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"And you did."
"Nope. Told him two wrongs don't make a right, and I understood how badly he was hurting, but this wasn't a road he wanted to go down. Two days later, the bastard's dead, the old man's in jail, his wife tries to kill herself, and the kids...well, you can bet those kids are fucked for life. And it could have been avoided if I'd taken that job instead of spouting some 'turn the other cheek' crap that I knew was bullshit."
"So that's what you do then," I said. "Vigilante for hire."
Quinn looked at me. His eyes were blue that night. Whenever I saw him, they were blue. I doubted that was his normal color, but he always wore the same contacts when he knew we'd be meeting--the same contacts, the same hair color, the same overall disguise--as if he wanted to show me something consistent.
With Jack, I could look him full in the face and still not have the faintest clue what was going on behind his eyes.
The doors were closed. With Quinn, there were no doors, probably never had been, and I could imagine that it had only taken one look around for the victim's father to know the best person to approach with his offer.
Now, as Quinn watched me, his feelings were written over every feature--the creases around his mouth, the line between his brows, the anxiety in his eyes as he mentally replayed those words "vigilante for hire," and tried to interpret my tone.
I moved the takeout boxes aside, folding each and laying it on the table.
"So, you, uh..." He rubbed his chin. "You think..."
"What do you want me to say, Quinn? That I'm impressed? That it puts you a cut above guys like Jack? Like me?"
He grabbed the last box. "No. Absolutely not. I don't kid myself that it's some noble cause. I get paid for it...well, not always, but, yeah, you're right. Vigilante for hire. Maybe it's a fucked-up way of looking at the world if I think that make
s me any better than the guys I off. I just...That's what I do, and I wanted you to know..." He let the sentence trail off.
"Because...?"
He scooped up the forks and shrugged. "Maybe I just wanted you to know because I wanted you to know."
I watched him as he dropped the forks into the garbage, his hand hovering there a moment even after the forks had thumped into the bottom, as if reluctant to turn toward me, dragging the distraction out as he tried to think of what to say next. His jaw tightened and relaxed, as if practicing a line.
My gaze slid down to his arm, muscles so tense I could see the tendons against the fabric of his shirt, and I had to fight the urge to slide over there, put my hand on the dip between his shoulder blades, rub away the tension. I resisted, but not because I was afraid where that would lead, because I was pretty sure where it would lead and, at that moment, I was almost as sure I'd let it. I held back because I couldn't tell him it was all right, when I wasn't sure that it was. But there was one thing I could say, and honestly, so I did.
"Thanks," I said. "For telling me."
A half-smile and a nod, then he moved back onto the bed. As he did, his hand brushed my foot, stopped, and squeezed in a slow rub.
"You might not want to do that," I said. "I spent half the day in boots."
A burst of laughter, not--I'm sure--because it was terribly funny, but just because it gave him something to laugh about. He took a better hold on my foot and kept rubbing.
When I arched my brows, he laughed again.
"Don't worry. This isn't step one to seduction. I meant what I said earlier. I won't push."
"No, you said you didn't have any ulterior motives."
"And I don't. There's nothing at all secret about my motives. I think I've made them perfectly clear."
"Ulterior motive doesn't mean 'hidden agenda.' It means planning to do more than you let on. In other words, bringing me here for more than dinner."
"Damn."
I smiled and shook my head. When he let his hand wander up my calf, I gave another head shake, then another smile.
"Not that I'm averse to the idea in general..." I said.
"But this isn't the time or the place. I know that, despite what Jack thinks."
"He said something to you?"
