Page 37 of Devious Eyes
We stare at each other, me waiting for those damn dice to stop swirling around in his fingers, him waiting to see if I’ve got anything to say about him beating the ever-loving crap out of me. I have, but I can’t find those words yet either, so I sit and ignore him as I reach for the scotch he has in front of him. Perhaps drinking will take me back to where I need to be. Drinking andnotlaughing.
The plane takes off at some point around drink number two, or maybe three. Who cares? I’m getting drunk before this shit starts again, drowning my sorrows so I can step foot into Chicago with a clear head after it’s done.
It takes me a while to realise Quinn isn’t drinking a thing.
“Company not good enough for you?” I mutter out. He chuckles as if something is funny. It’s not. Nothing is funny or amusing enough for him to laugh about a damn thing.
“The hell’s wrong with you?” he asks.
I don’t answer. What am I going to say? Some bitch broke my heart and I don’t want to come home, let alone deal with you? Whinge like a baby about it?
I snort, still trying to acclimatise to him being within feet of me again and take another gulp of scotch rather than get into conversations I do not want to have. My hand reaches for the lighter in my pocket, a habit I consciously fought with Gabby simply because she didn’t like it. Fuck her.
“Would it help if I apologised again?”
“No.”
He chortles again and places the dice on the table in front of me, platinum cufflinks glinting in my eyes as he nods his head at his beloved cubes.
“Take a toss. You win, and you can beat the shit out of me.”
I narrow my eyes at them, and him. The thought is goddamn appealing at the moment, but not enough that I’ll play his game. He can suffer in my silence for a while longer. Nothing pisses him off more than noncompliance when he asks a question. Perhaps I’ll find some way of talking soon. Until then, he’s getting nothing.
Not one goddamn thing.
The silence continues for an hour or so. I’ve kept my eyes focused on the outside of the plane for as long as I can, then reverted to getting my laptop out because he’s not taken his stare off me once. It’s become damn uncomfortable.
And he still hasn’t picked up a drink.
Eventually, I lift my gaze over to him, annoyance riling me up, and scan his knuckles on the way through. They’re clean, no sign of any damage he might have caused while I was on holiday. There’s no smile to greet me this time, though, just his normal intensity staring blankly at me.
“What, Quinn?” I snap out. “You’re like a Rottweiler in heat.”
“You look good.” What the ever-lovin’ fuck? He smirks a little. “Nice tan.”
I don’t know what to say to that, or even if I’m ready to say anything at all, so I drop my head back down and push myself back into business. I’m still too angry inside to deal with what needs to be said. And this mood of his isn’t helping me find the fury to let rip at him. Hate what he did or not, he is my brother.
“We need to talk, Nate.”
My lip sneers, fingers flying over the keyboard rather than acknowledge the conversation any further. I’ll do it when I’m goddamn ready to, not because he barks an order at me to comply. Those days are gone now. They were gone the moment he treated me like one of his enemies rather than his ally. And when I find the right words to explain that shit to him or bolster myself up enough for whatever plan I might have to exit this lifestyle, I’ll converse about it all.
“There are things I need to explain.”
He’s damn right, but not now. Not when I’m in this frame of mind.
Spreadsheets pop up on the screen one after another, the torrent of them pulling me straight back into Cane life without a second thought. I barely acknowledge the numbers before my head’s moved them to different accounts, stowing them in the relevant places to maximise profit. It’s ingrained, isn’t it? Just like the damn link that forces the thought of my responsibilities every time I breathe. It’s as irritating as the continuous niggling thought that I should just let this go between us, move on and forget about it, whatever the fuck it was that happened. The death of my father included. Keep my cool in check and behave like Nate Cane always does. Solid, dependable. And if that wasn’t enough, she’s still in here with her eyes and her legs, that mouth of hers constantly whispering dreams at me that neither of us expected nor asked for. But she ran, didn’t she? Left me. Pushed me back into all of this without considering a goddamn thing.
God, I’m pissed. Pissed at her. Pissed at him.
Screw it.
I log out of the accounts, slam the lid closed, and shove the laptop to the side. He wants it, he can have it. Full tilt.
“You’re a fucking asshole, Quinn.”
He smiles and starts pulling at his cufflinks, sleeves rolling up.
Good.
