Page 31

31

WARREN

The mock meet wasn’t my best, but it wasn’t bad, either. I hit my marks, mostly. Five events: 100 backstroke, 200 freestyle, 50 free, and the freestyle and medley relays. The former is still where I’m strongest, obviously, but my lead-off was solid.

It’s not as sharp as Voss wants it, but it’s getting there. Progress, definitely. A lock-in point that’s just a good practice or two away from clicking. Tension that’s slowly but surely fading.

I’m still damp, hair pushed back as I rap my knuckles against Robbie’s office door. There’s the familiar creak of a chair, then heavy footsteps before he swings it open.

Robbie’s all broad-shouldered and smiling, his Sycamore visor sitting crooked on his head. The type of manager who knows how to keep things running without taking himself too seriously.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite lifeguard,” he says, stepping back to let me inside. “Figured you’d be by soon enough.”

Papers are stacked high on his desk, half-crumpled, some marked up with Sharpie. It’s an organized mess, but it works for him. I always did kind of admire that.

“Came to grab my last check,” I say, shoving my hands into my hoodie pockets. “And Quinn’s, too, if that’s cool.”

“Sure thing,” he says, heading to his desk. He pulls out two envelopes and hands them over.

“Thanks,” I say, tucking them into my back pocket.

I’d like to leave without too much fanfare. Head back to the car, maybe grab a sandwich on the way home. But Robbie’s still watching me, arms crossed, that satisfied grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’m glad you came back this summer. After everything.”

“Yeah, well. Needed the cash.”

“Sure.” He waves off my nonchalance. “But I think you needed something else, too.”

I scratch the back of my neck. “What, like a stress headache?”

Robbie laughs, the kind of loud, belly-deep sound that rattles the walls. “Nah,” he says. “I just mean ... you’re a good kid, Mercer. Hardworking. Reliable. If you ever need a job—during breaks, after graduation—you’ve got one.”

I blink. “Oh. Uh, thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.” He pauses, leaning one arm against the doorframe. “And hey,” he adds, grinning wider now, “I hope things go better with Quinn this time around. You two were good together.”

The words hit a little softer than I expect, like they’re landing somewhere I haven’t fully let myself acknowledge yet.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Me too.”

I shove my hands into my pockets as I slip back down the hall and push through the side exit. I’m halfway to my car when I spot Preston Beckett in one of those ridiculous golfer outfits—a neon pink polo, blinding turquoise pants, and a belt that probably costs more than my car.

He’s standing just a few rows down, leaning against his silver Maserati like it’s some kind of throne. The passenger door’s open, and Davis and Mancini are there, too, the three of them just as buddy-buddy as ever.

And that damned tire is patched now, looking brand-new and smug about it.

It rankles me, seeing those two with him again. Quinn told me they stuck up for her after the incident. Kept him from escalating after the assault and got him to drop the investigation with the club. But now here they are, all chummy again.

I grit my teeth, walking faster. I could ignore them. Should ignore them.

But then Beckett laughs. It’s one of those smug, self-satisfied laughs that makes my skin crawl, and I can’t stop from turning toward him.

“Feeling pretty proud of yourself, huh?”

Beckett’s head snaps toward me, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “What’d you say, kid?”

“I said,” I repeat, slowly and clearly this time, “you seem pretty fucking proud of yourself. Did you manage to get dressed on your own this morning or what?”

Davis and Mancini smile, but they hide it behind their hands like cowards. The kind of laughter that doesn’t belong to either side. Just floats there, waiting to shift with the wind.

Beckett shoots me an incredulous look. “You wanna try that again?”

He takes a step forward, and I almost want him to try and hit me. Because I’m still pissed off, still too keyed up to think straight. But before he can get any closer, Mancini grabs his arm, reeling him back.

He leans in close, murmuring something low in his ear, and whatever he says makes Beckett hesitate. He shifts his weight, rolls his shoulders. But when he smirks, it’s colder now. More calculated. Another slow, greasy grin that makes my stomach turn.

“Might need to have a little talk with Daniel later on,” he says. “Let him know his son’s got a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He’ll get things under control, I’m sure.”

My jaw locks. The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue. I’m not Daniel’s son, so maybe he should take that up with my mother—or, better yet, shut the hell up altogether.

But I don’t say it. Because Beckett’s the kind of guy who feeds off explanations and overreactions, who thrives on getting under your skin. And dragging my family into this? Not worth the energy.

So, I just turn and head straight for my car. I’m already gripping the door handle when I call back over my shoulder, “Oh, and Preston. One more thing—you might want to watch out for sharp objects. I heard some people were popping tires around here.”

His face twitches. Not much, but enough. And for now, that’s all I need.

I slam my door shut, crank the engine, and peel out of the lot, tension coiled tight in my chest.

I should’ve let it go. Should’ve ignored him. But I can still hear Quinn’s voice in my head, quiet and strained when she told me what happened that day. How Beckett crossed a line and then painted her as the one who couldn’t take rejection.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

I need to let it go. But the longer I drive, the harder it gets to shake the knot in my chest. That slimy smirk won’t leave my head. Those fighting words are still rattling around by the time I pull into my driveway.

Daniel will get things under control.

Like I’m some stray dog his influence can leash. Like I couldn’t possibly stand on my own two feet without someone else’s name to prop me up. And what’s worse is that, for a second, I almost wished it were true. Almost wished I was Daniel’s son. That I had that kind of buffer between me and the mess I’ve had to carry on my own.

It makes me think of the man I actually belong to. The one I haven’t seen in weeks. He’s been convinced there’s some larger conspiracy ever since he landed at Oakview. First, it was that the nurses were drugging him to keep him quiet. Now, it’s that they’re trying to steal his fifteen-dollar watch.

I need to visit again soon. Something that doesn’t feel like crisis control. Just being there, even if it changes nothing.

I kill the engine, sit, and stew, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored. My knuckles are white, my breathing still uneven. I tell myself to let it go, that Beckett’s not worth the headspace, but the knot in my chest isn’t budging.

I unlock my phone, half a mind to text Quinn. She’d calm me down or at least distract me long enough to forget. But before I can type out anything coherent, my phone buzzes with a text.

Quinn

boxing. late class. but I want to see you after?

My pulse kicks up, something tight easing in my chest. She’s communicating. She’s letting me in again, even if just a little.

I type out a quick yeah, of course and lean back against the seat. Try to breathe. Try to settle.

But five minutes later, I’m still sitting there, staring at my screen, restless and strung out. The last thing I feel like doing is stewing in my own head for the next couple of hours. I need to see her—now.

I turn the key and drive toward her apartment. It’s easy to find the gym, just down the street, like she said. Emberline Boxing Co. A squat brick building with fogged-over windows and an old neon sign still buzzing overhead.

I park, kill the engine, and head inside.

The place smells like sweat and rubber mats, the air humid and thick. It’s late enough that the place isn’t packed, but the ring’s still occupied, and a few guys are working the bags along the far wall.

I spot Quinn near the back. She’s dressed in tiny black shorts and a sports bra, her dark hair piled into a slick ponytail. Her face is pink from exertion, her arms flexing with every jab.

She looks good—really fuckin’ good—but it’s the way she moves that gets me. Sharp and focused, like she’s siphoning off every last bit of frustration into her fists.

I didn’t realize she was this serious about it. She’s not just hitting the bag to blow off steam. She’s training. Every movement’s clean. Controlled. She already looks like a pro.

I hang back near the wall, just watching her for a minute. I guess I should’ve waited for her to text. Should’ve given her the space to finish up without me hovering.

But I couldn’t help myself.

I’m already moving toward her, full steam ahead, when I notice a man standing there, too. Probably the trainer she mentioned, though he doesn’t look the part. Dark curls, piercings, tattoos. He’s got that smug, try-hard look about him, like he spends more time posing in front of a mirror than actually hitting the bag.

And now he’s not just standing beside her. He has one hand on her hip, adjusting her stance, the other lightly tracing down her arm. His fingers flex just a little too long, his thumb grazing her waist.

“Keep your guard up,” he says roughly. “But relax your shoulders. You’re too tight.”

Quinn snorts. “ You’re too tight.”

He chuckles, and I nearly roll my eyes hard enough to see stars. “Yeah? We might need to loosen up together.”

She snorts as she adjusts her stance. She’s not flirting back. Not really. But she’s not shutting him down, either, and that ... twists something inside me.

“Hey,” I call sharply.

Quinn’s head snaps up, her face breaking into a smile. “Warren, hi! What’re you doing here?”

I flick my gaze toward the tattooed man, who’s still got his hand on her waist. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge me at first. It’s like I’m not even standing here.

“Thought I’d pick you up,” I say, pointedly eyeing the guy’s hand.

He finally drops it, flashing me a tight, forced smile. I wish I could knock it off his face.

“Didn’t know you invited a friend,” he says.

“Yeah,” I mutter, eyes narrowing. “Not her friend.”

“This is Gage,” she says, like that explains anything. “He’s cool.”

“Yeah? Seems like it,” I say flatly.

She gives me a look, something between warning and exasperation. “Gage, this is Warren.”

He barely glances at me before flashing a wide grin at Quinn. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“Sure,” she says easily. “See ya.”

I wait for him to disappear around the corner before I turn back to her. I’m still wound tight, but she just lifts a brow, calm as ever.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here. I would’ve just popped over to your place when I was done.”

“Figured I’d save you the drive.”

“Well, thanks.” She smiles again—bright and warm, like she didn’t just spend the last hour sparring—and heads for the locker room. “Give me five?”

“Sure thing.”

She showers fast, hair still damp when we head back to my place. Quinn’s quiet at first, scrolling her phone and sipping the protein shake she grabbed on the way out, but her gaze flicks toward me more than once.

“You’re brooding,” she says finally. “Why?”

“I’m not.”

“Okay,” she drawls. “You’re simmering, then.”

I snort. “I’m fine.”

“Sure.” She sets her shake in the cup holder, turning in her seat to face me. “So . . . what’s up? Is this about your mock meet?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

I don’t answer right away, just pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and sit there a minute, fingers flexing on the wheel. I know I’m being annoying, but that doesn’t make it easier to shake. The knot’s still there, coiled tight in my chest.

Gage’s hand on her waist—the way he looked at her, talked to her—like he was just waiting for a green light.

“Gage is kind of a dick,” I say finally.

Quinn barks out a laugh. “Oh my God. Are you really that jealous?”

“No.”

“You totally are.”

“I’m not.” I pause. Scratch my ear, shift in my seat like the pleather’s suddenly too hot. “I just don’t like the guy.”

She grins, that smug little smile that makes me want to kiss her just to shut her up. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Riiight. So, you’re not jealous . . . but you turned up at the gym unannounced, nearly stabbed Gage with your eyes, and now you’re sulking in the driver’s seat.”

“He had his fucking hands on you.”

“He was fixing my stance,” she says. “That’s what trainers do.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t like it.”

“You know what?” she says, voice low and playful now. “Maybe I should text him, let him know I’m suddenly available for one-on-one sessions.”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t mess with me right now.”

“Oh no, I’m serious.” She grins wider. “I mean . . . now you mention it, Gage is kinda cute. He’s got that bad boy thing going on. I wonder if he’s single?”

“Quinn,” I warn.

“I mean, maybe I should—”

I’m on her before she can finish, hand sliding to the back of her neck, practically hauling her over the center console for a kiss. She’s still grinning when I meet her mouth, smug and amused, but I don’t care. Because she’s mine. And no one else—not Gage, not the guys at the club, not anyone—is touching her ever again.

“Still not jealous?” she teases when I finally pull back.

I drag my thumb along her bottom lip. Her breath hitches, and I feel it everywhere. “I don’t share well.”

“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I wasn’t offering.”