And it makes me fucking sick.
My pulse hammers in my skull, breath sharp as I try to bite back the fury crawling under my skin. Because this—this is exactly why I shouldn’t have chased after her.
Because Quinn Rose has always had the ability to wrap herself around my ribs, squeeze tight, and make me forget how to breathe. Because no matter how much time has passed, no matter how far I’ve tried to push her out, she’s still under my fucking skin. And I don’t know how to get her out.
“Give me a name here, Quinny. Something to work with.”
She lets out a short breath. “You can’t do anything. You’ll get fired.”
I grit my teeth because I know she’s right. The members here can do whatever the fuck they want without consequence, and people like us are expected to just take it. Smile. Nod. Keep our heads down.
And yet, I want to go apeshit.
I want to grab the guy by the collar, shove him up against the cabana, and make sure he never so much as looks at Quinn again. But that’s not what she needs right now.
So, I do the only thing I can. I move closer, reach for her face, and wipe away the damp track of a tear before she can do it herself.
She stills but doesn’t move away from me.
I tilt her chin up. “No one touches you without your permission and gets away with it. I don’t give a fuck what their last name is.”
Her mouth parts slightly, her breath catching. I can feel it—the way she’s wavering, the way she almost lets herself lean in. And for half a second, it’s like nothing has changed between us.
It’s like we’re eighteen again. Like she’s sneaking into my bed after a long shift, curling into me like I’m the only safe place she’s ever known. Like I still get to have that piece of her. Like she’d still let me.
Then she blinks, and it’s gone. Whatever was there—whatever crack had finally started to let the light in—she slams it shut before I can step through.
She swallows. Steps back. “I’m fine.”
She’s made up her mind. And she’s still reeling, I can see it. Pushing now would just make things worse. So, I let it go.
For now.
I exhale hard, running a hand through my hair. “You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah. All good.”
“If that changes, you come find me.”
Before I can walk out, her voice stops me. Flat. Final.
“It was Beckett.”
Preston fucking Beckett.
That’s the kind of guy that makes this whole place pretend not to notice. The kind of guy who’s had everything handed to him since birth, who walks around like he owns the air the rest of us breathe. The kind of guy who’s never faced a single consequence in his entire fucking life.
A slow, deliberate breath pushes past my lips. My fingers flex at my sides. And then, with Quinn’s voice still echoing in my head, I march straight to the overflow lot behind the maintenance building.
Beckett usually parks there, even though it’s not technically for members. Thinks he’s too important to circle the front lot like everyone else. Too important to follow the rules. I know for a fact the cameras don’t reach the back corner near the fence, and that’s exactly where I’m headed.
It doesn’t take me long to find his car. A silver Maserati Ghibli—sleek, smug-looking, like it knows it doesn’t belong with the rest of us—parked crooked, eating up two spaces.
I crouch low, grab the small blade off my key chain, and jam it straight into the sidewall of his tire. Not enough to fully slash it. Just enough to ensure that the second he pulls out of here, it blows.
Then I toss the blade back into my pocket and head right back to the bar. I’ve got a few more drinks to sling before I can go home.
11
