Page 55 of Princes of Carnage

“Not subtle enough,” she declares, but she still goes inside to check it out. Just to be sure. I follow along, keeping my eyes peeled for danger.

There’s nothing, and when we step back outside, she sighs a little.

“I used to love old, abandoned spaces like this when I was a kid,” she says. “My dad taught me how to ride a bike in places like these, where there was no one around to see if I fell. They’ve got a different meaning now.”

Quinn glances over at me, and I look back, not saying anything.

“I think about him a lot these days,” she admits, her gaze dropping as her voice softens a little, turning introspective. “Now that I’m having to make all these big decisions. I was thinking about him today at the meeting, wondering if people would have taken it any better if he’d been the one to suggest that our gang join forces with a rival.”

She snorts, a wry smile tugging at her lips—higher on the left side than the right, the way it always is.

“Probably not. I learned everything I know about this shit from him. There was one time when I was probably about thirteen, and he came home just covered in his own blood. A small stab wound on his upper arm, looked worse than it was. But he couldn’t stitch it up himself, so he taught me how to do it, just completely cool and calm about all the blood and his thirteen-year-old daughter using a needle on him.” She shakes her head, seeming lost in thought. “But then a couple months later, he freaked out when I got my first period and had no idea what to do.”

Her eyes are distant with the memory, and she laughs fondly. It makes her look different, softer than usual, and I keep my gaze locked on her, soaking it all in.

She keeps talking as we go, telling me more stories about her father and her time growing up with him. I hang on every detail, captivated by her words. Although I’ve spent months following her and watching her, these are the pieces of her I was never able to have.

Her thoughts.

Her memories.

Those thousands of little things that make up the entirety of who she is.

I want more, so I make small, barely audible noises of encouragement as she speaks, urging her to go on.

“He was a mess of contradictions,” Quinn continues. “He’d go from being so protective, not wanting me to get too close to anything that might get me hurt, to being totally the opposite. He gave me my first tattoo when I was fifteen and taught me how to shoot a gun even earlier than that. But if some guy even looked at me, he’d threaten to kill him. As if I couldn’t take care of myself. I loved him for it though. And I loved every tattoo he gave me, but the first one is still my favorite.”

She glances over at me and then gestures to her shoulder, pointing to where it is. “It’s this—”

Her voice cuts off, as if she’s just remembered who she’s talking to. The way she’s been speaking—so freely and with so much of her heart laid out in her words—gives me the sense that she hasn’t had a chance to talk about these memories of her dad with anyone else.

“Never mind,” she says, shaking her head, clearly done sharing.

But I don’t need her to describe the tattoo. I can picture it easily, since I already know exactly what it looks like. I didn’t know her dad gave it to her though. I tuck that information away, another little tidbit about her to add to my mental file.

Her eyes trail up and down my body, her eyes narrowing a little.

“Do you have any tattoos?” she asks, as if she’s eager to turn the focus of the conversation away from herself and onto me. “Nico and Atlas show theirs off, but I can’t see any on you.”

I shake my head in response, and she huffs a laugh.

“Funny. I would’ve thought that was a requirement of being in a biker gang. Being all big and muscly and also tatted up.”

Considering the other members of our gang, she’s not strictly wrong. Atlas and Nico look more like what people would assume a biker might look like, but I’ve never been bothered by that. In my mind, body modifications like tattoos and piercings are pointless. They don’t add anything of value. Even though I do like Quinn’s tattoos and the way they complement her natural beauty.

Quinn keeps looking at me, still wearing that considering gaze, and then she steps closer. My nose is suddenly flooded with her scent, floral and sweet, and my focus is solely on her and how close she is.

“You do know I’m a tattoo artist, right?” She quirks one brow upward. “I could tattoo you sometime. You’ve got a lot of skin to work with, and that’s an artist’s dream. Maybe something right on your bicep, to draw attention to how fucking huge it is.”

She reaches out to touch my arm as she speaks.

I feel the heat of her fingertips graze my skin, and even though it’s a featherlight touch, it’s too fucking much. I knock her hand away before she can fully touch me, my heart pounding in my chest.

Just her scent, the closeness of her, the sound of her voice…

It’s almost more than I can take.

I whirl on her, moving faster than she can stop me, backing her up until she hits the wall. My hands come up, palms against the wall on either side of her head as I box her in, giving her nowhere to go.

---