Page 41 of Quinlan

The man closes his fist. Opens it, then places a finger under my chin so our gazes would collide.

“The punching bag took a beating, true. It’s being replaced as we speak.” A spark, a flash of lightning appears behind the endless night that are his eyes. “If they haven’t changed it already.”

A punching bag. Huh. That makes perfect fucking sense. It reassures me and saddens me in tandem, knowing he won’tchase me down. That he won’t hurt me with those big, menacing—

Stop drooling, Quinlan. What’s wrong with you?

“What do you say we start over?” His eyebrows dip at the slightest. His hand releases my chin and he outstretches it to me. “What’s your name?”

This thing he’s doing is his version of nice. I can tell. Storms aren’t polite. They don’t put in the slightest effort at soothing those who are about to be hit by them.

They just exist.

This particular storm is trying. For me.

I slip my small hand into his much larger one. Force down another shudder at the touch.

My name is there on the tip of my tongue. A long monologue is right behind it, about how I didn’t see him coming. That I already have two men circling in my head, two men I shouldn’t think about, and yet I do.

It would be reckless to strike up a conversation with a third man, I want to tell him.

Especially when he gives off murderous vibes.

All I do is swallow around the lump in my throat.

“I’ll start.” He’s struggling with this. With being soft. “I’m Rome.”

He knows he’s scary. You don’t walk around with dried blood on your knuckles and think you’re anything other than intimidating.

“I enjoy jogging and demolishing the punching bags at my building’s gym for sport.” A twitch of his lips. An attempted smile. “Coordinating collisions is a part of my business. Metaphorically.”

A businessman who jogs and boxes. Of course, he is. His running gear is new and expensive. He even smells expensive.

I feel like I have to say something, so I mumble, “Oh, yeah. I get it.”

“Not a killer.” He glances at his knuckles, then at me. “Could I have your name?”

He’s right. He isn’t a killer. He’s extreme. And telling him my name shouldn’t be an issue.

“Quinlan. Hi, Rome.”

“Hi, Quinlan.” He shakes my hand before releasing it. “What do you do for fun?”

When I talk to Rome, the background noise, sounds and smells vanish. He commands my attention, and I give in to him. To this not-killer person.

“Run. Read. Work.” It’s embarrassing, how little hobbies I have. My face blazes.

Rome nods to himself. Is he bored or is he asking me to tell him more?

“I, uh.” A part of me wants to show him I have more in me than that. “Hang out with a friend when I have free time.”

His expression is stony. A wall has fallen over his eyes.

Against all reason, I need to get him back.

“I also sit around and work at the café my brother works at.” At that, his eyebrows lower, eyes flaring. “Half-brother.”

Mystery guy seemed pretty mad when I brought up Rex’s workplace. Rome’s harsh expression transforms into something else entirely. An emotion I can’t place.

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