My chest tightened again, nostrils flaring. I wanted to… fight… Fiona’s husband? Who wasn’t even a real person yet. I must have had too many beers. That plus the kinda confusing sensation I had being in The Red Room tonight, like nostalgia but more bittersweet.
It made me ache. It had a fucking edge to it.
Maybe it was because I spent the night with Pop, and old timers I knew from way back, and got to watch The Hand Grenades shred a set. It made me feel like a kid again.
“That’s true, I guess,” I finally said. “I’m a nice guy, and I don’t fuck nice.”
She tapped her chin. “And how many suits do you own?”
“Women prefer me out of whatever clothes I’m wearing. The clothes aren’t the point.”
She didn’t take the bait, though. “How much talking do you and these women do before and after?”
The pivot threw me for a bit of a loop. She was quick on her feet, which I liked. “We talk and flirt beforehand. Get to know each other a little bit. Then we discuss consent and boundaries. What they like, what they don’t. And that I’m only interested in the temporary. I might see them a couple more times after the first night, but nothing longer than that. Ever.”
Her face softened. “Do you ever get lonely to talk to someone? Have a real conversation, like the one we’re having?”
I tossed her a wink. “Nope. Not lonely. Just having fun, living in the moment.”
She looked a little disappointed. And, fuck it, I was too. Because she’d drawn her line in the sand, and I got it. Different people liked different things. And I loved to flirt, but I would never lie to get someone into bed. Sleeping with Fiona after she’d been so honest couldn’t happen unless she set the terms. The possibility of those terms changing were pretty slim.
I liked her though. Way more than the women I usually seduced for a night. I had a real good feeling we’d be fire in bed together. Like break-the-bed-fuck-on-the-floor kind of fire.
“So this one guy you’re looking for, he’s gonna be a fan of The Red Room, right? A punk rock dude?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the sidewalk where concertgoers were spilling out onto the sidewalk. “My parents must be taking a break.”
“It’s barely one in the morning. They’ll go for another two hours at least, huh?”
She cast a sideways look at me. “They’ll still be performing in whatever assisted living facility Roxy and I force them into. You can’t keep two original punks down.”
“Pop will be right there with ’em.”
I watched her peer through the grate, down to the people in the alley below, smoking and talking. “There was a period when my parents would drop me and Roxy off at school in the morning and they’d still have not gone to bed yet. Night owls deep in their soul.” Her fingers twisted in her lap the longer she gazed down there. “And I don’t know if they need to be a punk fan. I think they’d need to be a fan of love. Of monogamy. Of family. Some things I can let go of.”
“You’d let go of music for love?”
“What’s the big deal?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Because you’re a goddamn Quinn. I saw you down there. This place, this music, it’s in your blood, isn’t it? It’s obvious.”
Emotions fought a war on her face until finally she shuttered them. “I don’t have to be like my family in every single way, even though I love them. My priorities are transforming, fitting my life better. That means I might end up with a husband that listens to… smooth jazz. Or yacht rock.”
I burst out laughing. She was biting her lip, refusing eye contact. “Fiona.”
“What?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You don’t know me like that, Devlin. I’ve changed a lot since you last saw me.”
“The last time I saw you, you were a crowd-surfing badass that scared people with your elbows,” I said. “You’re tellin’ me that’s not the case anymore? Because I saw you throw a number of elbows down there when you were dancing.”
“It’s complicated,” she said softly. “I haven’t been here in almost a year. I’ve got different things to focus on right now.” When she caught my eye, she lifted her eyebrow again. “And who are you to give me shit? You haven’t been back home in seven years.”
“Who cares?”
“Pop, I bet.”
I didn’t think I’d made a face, but her expression made me think otherwise. I had yet to see this woman back down from anything.
“Pop always misses me, but he understands how I am,” I said, sounding defensive. “We talk on the phone. And I always mean to come home, but it’s expensive.”
She propped her chin in her hand, all playfulness gone. “How is your dad really doing?”
“Surly and stubborn,” I said quickly.
“Every time he sees me and Roxy, he says ‘you’re both so tall now’ or something equally as adorable.”
I crossed my arms, that nostalgic sensation back again. “Yeah, well, when he gives updates on home, you, your sister, or your parents definitely come up. Well, not you as much. I think your job intimidates my dad.”
“Your dad covered for me and my sister a lot.” She smiled, biting her lip. “He caught me making out with boys on this fire escape like a hundred fucking times.”
“You made out on the fire escape?”
“All the time. What was your preference for teenaged shenanigans?”
“Supply closet is where it’s at.”
She laughed, tipped her head back. “I might have a vague memory. Did Roxy walk in on you once when we were like eighteen or so?”
“Oh yeah.” I rubbed my hands together. “I forgot about that. Your sister busted down the door of the supply room with her boots and scared the hell out of me. I might have been naked.”
“Yes, you were,” Fiona said. “I remember now. Because Roxy came home and told me she’d seen your ass.”
“Thoughts? Feedback?”
She zipped her lips and shrugged like an innocent. “I don’t recall.”
Still smiling, she glanced back down at the street before sighing. I’d been ignoring the crisis Pop was in for the past few hours—had let myself be captivated and distracted by the beautiful Fiona. But $48,295 floated up into my brain, combined with the scary stack of what seemed to be overdue bills scattered all over his desk.
Wrinkling her nose, she hooked her fingers in the metal and pulled herself up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed talking with you, it’s well past time for me to leave. I can’t be a zombie for my eight am client meeting.”
“Fancy lawyers need their sleep,” I said, brain grabbing hold of the word lawyer. Fiona was slipping back through the window already. I went on the fritz—nervous, worried I wouldn’t see her again, worried I’d had a fever dream and Fiona wasn’t even real.
I didn’t usually care about my interactions with women. I mean, I cared about their sexual needs, their pleasure, whatever fantasies they desired. But that was different from this roaring need to ask Fiona to get a beer with me some time.