Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense) (9 page)

The rest of the week went by largely uneventfully. Taylor did more digging and found very little, and no more strange car issues or room intrusions occurred. She was beginning to think her story was going to end up one big dead end because no one was talking and she couldn’t prove any of her suspicions. Enough people had clearly been warned about her presence, they clammed up immediately.

The only thing that kept her in Sweethollow was her date. It was ridiculous, but she refused to back out. A part of her kept hoping Anton would call it off, but he didn’t. Friday loomed and she was getting nervous.

One afternoon she went for a walk in the wood along the same path her grams had taken that day long ago, just to clear her head. She knew it pretty well, although she’d been avoiding it since coming to town because it eventually led to her childhood home. A place she was trying very hard not to go to.

Instead, she walked to the cemetery, enjoying how the leaves rustled, the silence of the stones, and the way the light filtered through them in bright shafts. She’d never had a problem with the dead or their memorials. She’d spent time in the Sweethollow Cemetery as a kid with her grams, doing old grave rubbings and hearing stories about some of the residents. There were a few famous poets and writers and even an old film star in the cemetery.

She walked along the paths, admiring the craftsmanship of some of the old stones, the carvings that still retained their details after centuries of weather and wind. She sat by one she’d always been fascinated by—the smooth, beautifully carved bust of a plain young woman gazing with a slight smile on her stone lips at a mausoleum across from her. It was unusual because it only had the first name of Mary. Taylor was amazed it had never been vandalized, like so many of the other stones.

On the ground next to it she noticed a bright white flower had been placed. She didn’t know anything about horticulture, but it was a star-shaped flower with little pale purple lines near the center. She didn’t pick it up for some reason, just looked at it sitting there next to the stone.

She sighed, feeling quiet and peaceful for the first time all week.

Anton stood in his bedroom, eyeing himself in the mirror and wondering what on earth he’d been thinking, inviting Taylor out to dinner. She must be used to smooth-talking city guys by now. He hadn’t been on a real date in years. Mostly he met women, had some drinks, took them home, and had a good time, and then it was done. He wasn’t sure he could hold up a conversation for that long anymore.

Then he thought about her face, all those years ago, and decided it was time to man up. It was the least he could do, be a gentleman now when he hadn’t been before. He might be what this town thought of as a “bad boy,” but he could and would show her a night she wouldn’t forget.

It helped that he was incredibly attracted to her. Whatever it was that the city life had done, it was more than the cosmetic changes. She had this fiery wit and confidence that just made him crazy. And her face when she was angry with him was just too gorgeous. Flushed cheeks, actual flashing eyes. Channeled just a little bit differently and it would be killer in bed.

Which was exactly where he kept thinking about her. He’d never had this intense a reaction to a woman before. Been horny, sure. But really wanted someone? Not like this, that was for sure.

He also wanted to draw her, although he wasn’t sure how he’d manage to do her justice. Some things the page just can’t capture, and he wasn’t good enough, he didn’t think, to get that fire of hers right. He wanted to try, though. That was the other thing: she inspired him artistically, in a way he hadn’t been inspired in years. He loved tattooing, but he’d mostly been doing the kind of rote stuff people expected for the extra cash. But this woman…suddenly he wanted to paint and draw and never stop. He had this strange feeling that he could draw her every day and still never get every nuance or quirk of expression.

He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at his hands. They were big and rough, and sometimes he felt like motor oil and grease were permanently ingrained in his skin. They didn’t look like artist’s hands to him. They looked like the hands of a guy who didn’t know the difference between Picasso and Cassatt. But he did. He was a man of conflicts and sometimes he wished he could just pick one or the other: the bad boy or the artist.

Would Taylor be able to see past the tough older playboy exterior? She used to. Which had been the problem. But would she even look these days? He both did and didn’t want her to. It would be nice to be seen by someone, really seen. But then he’d be vulnerable. Open. Raw. And that wasn’t something Anton Quinn had ever been good about.

Maybe that’s why he’d gotten into so many pointless bar fights over the years. Did it really matter what some random jackass who’d had too much thought of him? No, but he still found himself swinging the punches anyway.

In a way, it was comfortable being the “bad boy” of Sweethollow. No one expected much from him, and his life was…fine. Nothing spectacular. But fine. The odd annoyance from the cops wasn’t fun, but it was something he could tolerate most of the time. Mostly because he knew he hadn’t done anything, and as much as they might hate him, they couldn’t do anything without proof.

He often wished he was as interesting as these small-town Gomers seemed to think he was. They clearly thought he was running some kind of secret drug cartel out of the cycle shop, which was pretty funny. He could just see Carlos or Drew trying to smuggle drugs, sweat dripping off them, spilling whatever all over the place and telling everyone about it in some kind of nervous word vomit the second they were caught.

It amused him to think of all these townies sitting around thinking he was some kind of drug kingpin, yet living in a tiny studio apartment above his own shop. But that was Sweethollow; why settle for the simple answer when a complicated myth was more juicy?

Anton knew he was the subject of a lot of gossip around town. And that there were quite a few husbands who would like to see him strung up by his nethers, but none of them were stupid enough to actually try anything. And as long as their wives didn’t leave and take half, well, they didn’t have a whole lot to complain about. Especially when most of them had something going on the side as well. In some ways, Anton was keeping them together, like a weird kind of marriage counselor.

When was the last time he’d been with someone he cared about? He didn’t like to go down that particular emotional road. Too many pitfalls and unpleasant memories. Especially of one girl with fuzzy hair and braces and a night he could never, ever take back.

He sighed and looked at himself. He’d made a bit of an effort, put on clean clothes for a start. Black jeans, as usual, and heavy motorcycle boots. But the less-worn pair this time. His shirt was button-down, something he generally loathed. Leather jacket, as usual, and he’d brushed his hair. That seemed like enough.

It was chilly out, so he wrapped a gray scarf around his neck and put on his helmet. He might be a “bad” rough-and-tumble guy, but he wasn’t stupid. And he didn’t love the cold.

As he drove out to the inn, bike making a smooth rumble, he wondered about her story for coming back up here. After ten years, it just didn’t seem likely she’d come all this way for a puff piece. Especially when it coincided with the deaths of some people who had been truly awful to her. Something else was going on.

In the rearview mirror he saw flashing red and blue lights and sighed. Great. Just what he needed. He pulled over to the side of the road, noting it was Kingston Lane and a patch with very few houses. He wasn’t far from the inn, where he’d be picking up Taylor. He had to keep track of things like that because he never knew when the Sweethollow police might try to get…creative.

He watched the officer get out and guessed it was Greg Jackson, one of the few Saints left after the accident. He’d been more of a tertiary figure, a kind of hanger-on to the main group. Which in some ways made him worse because he always acted like he had something to prove. Guys like that were unpredictable, especially in a uniform.

The worst part was, most of the Sweethollow cops were fine. It was just this little group that made things annoying. But they had the ear of the mayor and a less-than-totally-honest judge or two, and there you were. They could get away with most anything.

Anton kept his right foot firmly planted on the ground and did not put his kickstand down. He doubted Officer Jackson had noticed, as he shined a largely unnecessary flashlight at Anton.

“Evening, sir. What can I do for you?” Anton asked. Jackson was alongside him, trying to look tough and scary. Anton would have laughed except he had somewhere to be and really didn’t need this aggravation.

“I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Quinn,” Jackson said. Anton nodded and waited. And waited. He supposed Jackson was trying to make him uncomfortable or nervous.

“What are you doing out tonight?” Jackson finally asked, when it was clear Anton would simply sit there until he did something.

“Date. I’ll be a little late now, I guess,” he responded.

“A date, huh? With who? Mrs. Craker or Mrs. Dun?” sneered Jackson. Those were the two married women Anton had been seen with the most. Anton shrugged.

“Neither. New girl in town,” he said and smiled crookedly.

“You don’t usually bother with dates. What’s she, your latest mule?” Jackson asked. And this time Anton did laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Officer Jackson asked.

“Well, I mean, if she was my latest ‘mule’ would I just tell you? Admit it out here on the road? That would be pretty stupid,” Anton said.

“Maybe. You don’t strike me as that bright,” Officer Jackson said, trying to get a rise out of him. Anton gritted his teeth. He had to keep his temper in check.

“Well, I won’t be winning any Nobels anytime soon, but I’m pretty sure I’m smart enough not to admit to drug trafficking,” he said and shrugged.

“Watch yourself, Quinn. Everyone’s got their eyes on you. These deaths, they’re suspicious,” Jackson said, leaning in closer.

“Really? Then why did you all report them as accidents?” asked Anton innocently, eyebrows raised. Jackson grunted.

“Just watch it, smartass,” he said, then walked back to his car.

Anton waved as the cop car pulled away, then sighed a little with relief. That could have gone a bunch of other, less pleasant ways. It certainly had in the past.

Still, it was odd. One of the Saints was poking around him, about the “accident,” when the cops were the ones who had ruled it so. Didn’t they believe their own report? Anton wasn’t a suspicious man, but he knew a lot of folks in town were, especially about the Deathless Rider. There’d be rumors that the Saints had pissed him off in some way and he’d enacted justice. Which sounded like spectacular bullshit to Anton, but there you were. He’d been inclined to think they’d all gotten drunk and run their car off the road and the precinct was just trying to cover up cops and civilians doing something so stupid and illegal.

Now he wondered. You didn’t make veiled threats at someone like Anton if it was just some stupidity or an accident. Something about those deaths was really wrong.

And he wondered again what Taylor was doing in town now, after all this time.

“What the hell am I doing?” Taylor asked her reflection as she put on a little mascara and fiddled with her hair. She was fidgety, nervous, and spending way too much time obsessing on how she looked. Who cared what Anton thought?

Well, she did. After all these years, their shitty history, and a lot of trying to convince herself that she didn’t…she did. It was infuriating. He was infuriating.

So why had she agreed to this date? She wasn’t entirely sure. Part curiosity, she supposed. What a “date” with Anton would be like after so many years. Their first one hadn’t gone very well.

She stood up and paced. She’d had a hard time deciding what to wear, mostly because she hadn’t packed much in the way of “going out” clothes. She was there to work. And she didn’t really want to look like she was “trying” with Anton. He didn’t deserve that. Plus, she had other things on her mind now. Like someone sabotaging her car and going through her room while she was in it. And yet this date was still stressing her out more than either of those much more serious situations.

Still, she liked looking put together at least. So she’d put on a long deep purple sweater tunic with a cowl neck that set off her hair and eyes. Gray tights with a flowery design on them. And this time, low black ankle boots, a bit slouchy, but with thick heels. Taylor firmly believed in footwear you could do damage in.

This time, over her sweater, she wore her military wool coat that she’d paid quite a lot to have custom made. It fit like a glove and, given the cost, would need to last the next fifty years roughly. Worth it, however. It kept out even the worst of an NYC winter wind.

Her mind kept going back over her meetings with Mrs. Keeper, Powell, her car, and the room break-in. She was starting to get nervous around any shadows and had been sure she’d seen someone flit among the trees near the inn earlier. Probably just a cat, but she was jumpy. With good reason. So why the hell was she staying? Stubborn, just like her grams.

She was just starting to think he was going to stand her up when she heard the rumble of a well-maintained bike pulling up outside. She looked out the window and saw Anton drive up on a sleek black bike, possibly a Harley (she’d never paid much attention to bikes), take off his helmet, and shake out his hair. Even in the dark, it was shiny and he didn’t have helmet head. Unfair, she felt.

Taylor took a deep breath, grabbed her bag, and went downstairs. No way was she going to have him up in her room. She’d meet him outside and they’d get this over with. There were more important things going on, like her story and whatever weird mystery was going in in Sweethollow. Although something kept niggling at her about it all. That it was more than just mundane, crappy human behavior.

In any case, this date was going to be as simple as possible. She figured an hour, tops. Then she’d be back and it would all be out of her system. Whatever “it” was.

In the lobby of the inn, a few regulars were wandering about, and a small family was looking around skeptically as they checked in. They looked like they might be just stopping in on their way to the city, but Taylor didn’t stay to find out. She was trying to figure out what she’d say to Anton. Her mind was just a total mess between her story, her feelings, the shit that had been happening, and being back where she’d grown up. It was like some unpleasant soup of memories and emotions.

On the porch, Taylor waited as he walked up the path, looking up at the stars at first, until he saw her. He stood still for a minute, then approached. He looked up at her from the bottom step, head tilted to the side.

“What?” she asked, irritated. He was making her uncomfortable.

“The light behind you gives you a kind of halo. Like you’re glowing,” he said and shrugged.

She stared. That was pretty poetic for a Quinn. He was surprising her a lot, and she didn’t like it. She wanted to keep thinking of him the way she had been for the past ten years—as a creep who hadn’t been worth all the time she’d wasted trying to get to know him and liking him and, okay, maybe being a little in love with him in an adolescent, immature way.

“Yeah, well, once I step down you’ll see I’m just an average girl. Like I’ve always been,” she said and moved down the steps.

“You were never average,” he said.

“Okay, awkward, then. Weird. Brace-faced,” she provided. He shook his head.

“You were always…different. The rest is just superficial,” he said.

“Too bad you weren’t. You turned out to be like everyone else,” she said, then bit her lip. She’d wanted to refrain from that kind of thing tonight. Take the higher road.

“It was your mistake for thinking I was ever anything else,” he said.

“Maybe. Let’s just leave that alone for now. Where are we headed? I’m starving,” she said, sidestepping a conversation she really didn’t want to have. If she was going to do this, she wanted the night to be as pleasant as possible so she could walk away with a clear conscience.

“It’s a surprise. A good one, I promise,” he said, holding up a hand at her arched brow of skepticism.

“Okay, I’m going to trust you on that. Which is a lot, given our history,” she said.

“I know. Thank you,” Anton replied. He got on his bike, then handed her a helmet. She put it on and felt like a little kid. She was also a little worried about what it would do to her hair.

“Do I just get on the back and hold on?” she asked, swinging a leg over.

“Pretty much. Just make sure you hold on tight. Tighter,” he said, as her arms slipped around him.

Then they were off.

Taylor had never ridden on a bike before and it was both terrifying and exhilarating. She clutched Anton’s middle and couldn’t help but notice he had distractingly firm stomach muscles. She tried to suck in her little round belly and somehow maintain distance while crammed up against him on the back of his motorcycle, so close she could smell the woodsy, faintly citrusy scent of him.

It felt weird to be balanced on the back of something without doors, windows, or any kind of protection from the world. It was dangerous and scary and, because adrenaline was in the mix, sexy. She liked the feel of him and remembered the last time they’d been this close. Which neatly undid the warm fuzzy feelings she’d been developing.

Taylor sighed, wishing, and not for the first time, that that night so long ago had never happened. She wished he’d never shown up at her door, long hair past his shoulders, in a suit that didn’t quite fit, looking young and beautiful. She wished she’d gotten sick or backed out. She wished some kind of act of God or ghost or nature had intervened. Then she wouldn’t have to think about him and remember.

But life wasn’t like that. It wasn’t neat and easy. Sometimes people you liked did shitty things, and you had to either forgive or find some way to move on. She’d thought she had. Until she’d seen him again.