Without a word, he handed the money over to Lewis, the man only acknowledging the gift with the barest of nods. He made him sign the receipt, then locked the door behind him, and noted the entry in his ledger. Five hundred dollars to Lewis Paige. Remainder: three thousand bucks, give or take a few. He was so fucking close he could taste it.
He walked back to the kitchen and almost bumped into Quentin. He’d forgotten about him. The kid was staring at him, his face tight with worry. “What the hell was that?” he asked.
“N-n-not your c-c-concern,” Mac said, suppressing a smile that the kid had the balls to even ask about that.
“When you start waving a fucking gun around, it is my concern,” Quentin said, a stubborn look on his face.
“Just a p-p-precaution,” Mac said.
“Yeah, I don’t do guns. They’re fucking dangerous. So if you can’t tell me what the hell that was, I’d like a ride back into town, please. I’ll find some other place to stay.”
Mac frowned. Was he serious, or was this some lame attempt to twist Mac’s arm? “There is n-n-nothing else. And it w-w-will start snowing in a f-f-few hours.”
Quentin let out a colorful curse. “Not your fucking problem, now is it? I told you, I don’t do guns.”
“Everyone has g-g-guns here,” Mac said. “This is the b-b-backcountry. We have b-b-bears, and we hunt.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re carrying a .45 because you wanna shoot bears and wildlife? I don’t think so.”
Huh, how about that? Quentin claimed to hate guns, but he knew enough to recognize the type of gun Mac was carrying. “N-n-no,” Mac admitted. “I have other r-r-reasons, but I c-c-can’t tell you.”
Quentin scoffed. “You mean you won’t. Big difference.”
“You’re right. I w-w-w-won’t. B-b-but you’re safe. I w-w-would never hurt you.”
“Well, it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it, is there? I mean, I have no car, there’s a storm coming, and you have the gun. I’d say that leaves me without options.”
Mac’s heart filled with sadness. He didn’t want Quentin to be afraid of him, but he couldn’t fault him for it. Anyone in his circumstances would be. He walked over to the small vault in the living room, quickly punched in the code, and grabbed the nine millimeter he had in there. He took the chamber out, checked it had bullets, then handed it to Quentin. “H-h-here. N-n-now you have a g-g-gun too.”
Quentin hesitated for a second, then took it. Mac watched as he expertly checked the gun, then put the chamber back in and flipped the safety on. With that fluid move, he’d assured Mac he knew what he was doing. How had he learned to handle firearms that well if he hated them? Not something he could ask right now, not after he’d refused to share his own secrets. It seemed like they both had things to hide.
“I’m g-g-gonna work outs-s-side,” he said.
Quentin studied him for a second, then nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
“N-not dressed like that. You’ll f-f-freeze.”
“I’ll put on a sweater, and I’m sure you have an extra pair of gloves. I’ll go stir-crazy if I have to stay inside all the time.”
Mac eyed him, gauging his size. “I have a w-w-winter jacket that sh-sh-should fit.”
“Not yours, then,” Quentin said, curiosity dripping from his voice.
Mac walked into the guest room where Quentin was staying and opened the walk-in closet. He’d gotten rid of most of his mom’s stuff, but he’d kept some items that reminded him of her. She’d been a strong woman mentally, but her body had been frail.
He took her winter jacket off the hanger, breathing in deeply. Her smell was long gone after ten years, but he could still imagine it. Lavender, from the little handmade sachets of dried flowers she always put between fresh laundry, and lemon because she’d cleaned everything with lemon-scented cleaner. Mac still did.
Her simple black winter jacket had been expensive—one of the few items of clothing they’d spent good money on. They had little choice in this climate, especially since she’d been wheelchair bound already and had been sitting still a lot. Mac had bought her a man’s coat, a sturdy, three-layered ski jacket that had kept her warm, even if it had been too big on her near the end.
“It was my m-m-mom’s,” he said as he handed Quentin the jacket. He also found her hat and gloves, made from the same sturdy material. Pretty wasn’t a concern in the junkyard. Rugged, warm, and black so stains wouldn’t show, that was his motto.
“Thank you,” Quentin said.
He put on the jacket. It was a little on the short side, but it would do. Mac eyed his Converse critically. They looked like they wouldn’t last a day outside, and they were too cold. “W-w-what’s your sh-sh-shoe size?”
“Size ten and a half.”
“R-r-really? You have b-b-big feet for your s-s-size,” Mac said. Damn, the kid only wore half a size down from his own. Granted, his feet were on the small side, considering his height, but still.
“You know what they say about men with large feet…” Quentin said. Mac met his laughing eyes. “Large feet, large…shoes.”
Mac grinned. “You’re a th-thief. That’s f-f-from N-notting Hill.”
Quentin shrugged, smiling. “I was hoping you hadn’t seen it so I could take credit.”
Two minutes later, they were outside, Quentin wearing a pair of Mac’s thick ski socks and his old boots.
“What are we doing?” he asked.
“S-s-stripping down your c-car.”
“Oh, okay. Cool.”
They worked side by side, Quentin asking a thousand questions and Mac answering them all. He’d never talked so much in his life, at least not since his mom had passed away. She’d been the only one who’d never gotten impatient of his stutter. When the first snowflakes started falling, Mac said, “It’s t-time to head inside.”
It stayed silent, and Mack turned around. Quentin stared at the sky in wonder, his face raised. His cheeks had grown red from the cold, and he looked beautiful to Mac. A deep longing settled in his belly, then traveled straight down to his cock. Meeting Quentin had answered every question Mac had ever had about himself. Well, about his lack of sex drive anyway. He’d fucked women, but it had never grown beyond pleasant.
All these movies and series he’d watched, every book he’d read had all shown love as this grand feeling, this overwhelming emotion. Even sex had always been portrayed as intense, a primal urge—something Mac had never, ever felt, not until he’d encountered Quentin in the hallway, his slender body shivering from the cold. He’d been so gorgeous, so perfect, so…
Mac struggled to find words, even in his head. Quentin had been everything Mac had been missing, everything he wanted—and he’d never realized it.
The snow was coming down for real now, and Quentin let out an excited laugh. “It’s beautiful!” he exclaimed, twirling around till Mac got dizzy from watching him.
“It’s just s-s-snow,” he said, but he couldn’t help but join Quentin in laughing, since his joy was damn infectious.
Quentin slowly brought his head down and looked at Mac. “I’ve never seen snow. Well, from a distance on the mountains when I drove here, but I’ve never been in a snowstorm. I didn’t expect it to be this pretty.”