Chapter One

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Quinn

 

I drag my feet to the barstool. Every muscle in my body aches. The drive has been pure murder. Actually, it’s my sickness that’s killing me. Slowly. That’s why I probably shouldn’t be sitting in some dusty old bar in Lineville, Arizona. I should have accepted Antonia’s offer to drive me, but my stubbornness got the best of me.

​

Antonia still has a job, unlike me, and we need all the money we can get our hands on if we want to make next month's rent. I miss Antonia. We always do everything together. Antonia is not the friend to call when needing bail money because she’ll be sitting in the cell right next to you. Most likely because she’d be the reason why you ended up there in the first place.

​

I pull at my black skirt. It’s clingy. Too clingy for this establishment. I should have worn something more comfortable and simple, not this office outfit. I look like I’m someone’s personal assistant. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t. If I had any brains at all, I’d go back to my motel and get a good night’s sleep. But when I’m alone in bed at night, all I can think about is my mother’s pale body. If it weren’t for the machine’s annoying beeping sound proving her heart still beats, I would say she was dead.

​

I should have been in the car with her. I should have done something. Now, my mom is confined in a hospital room more dead than alive, and they want to kill her. HE wants to kill her. My stepdad is the reason my mother is in the hospital. Michael Bradford the Second may be a rising politician and the son of a former senator, but he’s also a first-class psychopath. My mother must have one hell of a good reason for staying married to him for all these years. And then, when she finally decides to leave him, she winds up in a coma.

​

Car accident, my ass.

​

I can’t get the picture of my mother’s fragile body, cold hands, and angry facial expression out of my head. She looks as if she’s battling World War 3 in her sleep. Occasionally, I wonder if she’d be better off dead. My mom has never been the life of the party, always keeping quiet and playing the good housewife. She’d often get a faraway expression on her face as if she was dreaming herself away to another place and another time.

​

My mom and Michael’s families are all a hateful and dysfunctional bunch. The day my grandfather died, I asked my mom why she was wasting her tears on the old, spiteful bastard who brought nothing but misery to our lives. She told me they were happy tears and promised we'd soon be free to leave them all behind and start afresh.

​

I didn’t think to take her seriously, but looking back, I should have. I should have asked questions and demanded answers. My mother’s life is a puzzle without a picture to guide you, and I have no clue how to connect the few pieces I have. In the end, the only thing that matters is that I love her, and I’ll do whatever it takes to save her.

​

My mom is fighting for her life, and her first-class shit of a husband has decided he wants to turn off the machines. The doctors say it’s too soon. If they turn them off now, she will end up as a vegetable, or worse, die. But Michael is her husband, and there is nothing I can legally do to stop him. He has the law on his side.

That is the reason why I’m in Lineville, Arizona. A small city outside Yuma. I have to find my biological father for two reasons. He has to save my mom’s life, and he has to save mine as well.

​

The clock is ticking, and it's ticking fast.

​

A while back, my mother’s attorney, whom I never knew existed, showed up on my doorstep and gave me some disturbing news. Apparently, my mother is still married to my biological father without his knowledge. She served him the divorce papers, but she never signed them, even though he did.

​

Lawfully, they’re still married, even if they haven’t been in contact with each other for the past twenty-some years. More importantly, my biological dad is my mother’s first husband, which means the court may grant this so-called Cole Harries medical power of attorney. It's all speculation. For any of it to come true, Cole Harries has to decide to stay married to my mother and demand the machines stay on.

​

If all goes well, maybe my dad is a decent guy with a decent job, and maybe, just maybe, he will want to help me as well. My leukemia is getting worse with each passing day, and he's my last option before I lose all hope and wither away.

​

Sweat and stale beer flourish in this bar. It’s more sandy than Earl’s place and brighter. I flag the Playboy Bunny-looking bartender down and ask for a beer. She gives me a pointed glare, but I ignore it. I don’t have it in me to ask what her problem is. I shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, but for one night, I want to forget everything. Forget my problems. Forget my own name.

​

Maybe the hot guy at the pool table could help me forget. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex. Perhaps I’m already withering away and just haven’t realized it yet, like a frog in water not realizing it’s slowly being boiled to death.

​

The man, Mr. Hot Stuff, that I’ve been staring at and drooling over, is at least six feet tall. His arms and chest are rippled with muscles that flex underneath his tight black T-shirt as he saunters around the pool table, surveying his next move like a predator hunting down its prey.

​

Damn, is pool supposed to be this arousing? I should Google it. Because if it is, it’s my new favorite sport.

​

Mr. Hot Stuff walks around the table with an aura that screams confidence and bad boy coolness. He’s clearly suffering from the sex-on-legs syndrome. It’s something every female in the room has noticed, too.

​

When Mr. Hot Stuff takes a break from the match to retrieve a new beer, he exchanges a few words with the rude blonde bartender. She eats him up with her eyes and softly places a hand on his chest. I roll my eyes at the scene. Typical. Of course, he's the total bad boy cliché—fast women and fast cars and all that jazz. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t worth fantasizing about.

​

Mr. Hot Stuff leans in and whispers something in the blonde chick’s ear, making her flirtatious face turn sour as a lemon.

​

Rejected!

​

I chuckle. Maybe she’s not his type, or maybe he’s already been there and done that. Mr. Hot Stuff returns to the pool table with an air of authority as if he owns the place. Who knows? Maybe he does. What was the name of this joint anyway? The A something. I look around and find the name scribbled in golden cursive on the wall behind the bar.

​

The Admiral.

​

Mr. Hot Stuff sets up his next shot and makes it, much to his opponent’s dismay. They don't seem on friendly terms. My guy's adversary is a thin, sticky-looking man. He would fit right in at me and Antonia's apartment complex, where criminals, prostitutes, and junkies make up the main tenants. Mr. Hot Stuff is the complete opposite. I’m pretty sure his square jaw could cut through ice. Not to mention, his arms are filled with tattoos. I wonder where they end. They probably cover his whole torso. Yummy. And don’t even get me started on his longish, dirty blonde hair and five o’clock shadow. The man is otherworldly—a sexy god… or an alien. I’m open-minded.

​

Mr. Hot Stuff makes the last shot and wins the game by pocketing the 8-ball in the top right corner. A little sadistic smile erupts on his face, showcasing how satisfied he is with the win. It’s definitely not a friendly game between two old pals; they’re playing for more than honor or a few bucks.

​

I study the guy who's going to be starring in my wet dreams for the foreseeable future with fascination. Before I realize what’s happening, he lifts his head and looks straight at me. His crystal blue eyes hold me hostage. A hint of something forbidden lurks in them. I swallow loudly, shocked and a bit humiliated that I’ve been caught ogling him. Sweet heaven, please let the floor crack open and swallow me whole.

​

Mr. Hot Stuff stands up in all his glory and gives me a chin lift. Seriously. A chin lift. I must look ridiculous because one side of his mouth crooks up into a tiny smile. God, I hate him. He probably wakes up in the morning looking like a Greek God. He’s the kind of guy who looks so damn fine you want to punch him in the face for it.

​

Swiftly, the cocky bastard turns around to greet his opponent, who looks like he wants to punch Mr. Hot Stuff in the face, too. Maybe Mr. Creepy Dude and I have more in common than I ever would have guessed. However, I highly doubt the reason we want to punch Mr. Hot Stuff in the face is the same.

​

The two men exchange handshakes and words, both looking extremely tense and rigid, but it’s easy to tell my guy is in charge.

​

 

Wait, what did I just say?

 

My guy?

 

No. Nope. Definitely not my guy.

 

I need to turn away and mind my own business before I attract any unwanted attention. I’m meeting my dad for the first time tomorrow; I should focus on that. His address was on my parents’ divorce papers. Cross my fingers that he still lives there. Otherwise, it’ll become much more difficult for me to find him, considering he’s not on Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, Instagram, Tumblr, or any other social media platforms.

 

My Mr. Hot Stuff, who’s not my man, once again pierces me with his baby blue eyes, but this time he's prowling toward me. I’m well aware that it’s too late for me to turn around unless I want to humiliate myself. Besides, something about him makes me want to hold my own.

 

The way he consumes me with his gaze brews something in me. Strength, I think. The muscles in my body jitter with excitement. Truth be told, my sickness has made me tired and weak, but this devilishly handsome guy makes me feel stronger.

 

‘’Hey, beautiful. Do you stare at all the guys the way you do me?’’ Mr. Hot Stuff asks in a growly tone.

 

Positioning an arm on each side of me, he presses me up against the bar, caging me in. Protruding veins are carved into his forearms as he flexes. This is certainly not a cage I mind being trapped in.

 

The guy towers over my petite body. I’m only 5’6’, and I’ve lost a lot of weight due to the medicine I’m taking. I’m not exactly a stunner at the moment. I’ve always been thin, but I used to have wider hips and bigger breasts. My hair used to be thick and shiny; now, it's thin and dull. Still, it’s my spirit that has suffered the most during my sickness, but I’m tired of feeling weak and vulnerable. I want to let go and screw the consequences. Is that so selfish of me? Could this stud really find me attractive?

 

‘’Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. . .’’ I ask, fishing for his name so I can stop calling him Mr. Hot Stuff.

 

‘’Ain’t you a real lady, talking all proper and shit.’’ He lifts a strand of my brown hair and places it behind my ear. His rough fingers skim my cheek in the process. I shiver. ‘’What’s ya name, darling?’’

 

I tilt a brow and look him up and down. ‘’Does my name matter?’’ I question. ‘’You seem like the kind of man who would have forgotten it come morning anyway.’’

 

‘’Challenge accepted.’’

 

‘’That's not what I meant.’’

 

‘’We'll see about that.’’

 

I smash my lips together into a thin line so as not to smile. ‘’Cheeky bastard,’’ I mutter under my breath.

 

He winks. ‘’Tell me your name, sweetheart.’’

 

I consider his request for a moment and decide why the hell not. ‘’Quinn.’’

 

‘’Hmm, pretty name for a pretty lady.’’ He leans in, the scent of beer lingering on his breath. ‘’I’m Cash.’’

​

‘’I’ve been calling you Mr. Hot Stuff all evening,’’ I admit without thinking. I snap my mouth shut, but the damage has already been done. A full-blown laugh erupts from the man. It sounds amazing, and the way his face lights up is breathtaking. ‘’What kind of name is Cash?’’

​

When his laughter dies down, he answers, ‘’It’s the name my brothers gave me.’’

 

‘’A nickname then?’’

​

‘’It’s my name,’’ he states matter-of-factly before continuing, ‘’I’ve always been a big fan of Johnny Cash. Been listening to his music since I was a kid. But if you must know, my abusive, idiotic asshole of a father named me Liam O’Connor.’’

 

Well, that certainly put a dark edge to the conversation. Two can play that game. ‘’If you must know, my abusive, idiotic asshole of a stepdad named me Elisabeth. However, my middle name is Quinn. My mom insisted on the name, and it’s the name I prefer to be called.’’

 

We stand in silence, watching each other, sharing a look of mutual understanding of our shitty circumstances, but I also see curiosity flaring in Cash’s blue orbs. Everything around us fades away until it’s just him and me left.

 

Abruptly, Cash clears his throat, breaking the spell. ‘’So, Quinn, what are you doing in my bar all alone?’’

 

‘’Who says I’m alone?’’

 

‘’Don’t tell me your knight in shining armor is gonna come busting through the door and save you from the big bad wolf,’’ Cash mocks.

 

I gaze around the bar; nobody seems to be watching our intimate interaction.

 

Cash chuckles. ‘’I didn’t think so. Besides, I saw you come in. I've been watching you ever since. You ain’t from around here.’’

 

I strut out my jaw. ‘’You are an observant man, Mr. Cash. Tell me, do you always indulge yourself in so much small talk with strangers, or am I special?’’

 

Cash smirks, but his eyebrows knit together, creating a crease between them. I itch to trace the lines. Cash is thinking carefully about something, but what?

 

Slowly, his fingers reach out to touch my auburn brown hair. I hold my breath and study the serious expression on his face while he twirls a lock around his index finger.

 

‘’Damn lady, this is the softest hair I’ve ever touched,’’ he comments, which is followed by a mischievous smirk. ‘’Makes me wonder what it would be like to grab it while I fuck you from behind.’’

 

‘’Excuse me.’’

 

‘’Don't tell me you haven't wondered what it would be like to have my cock pounding your sweet pussy, sweetheart, because I have wondered what it'd be like to have you screaming my name and begging me to let you come.’’

 

I open my mouth to object, but no words appear. Did he just say that? Right to my face, like we’re discussing the bloody weather? And effing hell, Cash has a serious hint of ‘fuck-me-now’ southern dialect in his voice. Never thought I'd find that sexy. One thing is for sure—Cash definitely suffers from the big-fish-in-a-small-pond syndrome. I better do him a favor and take his ego down a notch. ‘’You’ll be wondering about that for a long time, Mr. O’Connor.’’

 

‘’Shit, darling. You, with that stick up your ass, calling me Mr. O’Connor, sounded sexy as fuck. I might just have to bend you over my desk first and spank your juicy ass raw before I fuck you seven ways ‘till Sunday,’’ he says in a raspy tone that has my thighs clenching together. He slowly inches closer to me, licking his lips like a warrior getting ready to slay his target.

 

I crane my neck back, which only causes my chest to brush against his front. I pretend not to notice. ‘’Are you delusional?’’ I bite back. ‘’Because you sound incredibly sure like that’s actually going to happen.’’

 

‘’Your mouth always this bitchy, or am I just special?’’ he retorts. ‘’Let me make something real clear for you, lady. You walked into my bar, swinging that delicious ass of yours in my face, tempting me. Not to mention, your gorgeous eyes have been following my every move like the most sexy bitch in heat I’ve ever seen.’’ Cash's lips brush against my ear. ‘’I tried to ignore you. A lady like you doesn’t belong in a place like this. But I ain’t letting you be no more. I’m gonna take you over my desk, in my bed, or even up against this fucking bar in plain sight for everyone to see.’’

 

I gulp. I should be appalled. I really should be. His lips are so tempting.

 

‘’I want you,’’ he groans as his lips ghost over mine.

 

‘’Yeah? How badly do you want me?’’

 

‘’You could always feel my cock. Feel how hard I am for you.’’

 

‘’Let me guess. You’re the kind of guy that always gets what he wants, right? A real caveman.’’ I pound on my chest. ‘’Me Tarzan. You Jane.’’

 

‘’Don’t fucking mock me, lady,’’ Cash barks, grabbing my wrists and trapping them against the bar behind me. We’re so close that the bulge in his pants digs into my crotch. I should find it appalling, so why don’t I? ‘’I ain’t playing games, lady. I say what’s on my mind, and I do what I want. I’m as real as they get.’’

 

‘’This is a bad idea,’’ I say in a weak voice.

 

‘’Why?’’ Cash leans in and whispers in my ear. ‘’Is stepdaddy dearest gonna be disappointed that his little princess is slumming it with someone from the wrong side of the tracks instead of some fancy pansy doctor?’’

 

The statement pisses me off. How dare he talk to me like that? I’m nothing like that. ‘’I don’t give a flying pig about my stepdad or his feelings. And God, you’re infuriating.’’

 

‘’Infuriating?’’ Cash questions, his mouth opening and closing several times before he once again repeats my description of him. ‘’Infuriating?’’

 

It takes him a second to school his stunned face into a passive expression. Yeah, you probably haven’t been called that before. Ha! My smug satisfaction only lasts about a second because I decide to open my big mouth and continue my rant.

 

‘’Yeah, look it up in a dictionary. There will be a picture of you under the word. Seriously, you’re ggrrrr, you know. You’re hot and you know it. You’re the type of guy no parents want around their daughters. You’re the kind of guy that can turn a valedictorian into a teenage mom in ten minutes. You’re the kind of—’’

 

Cash cuts me off mid-sentence by kissing me. A firm and determined kiss.

 

I freeze for a second. The pleasure shooting through my body is too much to handle. I unintentionally part my lips in a gasp. Cash takes it as a sign to ravage my mouth like no other has before. His tongue pushes in, claiming its territory. I nip at his bottom lip and suck it into my mouth. The kiss is rough and raw. All too soon, it ends.

 

‘’What the fuck,’’ I blurt out, realizing what has just happened.

 

Cash responds by shrugging nonchalantly. ‘’You were babbling, babe. I shut you up and made better use of that mouth of yours, and shit, it was good. Love how you make those small sounds of yours. Half growls and half moans.’’

 

‘’I don’t make sounds,’’ I protest half-heartedly. This hot stranger is getting on my nerves in the most maddening, delicious way.

 

‘’Yeah, baby, you do. They’re damn intoxicating, too. Could make a man an addict.'' Cash pecks my lips. ‘’You’re mine tonight, Quinn.’’

 

I shake my head despite Cash's warm breath sending riptides of tremors down my spine as it washes over my flushed face.

 

‘’Don’t fight it, Quinn. You want this as badly as I do. I can smell your arousal,’’ Cash states proudly. When he reaches beneath my skirt and cups my panty-covered mound, rubbing slow, torturous circles on my clit, I should be screaming bloody murder. But I don't. Instead, I grind my hips against his hand, searching for more friction. ‘’Fucking hell, you’re wet, babe,’’ Cash growls. ‘’My bed. Now!’’

​

I nod furiously, not trusting my own voice at the moment. My mind is a mess. All I can think about is Cash’s hands on my body and the kiss we just shared. Hands down, the best kiss of my life.

 

I deserve one night of careless fun. It’s not like we're going to be a happily ever after kind of story. We’re two completely different people from two completely different worlds. It’s just one night of careless fun with the devil himself. It won’t ruin me.​