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She joined the growing group of onlookers. A second man she hadn’t noticed was standing beside the woman, holding a lit candle above her back. Drops of white wax slid down her torso and around her ribs, slowing and hardening.
The two men worked in tandem, one flogging, one dripping molten heat. A tingle electrified Quinn, her own torso getting warmer just from watching.
“It’s a work of art,” a woman whispered, interrupting Quinn’s awe at the exoskeleton of cooled wax.
“It’s incredible,” she agreed, turning toward the voice. Although a few years had passed, she recognized Octavia immediately from the photos that had run with that profile—the long, black corkscrew curls and astute dark brown eyes that didn’t miss a detail, but also didn’t make you feel you were being watched.
“Do you want to try it?” She gestured toward the scene. “I’m Octavia, by the way. Vanessa said we had a guest. Very nice to meet you. Do you go by Quinn, or do you prefer a scene name, a pseudonym?”
“Quinn’s fine—and it’s nice to meet you, too.” The hand Octavia extended to shake hers was strong and kind, warm and confident.
“Are you here with anyone?”
“No, I’m alone.” She forced a smile.
“I can show you what it’s like if you’re curious.”
The right answer is, “No, thank you.”
She was only here because Jonathan wasn’t home yet.
She needed him again. If she were completely honest, shewantedhim again.
The last night they were together, before he went away, she had felt a pull, an overpowering force, and she had let herself lean into him. She hadn’t wanted him to leave, although she didn’t tell him that.
Unlike their previous encounters, that night was about more than the escape he had given her; if she were completely honest, it was also abouthim.
And she could not—would not—let herself want it. Because she was still grieving. Because she still loved Harris. Because she never wanted to experience another loss of this magnitude again, ever.
“Yes, please.”
“Then follow me,” Octavia said, cocking her head toward an alcove with a neatly made massage table and, thankfully, no crowd around it. “I’ll get a candle.”
7
YES, TONIGHT
The city’s buildings twinkled in the darkness as ribbons of white headlights and red taillights snaked along the gnarled highways. Bridges and skyscrapers jutted into the sky, their outlines visible by the dabs of light, a giant connect-the-dots in high-wattage bulbs.
The view from the air always gave him a rush. It also reminded him he was one lucky son of a bitch to have landed this gig—and to have kept it by the skin of his teeth.
As the flight attendant passed by collecting trash, he handed off the remains of a perfectly good gin and tonic before the turbulence sloshed it into his lap. He turned his wrist to check the watch face yet again.
Now he was over an hour fucking late. No way Quinn would wait.
One ear popped while he mentally kicked himself for not texting her before they took off.
He had sprinted through three terminals and still was the last to board and squeeze into his seat as the plane began to taxi to the runway.
Then there was this past freakinghourof circling over Manhattan. He should have given her his address and told her to go to the apartment earlier; Barnes would let her in. She could be sitting on his couch or laying in his bed when he came home, waiting, ready for him, wet with anticipation.
Now? He had to get his head around the disappointment—the evening he had been looking forward to all week was not going to happen.
But a man could dream. He shifted his jacket and the book he was reading to better cover his lap. In this respect, it was good his crew had been booked on other flights.
The captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker. Finally, the air traffic had thinned, and they were cleared to land.
The second those tires skidded to a halt on the tarmac, he turned his phone on and texted her.
