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Voicemail.
I ended the call, and tried again, calling Mackey frantically as I got in the car, reaching across to push open the passenger door as he came running, maybe picking up on my frantic tone.
He jumped in, I slammed the door, and I threw the car into reverse even as I ended the call, then tried again.
I should have gotten Gunner’s number.
If he was the only one on my case anymore, calling Quin was useless.
I thought, though, that he would pick up if I called. Especially several times in a row. But maybe he turned it off when he went home. Maybe it was dead.
It was a super long shot to drive across town, park in the spot out front, and frantically make my way up the steps.
It was late.
No one in their right mind would still be in their office at this hour.
But there was a ray of hope when I saw a light shining down the hall from the reception area.
And it was right about then that I lost any single shred of pride.
I pounded my fists into the door, calling out Quin’s name as Mackey made a whining noise beside me.
I didn’t even care that I was attracting attention from a group of guys on the corner, guys that I knew – at this hour, on this street – belonged to the Third Street gang.
Just as my heart was speeding up alarmingly in panic, thinking this was it, I had nowhere else to go, no other way to protect myself for the night, more lights flicked on as Quin came running into the main room.
His deep eyes took me in. If I wasn’t mistaken, there was panic there, mixed with the shock, and a healthy dose of confusion as he made his way to the door, punching in a code, then sliding some manual locks, having to push me back because I wasn’t present enough to move away when he pushed the door open.
“Aven, what the fuck happened?” he asked, reaching for me, pulling me inside.
His hands went to my face, framing it, pushing it upward.
“Someone attacked me,” was the idiotic phrase that escaped my lips. Of course someone attacked me. I hadn’t kicked my own ass. But my brain was too busy trying to process the panic and pain to come up with anything better to say than that.
“How’s your vision?” he asked, voice a little less controlled than it usually was, but trying to keep me focused.
“Better now. Swimming before. And I got sick,” I added through gritted teeth, suddenly very, very aware of the fact that I hadn’t had a moment to brush my teeth – or even mouthwash – after said sickness.
“Did you break any teeth?” he asked, pressing his thumb into the skin right below my lower lip, trying to pry my mouth open.
“No. Just split my lip, I think,” I told him, trying to keep my mouth as closed as possible.
“Did someone break in?” he asked, fingers giving up on my mouth, moving up to my temple instead where I felt the sticky heat of half-dried blood.
“Gunner just left. I went outside to get Mackey inside. She came up behind me.”
Everything about Quin went still and stiff at that. “She?” he asked, pulling back to look at my face fully.
“Yeah. I tried to get a look. But it was dark and I…”
“Whoa,” another voice said, coming out from the hallway at my side.
I turned to find a man about Quin’s height, but lighter in features, everything about him screaming I grew up with money! You know the type. There was just something to them.
His brows drew together over his warm brown eyes. “Say the word. I’ll have you on a plane, and with a mixed drink in your hand on the warm sands of the Maldives in about eighteen hours.”
The crazy thing was, I was pretty sure he was serious about that.
I looked back at Quin. “I called you. Like ten times,” I added, voice maybe a little accusing. “I didn’t get Gunner’s number,” I added.
“Okay. Let’s not worry about that now. Fenway,” he called to the man, confirming my suspicions. Only rich people named their kids names like Fenway. “There’s a closet over here,” he said, meaning behind him. “Get the first aid kit.”
“Yes, Boss,” Fenway agreed, not exactly rushing to do so, everything about him slow, full of the knowledge that the world waited for men like him. He moved behind Quin as Quin reached to put his hand under my elbow, leading me down the hallway, stopping at a door without a name on it, and pushing it open.
A bathroom. Luckily, with Quin’s trademark dark color choices – deep charcoal tiles on the floor, deep blue walls – and somewhat low light, forgiving to my pounding head.
“Sit,” he said, pushing me toward the toilet. “I need to clean this out. These cuts on your temple look dirty. I don’t want you getting an infection. We might need to take you to get a scan later. But we are going to try to avoid that if we can. There will be a lot of questions. We’re better off avoiding them. Fenway, the fuck is taking so–” he broke off when my shoulders went up to my ears, my eyes squinting with the shot of pain. “Sorry, babe,” he said, voice low. “When the fuckhead gets in here, there are some painkillers in the kit.”
