With Every Heartbeat(105)

As if feeling my eyes on her—I loved how she seemed to know I was watching her—she looked over and saw me. She slowed to a stop, so I stepped away from my truck to go to her. Her lips parted and her eyes widened. I couldn’t tell if she was happy or horrified to see me. But I was about to find out. I had to talk to her.

It was impossible to take my eyes off her; that was probably why I completely missed who exited the door behind her.

“Quinn?” Cora’s voice stopped me cold in my tracks.

I met my ex-girlfriend’s gaze and panicked. Crap, why hadn’t I even thought about her when I’d raced over here?

Hope sparked across her face. I gritted my teeth and shook my head. Slinking a step back, I scowled at Cora.

She began to rush toward me, but I couldn’t talk to her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I spun around and hurried off, slamming my door in my hurry to escape.

Cora reached my truck about the time I cranked the engine. She tried to open the door, but I’d already locked it. Scowling at me, she pounded on the window.

“Quinn. Damn it, talk to me.”

My head was still swimming with all the filthy words I’d read on her phone, every intimate detail she’d written to other men, so I did something I’d never done before. I flipped her off and gunned the gas, backing out of my spot.

Mad because she’d tried to talk to me, because she’d prevented me from checking on Zoey, because she was still breathing, I drove blindly for a couple minutes, until I realized I needed a destination. I needed a plan. But I didn’t know where to go or what to do.

Attending practice started to sound good. What better place to unleash some of the anger and anxiety gushing through me? I could tackle and hurt, and get hurt. I craved that.

But I wasn’t ready to face Ten again. Not just yet.

So I found myself at Forbidden.

Asher was on the stage, rearranging microphones and preparing for the second night of karaoke. It seemed strange that my double date with Zoey and Ten had only been a week ago. I’d taken my first swallow of alcohol, I’d nearly kissed Zoey, I’d spent the rest of the night with Cora, and then I had bought her a ring and tried to propose to her. All of that within seven days, and I’d still found enough time to squeeze in completely shattering Zoey Blakeland’s innocence.

Feeling sick to my stomach and still rocking a hefty hangover, I glanced around the quiet club. “Is Pick around?”

Asher straightened and turned my way, not having realized I’d come in. He tipped his head toward the hall. “He’s in the back. Hey, help me move this speaker, will you? It’s a heavy bastard.”

I nodded and moved forward to assist him. We grunted and strained for a couple minutes to rearrange the stage until he had everything where he wanted it. He didn’t ask questions or try to strike up a conversation, which I appreciated. I’d learned that when he was in a certain mode, he became too focused for social niceties. Which worked perfectly for me. A little labor without having to come up with words was exactly what I needed.

But as soon as we had everything where he wanted it, he grinned at me as he dusted his hands off on his jeans. “Thanks, man.” I could see a conversation approaching, so I mumbled something and hurried down the hall to knock on Pick’s office door.

The last time I’d been in the owner’s office of this club, it’d been located in another room, and another man had been behind the desk. I’d gotten shot that day and seen two people die. Strangely enough, I felt more rattled today than I had then.

“Come on in,” Pick called from inside.

After taking a big gulp of air, I entered. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say; I just knew I needed help. Advice. Something.

Anything.

And I trusted Pick more than anyone to be confidential and helpful.

When he glanced up and saw me, he let out a relieved sigh. “Thank God, it’s you. I’m working on this bitch of a schedule. Do you think you can work tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday night? Lowe has chicken pox. Chicken pox! Can you believe that fucker? What twenty-two-year-old gets chicken pox?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled as I began to pace. “But, yeah, sure. I can work them. No problem.”

“Thanks, man.” Pick started to pencil me in when he must’ve finally noticed how badly I was wigging out. His pencil stopped moving a good minute before he lifted his eyes. “Everything okay?” he finally asked.

“No.” I captured my head with both hands and walked a little faster, needing to vent out some of the adrenaline churning through me.

Pick sat his pen down and straightened, finally lifting the rest of his face to give me his full attention. “What’s going on?”