Neanderthal Marries Human

Anyway, I soon discovered that all my guards really, really liked The Cars, and Quinn did too. Therefore, when Quinn and I had our own private panty dance parties, they usually started with “Shake It Up” and usually ended with “Drive.”

Stan, now bobbing his head along with the music, seemed completely at ease. Therefore, I figured it was a good time to apologize for what happened in Vegas.

“So…Stan.”

His eyes flickered to me then back to the road. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to just say…I just wanted to say….” I twisted my hands on my lap. “On behalf of everyone, I am really sorry about what happened, what we did to you in Vegas.”

His gaze slid back to mine, held for a beat, then went to the windshield. He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about it.”

But I did, and I was going to worry about it. Even though I had no memory of it, it was going to bother me.

According to Stan, Marie had stolen his phone while he tried to stop us from taking off our clothes. She then threw it out the door of whatever chapel we were in—the chapel where Elizabeth and Nico apparently got married. He tried to grab the phone, but Marie told a police officer standing nearby that Stan was harassing us and wouldn’t leave us alone.

He was then detained, and must’ve just missed us when we left the chapel with Quinn, Dan, and Nico.

I shook my head. “I am going to worry about it. I am so, so sorry. I have no excuse for our behavior, and I hope you will accept my apology.”

He gave me a small smile. “Nah, it’s fine. Things always get a little crazy during that kind of sh- uh, stuff.”

“Thank you for being so gracious about it, and please let me know if there is anything I can do to make it up to you.”

He shrugged and I thought he looked happy, which I felt was a little strange. Regardless, better that he was happy than upset.

We spent the rest of the journey in mostly companionable quiet listening to The Cars. I watched the scenery change from city to urban sprawl to farmland. Other than mentally rehearsing my speech for Shelly, I let my brain wander.

Surprisingly, my mind meanderings were mostly about my life and about Quinn, almost like a normal person.

I thought about the private accounts and all the details I’d learned directly from Quinn some weeks ago as well as from the files I’d reviewed at the office. The Monday after returning from Vegas, I finally looked over the account documents he’d set aside.

I understood now that Quinn’s assertion that he blackmailed people was a gross oversimplification of the issue. It reminded me of how he kept saying things like “I’m responsible for my brother’s death” when he wasn’t responsible, or how he said, “I’m good at using people,” when he didn’t precisely use people.

I was coming to understand that Quinn actually, truly saw himself as a bad guy. He was a defeatist; things were black and white, right and wrong, and he’d decided that he was firmly in the not-a-good-guy column.

There was no doubt that he blackmailed people, especially early on in his business life. He’d blackmailed gangsters and criminals, and had been focused solely on taking down those people who most contributed to his brother’s death.

But now, from what I’d pieced together, he used information gathered from private accounts to steer his business. He would find out about a plan to open a new club from one of his private clients and then be aggressive about going after the corporate account to provide security. This was especially true if one account—i.e. the club—would eventually lead to a larger account—i.e. casinos in Las Vegas, Atlantic City, and Monaco.

Providing security for clubs led to providing security for hotels, which led to providing security for casinos, which led to providing security for banks. That was the security business food chain.

I found corroboration for his assertion that all crimes involving exploitation of individuals were immediately passed through to the FBI, CIA, or police. Anything mentioning drugs, rape, human trafficking, fraud, corruption, or the like had a plan attached to it where the client relationship was severed and the evidence was anonymously delivered to what Quinn had called the right people.

I did see that he also used people’s secrets to push them, but it wasn’t precisely using.

One of the files I’d reviewed detailed how a private client was stepping out on her husband. I listened to a recording of Quinn as he showed the client the pictures, confirmed that he wouldn’t be sharing the information, then suggested she put pressure on a Senator Watterson to hand down a maximum sentence to a crooked CEO.

Most of the blackmail examples were of this type. He would show the evidence to the clients then make a suggestion—like suggest an alternative business practice, one that wasn’t corrupt—or he would request a meeting with a high-ranking official in the government, or ask for a meeting with a corporate security liaison for a casino or bank.

He was using people’s secrets, but not in the way he thought. He showed them their files, said he wouldn’t betray them, then asked for a favor.

These people trusted him.

And that was probably why they were so reluctant to lose his services.

I’d put off reviewing the private account files because a big part of me was afraid of what I would find, especially after Quinn’s description of his behavior. But now, I saw the humor in it, the irony. He was talented at using people. He was so talented, they had no idea that they were being used; they trusted him, and they thanked him for it.

I hadn’t had a chance to discuss my findings with Quinn since reviewing the files two days ago; I was still marinating in all the details and looking for holes in my theory. But I was finding none.

After I finished talking some sense into Shelly, I would have to talk some sense into Quinn. Somehow, I would have to reason with him, get him to see that he was already one of the good guys.

The SUV rocked as we pulled into the dirt driveway leading to Shelly’s farm, and the jarring movement pulled me from my thoughts.

I saw Shelly right away, or at least, all that was visible of her—cutoff jean shorts, work boots, and a tank top. Her brown hair was in a braid down her back, and she had grease smudges everywhere skin was showing. She was bent over a car, her head in the hood.

Stan pulled to a stop in the circular driveway some twenty feet from where she was, and I saw her head lift out of the engine. Her eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw her frown, but instead of coming toward us, she went back to tinkering under the hood.

I firmed my jaw, and with it my resolve, then exited the car.

I was also in jeans, but I was wearing a plain grey T-shirt. I wanted to be dressed for any eventuality—like a food fight or an arm wrestling match. I had purposefully worn my Converse tennis shoes. The farm was no place for Jimmy Choo stilettoes.

“Go away.” She said this before I’d reached her.

I continued to walk toward her and the car. “I’m not leaving until you and I discuss some things. Since you won’t pick up the phone or answer emails and text messages, you must have known that I would drive down.”

I saw her shoulders rise and fall as she exhaled a large breath. “Maybe it means I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t thought about that.” I rarely employed sarcasm, but made an exception since I’d just driven quite a distance to speak with surly Shelly.

My tone or my words caught her attention, because she peeked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Are you upset?”

“Yes, I’m upset.”

She straightened, her gaze flickering over me, and she pulled a towel from her pocket and wiped her hands. “Why are you upset?”

“Because I miss you and you won’t talk to me.” This tumbled out before I could deliver my planned response.

No…that’s not right. I frowned because I was deviating from my rehearsed speech. I’m upset because I want her to come to the wedding. That’s why I’m upset.

But maybe it wasn’t.

She blinked at me, and something shifted in her gaze. But like her father and brother, she was almost impossible to read, especially for me and especially since I’d had such limited interaction with her; really, just Saturday breakfasts for five months.

“You miss me?”

“Yes.”

“No you don’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I think. If I said I miss you then I miss you.” I put my hands on my h*ps to show her I meant business.

The side of her mouth tugged upward like she was going to smile, but she didn’t. “I’m not coming to the wedding.”

“Fine,” I said, surprising myself.

She squinted at me. “I can’t come to the wedding.”

I threw my hands away from my sides. “Fine.”

She huffed. “Damn it. What do you want me to say?”

“How about you’re sorry? How about you’re sorry for cutting me out of your life and not telling me why? How about that?”

Shelly glanced at her boots and kicked the dirt, covering a drop of oil that had fallen to the ground.

I glared at her, feeling maybe a little more emotion than made sense, then started to talk stream of consciousness. “I don’t know why I’m so upset, okay? I mean, I look at you and your brother and your parents, and I want that. Not the not-talking-to-each-other-for-ten-years part, but the we-have-happy-memories-together part. And you’re all so stupid! You have this great family—Quinn is great, your mom is great, your dad is great, you are great—and you don’t talk to each other? I have no words! I can’t—I can’t even….”