Page 53 of Quinlan

“Like you’d react to any hungover asshole,” he groans, and I could kill him.

Hangover.

“You’re a jackass, you know that?” I return to my chair, throwing the keys across the desk. “Start with that next time. And why are you hungover this late? Did you really just wake up?”

“Yeah. Worked late, partied later.” Of course they did. They’re allowed to do shit and get fucked up like I never allowed myself. “Anyway, what crawled up your ass and died?”

“For your information, I was fine before you called.” I stick my fingers in my hair. “Not my fault you decided your idea of fun is giving me a heart attack.”

“Jesus, mom vibes much?” Someone else’s mom, granted. Both our moms bailed on us when we were babies. “Or worse. You sound like Rome.”

“Rome?” I bark a laugh, the tension slowly leaving my body. “I’ll try to live up to it, then. Next time we meet, I’ll punch you in the gut. No gloves and all.”

“You’re too pretty for busted knuckles.” A woman’s voice.

Laurel.

“You two are sneaky fucks.” I lean back in my chair, smiling. Nothing’s bad happened. Everything is fine. “Laur, isn’t it two in the morning there?”

There, as in France. There, as in miles away from the sickening memories she couldn’t take anymore.

“It is, big brother.” We aren’t blood-related, weren’t even born in the same state. But I’d acted like one for the period of time we’d lived at Rex’s. Paid her student loans the moment I could afford it. “And since when do I sleep before quarterly reports?”

She’s an accountant these days. Has her own boutique firm. I’m so fucking proud I could cry. Except I don’t. Never.

“I did not. I didn’t forget you’re pregnant, either. You should be resting.”

“Pregnant isn’t synonym for dead,” she corrects.

I bet she’s patting her swollen belly as we speak. Her and her husband’s, Pierre. He’s a walking, talking green flag that adores my friend. He better. On their wedding day, I explained to him how easy it’d be for me to jump on the next flight and kick his ass in case he hurt her.

“I’ll work until pumpkin decides she’s had enough of my womb.”

“Right. Anyway.” I’m happy for her. I really am. I’ll be even happier to bury myself in work until I’m inhaling Quinlan’s scent. “You two have something to say or is this another we’re-checking-up-on-our-Damien call?”

Most of all, they check up on Quinlan. They’re on board regarding the revenge plot, but they worry about her.

They made it known before Jagger and I walked Laurel down the aisle.

“Are you fucking serious?” Her blue eyes blazed. Laurel looked like she was ready to tear at the chignon her hairstylist worked so hard to put in place. Her black curly hair wasn’teasy to tame. “Now? At my wedding? This is the time to tell us this, Damien?”

I laughed, then Jagger did. She slapped both our arms.

“Figured God wouldn’t pass on the information to the cops.” I shrugged.

“One time he did.” Jagger’s dark eyebrows lowered on his brown eyes.

His hair was cut short and brushed to the side. So different from when we’d lived at the Palmers’ house. Back then, Jagger had it overgrown just to spite Rex. He’d succeeded. He’d even punched Harlow when she came near him with scissors.

It’d landed both of us a nasty bruise under the ribs because, of course, I had to stand between them.

“Someone tipped the police when I was outside this church, and—”

“Ugh. Okay, fine.” Laurel threw her hands in the air. “You have my approval. You need our help with it, don’t you? Go ahead, ask. Pierre will wait.”

She rolled her eyes, hating to let Pierre wait. She did anyway. And I asked both of them for their help.

“Yes, it is,” Jagger clips, pulling me out of my memories. “Have you lost it yet?”

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