Sean Quinn thrust a final time, grunting as nirvana flooded through him. His sated relief lasted mere seconds before morphing into such repulsive self-loathing it threatened to drop him. The diminutive brunette in his arms had saved him from utter humiliation back at the bar. It’d be really great if he could remember her name.

Shame drove him to kiss her damp neck and murmur an incoherent endearment. She panted heavily, eyes closed, head lolling against the graffiti-covered brick wall. The May breeze stirred her bangs and intensified the stench from the dumpster they stood behind. Rotting garbage mingled with her stale-cigarette breath and perfume that smelled like dying Stargazer lilies. The olfactory overload twitched his nostrils and sent down frantic flight messages from his brain. He loosened his grip on her thigh and slipped out of her, compulsively straightening her short skirt even though her panties were still clumped around her ankle.

The woman opened eyes the color of wet leather. They were devoid of emotion or animation or any sense of hope. Her smeared makeup and half-shadowed face reminded him of the disjointed Picasso he was restoring at work. Even though this had been her invitation and they’d both gotten off, it was pretty clear he hadn’t done her self-esteem any favors.

“Gotta cig?”

Sean shook his head. Belatedly, he glanced around the dimly lit alley, then snapped off the condom and tossed it into the overflowing dumpster. A few minutes ago a crowded Wrigley Field could’ve watched—that was how much he’d needed to get his rocks off. He tucked himself back into his underwear and zipped his jeans.

God, he was scum. He never did shit like this. Why had he let Gretch get inside his head tonight? The expression she’d flashed from across the dance floor had reopened every adolescent wound he’d suffered at the hands of popular high school girls. Geeks like him would never get the homecoming queen. How many times did he have to humiliate himself before he got the message and stamped out the hope?

“You live around here?” the brunette asked.

Again, Sean shook his head.

Her laugh was more of an exhale, puffing from her nose. Maybe it was a sneer. “Not much of a talker, are you?”

“Guess not,” he offered, instead of the instinctive shrug.

She’d made no attempt to reach for her panties. As he stooped for them, she kicked them aside. “Don’t bother. They’re filthy.”

There was no accusation in her tone, but it reminded him again of how he’d ripped them down and plowed into her with the grace of a bull. How he’d pumped and pumped with barely restrained rage, staring at her full mouth because if he closed his eyes he’d see someone entirely different. Someone who’d used bolt cutters to slash through his carefully fabricated armor.

He’d give his Maria Callas aria collection to travel back to the moment he’d overheard Gretchen Allen tell their boss her Saturday night plans. Then he’d bitch-slap the hope out of his earlier self and stay home to finish Crime and Punishment. Most of the time he understood his place in society. Tonight’s lesson? Casual wall sex with a stranger was soul-wrecking.

Sean stepped back a pace and shoved his hands in his pockets. The least he could do was offer to buy this woman another drink, but that meant going back inside Teenie’s Martinis. Chancing another encounter with Gretch, who’d clearly hooked up with the metrosexual shithead she’d been obscenely grinding against. Sean blinked the image away, drained and desolate.

“Has anyone told you that you look exactly like Adrien Brody?”

Yep. Lots. He didn’t consider it a compliment. “I gotta run,” he said.

“Right. Early day tomorrow?” She smoothed her wall-snarled hair without looking at him.

“Something like that.” He shifted his weight. The serenity of his tiny apartment called like a siren as he navigated the jagged rocks of after-sex banter. “Can I…pay for a taxi?” He didn’t want to order an Uber—didn’t want to know her address.

She glanced at the dented steel back door of the bar, as if the answer lay there, then her lips flattened. “Yeah. All right.”

They walked in sync, but worlds apart toward Erie Street—her in high heels and no underwear, him shouldering epic self-disgust and the creepy-crawly need to wash. What the hell was her name?

The sounds of downtown Chicago on a Saturday night grew louder. A horn honking, a shouted profanity, two women squealing with laughter…

Luck was with him at the curb, and he hailed a passing cab almost immediately. As he flipped open his wallet, she slid in and muttered an address to the driver. Sean shoved two twenties at him through the open front passenger window.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching to close her door. “What’s your name again?”

Oh good. “Sean.”

“Sean what?”

He paused. This was the time to say “Quinn,” right? Then ask her name? Fatigue washed over him. “Does it matter?”

The driver cleared his throat. She ignored him and grinned at Sean, the smile never reaching the world-weariness in her eyes. “I guess not.”

“Goodnight.” Sean knocked on the roof twice and stepped back, watching until the taillights faded. He glanced back at the giant, neon-blue martini glass. Should he go back in? Make sure Gretch was okay? Right. Like she needs protecting. Like he hadn’t learned his lesson with her a million times before.

Sean turned and trudged toward the Franklin El station. A screech of tires peeled around a corner behind him. He swiveled, blinded briefly by a flash of brights. A shiny black Suburban with illegally tinted windows crossed into the opposite lane and aimed straight for him. He lunged behind a lamppost just as the car jumped the curb and screeched to a halt, feet away.

The passenger door kicked open, and a suit got out. Crew cut. Bulge of a holstered gun, left side. Mirrored shades. At midnight. The stereotype almost made Sean laugh, but there was nothing funny about the FBI pinpointing his exact location. Or contacting him this late.

“Get in.” Although respectful, Crew Cut’s voice had the calmness of someone used to being obeyed. Feared.

“You’ve got the wrong guy.”

The rear window whirred down, and Sean glanced back. Son of a bitch! Sure explained the dickhead vehicular dramatics. “I resigned, remember?” Sean snarled. “You applauded.”

“Obey the nice man, Nancy. Get the fuck in.”

* * *

Amid the body-thumping techno beat, Gretchen Allen squeezed through the crowd toward her housemate, her gaze flitting left and right. Of utmost importance was maintaining a cool and confident expression. She nodded to acquaintances, acknowledged the overt looks from men and the flashes of jealousy from women, but barely saw them.

Where is he? What a weird freaking night. To have encountered Sean “the Enigma” Quinn here of all places. He didn’t do bars. Didn’t even sit in the break room with the rest of them during lunch. Yet, not ten minutes ago, he’d stood at the edge of the dance floor, looking aloof and oh so hot… She couldn’t have embarrassed herself more, gaping at him like a half-wit. Christ in a cradle!

Gretch craned her neck the other way, hunting for the stiffly out-of-place coworker in black jeans and a white button-down, instead of his usual slacker-wear. They were barely passing acquaintances, but she’d give her right arm to figure out what made him tick. Tonight she had home field advantage—maybe in this loud, boisterous atmosphere she wouldn’t feel so stupid talking to a guy who was soooo cerebral that her only defense was to pelt him with snark.

No sign of him. Damn it. Maybe it had been a mirage…or someone who resembled him, because come on! Sean at a nightclub?

Gretch reached her housemate’s side, unable to continue the blitheness of her façade. For some reason the night now stretched monotonously before her.

“Uh oh. That’s your order-an-Uber-Dwayne-I-ain’t-driving-you-home face.” Her housemate boomed the good-natured, thoroughly incorrect observation, ignoring the stares his foghorn voice and massive bulk generated.

“I haven’t decided,” she called back. “You wanna cast a vote?” They both turned toward the jam-packed bar, and she tried to view her LVR app date, Brandon, through her housemate’s eyes. Tall, blond, fit… Without a doubt the hottest guy here. A great dancer. And best of all, she’d only caught genuine male interest—nothing predatory or freaky about him.

“Doable,” she declared flatly, turning back to Dwayne. She clasped his shoulder and eased off a stiletto, wiggling her pinched toes. If only she could snap her fingers and be home, curled up on the sofa, laughing at one of Dwayne’s porn-style critiques of a romcom hero.

“On the pro side—” Dwayne tapped his chin with an index finger, “I like the whole Norse Viking thing he’s got going on. Very delicious. But massive points off for the incessant need to flash his cash at every available opportunity. Trés bourgeois.”

Brandon was at that very moment stripping off bills, grinning at the bartender’s quip amid the teeming throng clamoring for drinks. Even, white teeth. Lovely smile. She could get through this.

Her date du jour clutched two martini glasses and searched over the heads of the crowd, spotting her immediately. She smiled at the compliment. He smiled back and jerked his chin.

Dwayne imitated a game show buzzer. “And massive deductions for that entitled-white-male expression. Big yuck.”

“Oh, shut up,” Gretch said through her laughter. “You’d do him in a second.”

“But we’re voting on whether he’s good enough for you, your highness.”

Brandon strode unhesitatingly through the crowd, his innate assurance seeming to part the masses before him. Okay, a little arrogant, but a man with a healthy sense of self-worth helped feed the perpetual black hole inside her. She was beautiful and desirable enough to capture a guy like this. Her stomach roiled, but ignoring the reaction was second nature, and Gretch increased the flirt in her smile as Brandon closed the final yards.

“Final verdict,” Dwayne said in her ear. “I stood next to him in the urinal. I vote: oh hell yes.”

So be it. Gretch squeezed back into the narrow stiletto. “My best friend from childhood, Dwayne Collins,” she introduced. “Brandon Myers. He’s in banking too.” As expected, the men launched into a quick six degrees of separation to find commonalities. Gretch sipped her martini. It tasted like battery acid, and she grimaced.

“…hedge fund portfolio manager,” Brandon ended.

“I’m on the other end of the spectrum,” Dwayne boomed. “I cull your clients for signs of money laundering. Hang the rich!” His belly laugh jiggled his chins. More people paused and glanced their way.

Gretch smiled at Brandon, who did not look amused. Hmm. Getting along with her childhood bestie wasn’t a make-or-break factor, but it was definitely a canary in a coal mine. Maybe this was a mistake…

Brandon turned to her. “Let’s head out.”

Her spine stiffened at the curt command. Sign number two. No one ordered her around. Was this a mistake? Why was her antenna so fucked up tonight? Behind him, Dwayne made silly googly eyes at her date. Gretch relaxed. Everything was fine. Her evening had just been thrown for a loop, was all. “I haven’t finished this drink.” She sipped the battery acid again, partly so Brandon understood that she held all the control, but mostly for courage.

With the ruthless cruelty of a Disney stepmother, she ignored the inner protests and slipped her hand in his. This was the price she paid. And she was prepared to pay it over and over until she finally filled the gaping pit others called a soul.