges her. “You’re terrible.”

I exhale through my nose. “Right. Enjoy your drinks.”

But they’re not done yet. The first one lingers, taking a slow sip of her cocktail before leaning in again, voice all sugar and amusement. “You ever give private lessons, Warren?”

I stare at her as her friend dissolves into laughter. “Oh my God, Victoria, stop.”

I turn, grab the bar rag, and start wiping down the counter. Because apparently, pretending I didn’t hear her is the only way this conversation ends.

Victoria pouts. “Aw. Don’t be like that. I bet you could teach me a lot.”

That’s it, I’m done. I don’t even bother hiding my disinterest, just flash the most bland, dead-eyed look I can muster and say, “Have a great day.” Then I turn my back and start taking inventory, hoping they’ll take the hint.

They do. Eventually. By the time they saunter off, giggling, I let out a slow exhale.

The damp cloth smears condensation from abandoned glasses, the scent of citrus clinging to my fingers. I scrub harder than necessary, trying to burn off the irritation, the embarrassment, the faint flush that crept up my neck the second she leaned too close.

I’m used to people looking at me. I’m not used to feeling cornered by it.

Four more hours. I roll my shoulders, refocus, and grab a clean glass.

Might as well earn the paycheck.

I should be on the stand, perched above the pool with nothing but my own thoughts and the occasional whistle blow to keep kids in check, not pouring vodka sodas for sunburned moms who flirt like it’s a sport of its own.

I roll my shoulders, reach for another glass, and then a flash of movement catches my eye. Dark hair. Frantic stride. Quinn.

She’s moving fast, slipping through the door to the break room, disappearing behind it like she doesn’t want anyone to see. Is she upset? Hiding? Avoiding me again?

My fingers tap-tap against the counter. I stare at the door, jaw clenching.

Don’t do it, Warren.

I press my palm against the counter, grip the edge. I’ve already done enough. Sent the text. Checked in. She didn’t answer. That should be enough.

She’s not your business anymore.

I exhale sharply. Drop the rag. And then, like the goddamned fool I am, I chase after her.

The break room is dim, a little hideaway from the glare of the afternoon sunshine. The overhead fan hums, stirring the thick air, but it does nothing for the warmth curling in my gut when I spot her.

Quinn’s got her back to me, arms braced against the sink, shoulders drawn tight. She’s breathing fast, shallow, like she’s trying to get enough air but can’t quite manage it.

My chest tightens. It must be her asthma.

She’s always been reckless with it—pushing herself too hard, pretending she doesn’t need help. Like using her inhaler in public is some kind of weakness she can’t afford.

I step forward, already on edge. “Jesus, Quinn, do you even have your inhaler?”

She startles, whipping around like she didn’t realize I was there. Her eyes are red, face pale beneath her tan. “I—yeah. It’s fine.”

“Fine?” I scoff. “You’re wheezing. Just take the damn thing.”

She bristles. “I said I’m fine.”

I cross my arms. “Right. Because hiding out alone in a break room gasping for air is totally fine. If you’d just tell Robbie you need more breaks or—”

“No,” she snaps, turning back to the sink. Her fingers curl around the edge, white-knuckled. Like if she holds on hard enough, she won’t fall apart.

And then it happens. A single tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it away in half a second, fast and fierce, but I still see it.

Something twists in my chest.

I step closer, my voice low. “It’s not asthma, is it?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Quinn.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. Takes a slow breath in, then slower out. Like she’s trying to bury something deep before it breaks the surface.

Then, quiet. “It was just one of the regulars. He, uh ... he got a little handsy with me earlier. That’s all.”

Every part of me locks up. I don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Not until she looks up at me, jaw tight, gaze flat and practiced. “It wasn’t— I mean, it was just—” She lets out a hollow little laugh, sharp and small. “You know how it is here.”

Rage spikes so fast it makes me dizzy. I step in, close enough to see the dampness still clinging to her lashes, the way her hands tremble and her breath snags in her throat.

“Who?”

She exhales sharply. “Warren—”

“Who the fuck was it?”

Her gaze flickers, wary. She shakes her head. “It’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal. Not a big fucking deal.

My fingers curl into fists. “Don’t do that,” I say, voice rough. “Don’t brush it off.”

She huffs, wiping at her cheek again like she can erase the evidence. “And what do you want me to do? File a formal complaint? Go to Robbie?” She lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “He’s middle management, Mercer. He has no real clout here. You and I both know that.”

I clench my jaw, grinding my teeth. “That’s bullshit.”

She looks at me then, something exhausted settling into her expression. “The members are king.”

Yeah, I already know that. I know how this place works. How the money, the power, the connections all run one way. How guys like Robbie, guys like me, are disposable in the grand scheme of things.

And it makes me fucking sick.

My pulse hammers in my skull, breath sharp as I try to bite back the fury crawling under my skin. Because this—this is exactly why I shouldn’t have chased after her.

Because Quinn Rose has always had the ability to wrap herself around my ribs, squeeze tight, and make me forget how to breathe. Because no matter how much time has passed, no matter how far I’ve tried to push her out, she’s still under my fucking skin. And I don’t know how to get her out.

“Give me a name here, Quinny. Something to work with.”

She lets out a short breath. “You can’t do anything. You’ll get fired.”

I grit my teeth because I know she’s right. The members here can do whatever the fuck they want without consequence, and people like us are expected to just take it. Smile. Nod. Keep our heads down.

And yet, I want to go apeshit.

I want to grab the guy by the collar, shove him up against the cabana, and make sure he never so much as looks at Quinn again. But that’s not what she needs right now.

So, I do the only thing I can. I move closer, reach for her face, and wipe away the damp track of a tear before she can do it herself.

She stills but doesn’t move away from me.

I tilt her chin up. “No one touches you without your permission and gets away with it. I don’t give a fuck what their last name is.”

Her mouth parts slightly, her breath catching. I can feel it—the way she’s wavering, the way she almost lets herself lean in. And for half a second, it’s like nothing has changed between us.

It’s like we’re eighteen again. Like she’s sneaking into my bed after a long shift, curling into me like I’m the only safe place she’s ever known. Like I still get to have that piece of her. Like she’d still let me.

Then she blinks, and it’s gone. Whatever was there—whatever crack had finally started to let the light in—she slams it shut before I can step through.

She swallows. Steps back. “I’m fine.”

She’s made up her mind. And she’s still reeling, I can see it. Pushing now would just make things worse. So, I let it go.

For now.

I exhale hard, running a hand through my hair. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. All good.”

“If that changes, you come find me.”

Before I can walk out, her voice stops me. Flat. Final.

“It was Beckett.”

Preston fucking Beckett.

That’s the kind of guy that makes this whole place pretend not to notice. The kind of guy who’s had everything handed to him since birth, who walks around like he owns the air the rest of us breathe. The kind of guy who’s never faced a single consequence in his entire fucking life.

A slow, deliberate breath pushes past my lips. My fingers flex at my sides. And then, with Quinn’s voice still echoing in my head, I march straight to the overflow lot behind the maintenance building.

Beckett usually parks there, even though it’s not technically for members. Thinks he’s too important to circle the front lot like everyone else. Too important to follow the rules. I know for a fact the cameras don’t reach the back corner near the fence, and that’s exactly where I’m headed.

It doesn’t take me long to find his car. A silver Maserati Ghibli—sleek, smug-looking, like it knows it doesn’t belong with the rest of us—parked crooked, eating up two spaces.

I crouch low, grab the small blade off my key chain, and jam it straight into the sidewall of his tire. Not enough to fully slash it. Just enough to ensure that the second he pulls out of here, it blows.

Then I toss the blade back into my pocket and head right back to the bar. I’ve got a few more drinks to sling before I can go home.