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This man’svoice was dry and cold like a high-desert night. “Leaving already?”
She ignored him and swerved toward the curb to widen the distance between them. He stepped sideways toward her, close enough to smell—something medicinal, unpleasantly piney.
Close enough for her not to be fooled by the expensive cut of his suit, which didn’t soften the sharp, severe lines of his face. Or his twisted smirk. Nicely dressed or not, he gave her the creeps.
If she were on the other side of Octavia’s door, a similar sensation of tingling down her neck, of unease speeding down her back, might have intrigued her. On the other side of Octavia’s door, there was consent and protocol. There were limits and rules. There was closed-circuit TV and staff monitors to make sure no one got hurt.
On the other side of Octavia’s door, it was safe, like a wild amusement park ride, thrilling but controlled.
But they were not on the other side of Octavia’s door, they were outside, alone on a dark city street, no longer in front of the club’s doorway with the hidden camera.
The dryness of her mouth, the rubberiness in her legs, the rush and pounding of her heartbeat in her ears—they all told her to get away.
She pulled her purse closer to her body and took off. No way she was pausing to kick off her heels. One flew off soon enough, but the other stayed firmly in place. The disparity threw off her gait, and she hiked up her dress so she could lengthen her stride.
And then that heel that wouldn’t leave her foot was stuck in something on the ground and like a dream in slow motion she couldn’t move her leg no matter how hard she tried. She heard the thud and rattle as her head hit metal, tasted iron in her mouth, saw her own legs not underneath her but aloft.
Something unyielding and cold pressed against her cheekbone.
He hovered over her, watching, two of him side by side, both of his mouths laughing.
Sick asshole.
She got on all fours, scrambled off the metal subway grate, and tried to focus her vision. She was almost at the intersection. If she could get to her feet and run, maybe there was an open shop or a restaurant up ahead or . . .
If she could get to her feet.
Her head weighed a ton, but she lifted it. Thank goodness, he was walking away, slowly—sauntering, the prick—fading into the night. She stood and leaned back against a tree by the curb to catch her breath.
The sound of footsteps made her turn. Alex and Octavia rushed toward her. She didn’t like the look on their faces.
“You okay?” Alex asked as he got close. “Why don’t you sit down?”
He caught up to her and helped her down. Quickly, he took off his black t-shirt, gathered it, and held it against her cheek. His hand quivered. “Did he hurt you?”
“I fell. I’m okay. I’m okay.” The second time, she said it more to herself than to him.
Octavia spoke into her phone, giving their location, holding Quinn’s wayward shoe in her other hand.
She motioned toward Octavia’s phone. “Really, I’m fine. I just need to sit for a second.”
“You should get checked out,” Alex said. “Looks like you landed hard, and you might need a couple of stitches.” He jutted his chin toward her cheek.
“How did you know I was out here?”
“I met Octavia on the floor and gave her your message while we walked back to the front desk. When we got there, we both noticed some motion on the monitor at the edge of the frame. She looked at me, and I looked at her. It’s been a weird night—not only because of your . . . friend. The vibe was off, so we came out just to check. And here we are.”
He sat cross-legged beside her. Octavia was um-hmm’ing into the phone while watching her, and Quinn gestured with both hands, palms down.You can hang up; I’m okay.
Octavia didn’t hang up, and soon police sirens wailed, and the air began to flash red and blue.
Quinn’s stomach lurched. The last time she saw those kinds of lights, they were outside her cabin at Hollinger, her idyllic spot in the woods where, until then, nothing bad seemed able to happen. She had gone to the door at the sound of the car, unusual on the colony’s grounds. The loudest noise was usually a staff member dropping off a lunch basket or another writer cracking a twig as they hiked on the nearby path. Two officers had emerged from underneath the lights and asked if she was Quinn Layborn.
Yesss?
Do you know a Harris Layborn?
