Luke looked around the common room and tried like hell to process his thoughts. He and Quinn had been back from their “routine mental health screenings” for a couple of hours. She’d claimed a headache and headed to the bunk room not long after they’d arrived, and he hadn’t seen her since. A not-small part of him had wanted to march a straight line down the hallway and not stop until he’d reached her, to talk to her or hold her or—fuck—whatever it took to erase the fear she was trying so hard to cover up.

But that was a terrible idea for several reasons, not the least of which was that Luke remembered in vivid detail how Quinn’s body felt pressed against his. He knew how sweet she tasted, how sinful she sounded when he slid his thumbs over the tight peaks of her nipples with just enough friction to make her moan.

Christ, he was a jackass. No, scratch that. He was the high lord of jackasses.

Because despite how wrong, how dangerous it was, he still wanted Quinn.

Badly.

“Slater.” Gamble stopped in front of the spot where Luke had camped out at one of the smaller side tables with a dog-eared study guide in one hand and a green highlighter in the other. Not that he’d used either since he’d parked himself in the chair. “Taking your assignment to ambo seriously, I see.”

“Yes, sir,” Luke said, grateful as shit that he’d mastered the art of the poker face before his eighteenth birthday. Had he seriously been thinking about Quinn’s nipples right here in front of God and everybody?

“Come on, Gamble. Don’t you know that geek is the new chic?” Shae called out from her perch on the arm of the couch.

“Says the woman whose boyfriend practically invented higher intelligence,” Dempsey cracked, arching a dark brown brow at her. “You’re maybe just a little biased on the whole geek thing, don’t you think, McCullough?”

Shae, being Shae, just amped up her grin. “Uh-huh. Why don’t you give me shit when you’re not sleeping solo every night, okay? I might be biased, but at least I’m getting laid.”

A chorus of “ohhhh”s rippled through the common room as Dempsey gave Shae a single-finger salute, both of them laughing too hard for any ill will to stick. Gamble rolled his eyes, although Luke caught the twitch of his lips that signaled as much of a smile as the guy ever gave up. The rest of the afternoon, then the evening, passed in a series of similar smartass remarks, along with more studying and fire house chores. Quinn kept her distance while Luke kept the loaner ambulance stocked and ready to go for calls that oddly never came, and when he finally turned in, he stared at the high, darkly shadowed ceiling in the bunk room, unable to shake one thought from his head.

Quinn might be a few dozen feet from him and everyone else at Seventeen, but right now, the space between them might as well measure a thousand miles.

* * *

Twelve hours after shift change, Luke was pretty sure time had come to a rudely screeching halt. He’d agreed not to pick up any extra shifts at other fire houses for the sake of both ease and safety, but damn, the down time was driving him up the plain white walls of his apartment. How could he stick to normal when half of his routine had just been taken off the table and the other half had been shaken like a top-shelf martini?

Shit, he could use a drink.

Taking a deep breath, Luke sat down on the couch in his small but functional living room and palmed the new cell phone he’d picked up a few days ago instead. Although Hayley had already left for school when he’d driven by the house after his shift this morning, he’d texted her on the pretense of making sure she had his new number even though he knew damn well she did, dropping a subtle enough reminder for her to stay alert and safe. She might be a smart kid, and Momma Billie a tough lady, but Hayley’s deafness added a layer of vulnerability he didn’t like to contemplate.

Someone could sneak up on her and she wouldn’t hear. Her vocal cords hadn’t been used in a decade. Would her throat even remember how to scream?

Stop. You have a plan in place. You’re fixing this.

Ah, hell. Maybe he should just go over there and check on them, just to be sure. But if he did, he’d have to make sure he either left Momma Billie’s before dark or got an escort home. Since the sun was already doing a little dance toward the horizon, and the option behind door number two was definitely not happening, he’d have to settle for another text.

Hey, H. You and Momma B okay over there?

The three dots that signaled an incoming message popped up almost immediately on his screen, followed by a photograph of her making a stern face.

We’re fine, same as 12 hrs ago, big bro & yes, b4 u ask, I’m doing my HW.

Luke gave up a thin smile and thumb-typed, Just checking. Goodnight.

More dots, then, You do know it’s like 7:00, rt? But ’nite. ILU.

Sitting back against the couch cushions, his fingers hovered over the icon just below Hayley’s, the one labeled “QC”. He and Quinn had said polite enough goodbyes this morning before parting ways, but the shadows beneath her eyes had said all the things the rest of her hadn’t.

I’m scared.

Luke scrolled through his (admittedly short) list of contacts, tapping the icon a few below Quinn’s.

Hey Isabella. It’s Luke. I’m checking in from Omaha.

At seeing their special code word for the all-clear, she texted back, Copy that. Sleep tight.

He took a deep breath and exhaled on a fuck it. Is Quinn okay?

She’s safe. Sitting here at the Crooked Angel surrounded by half the unit.

Luke’s hands were steady even though his pulse wasn’t. I’m glad she’s safe. But what I want to know is if she’s okay.

After a beat with no answer, he was certain he’d overstepped. But then his phone rang in his hand, startling the shit out of him, and he lifted the thing to his ear.

“Hello?”

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Isabella said by way of greeting, the ambient noise from the bar filtering over the line as she paused to drop her voice. “But she looks like she could use a friend.”

“Aren’t Shae and January and everyone from Seventeen there?” Quinn had been thief-thick with them since far before he’d even signed up at the academy. Surely she was surrounded by a dozen people who would keep her from feeling alone. All of her friends were more like family than most blood relatives.

“Okay, let me rephrase,” Isabella murmured. “She looks like she could use her partner.”

A feeling tangled inside of him, one he couldn’t readily identify. Luke knew, God, he knew he should step away, reclaim the arm’s length he relied on to stay sane, to stay safe. This feeling was dangerous. Reckless. Wild. He needed to tamp it down. Snuff it out. Let Quinn’s friends take care of her so he could keep her at arm’s length and guard himself.

But instead, he heard himself say, “Copy that. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Just don’t let her leave.”

One fresh T-shirt and fourteen-plus minutes later, Luke wasn’t feeling any less bat-shit than he had when he’d hung up with Isabella. Still, he scanned the parking lot of the Crooked Angel, tucking the keys to his Nissan 370Z into the pocket of his jeans as he covered the space between himself and the door in just a few dozen strides.

This might be crazy, but it wasn’t wrong.

Luke tugged open one of the heavy wooden double doors leading into the bar, letting his eyes adjust to the low light and loud music as he took the place in. The crowd was plenty healthy, especially for almost nineteen-thirty on a Thursday night, with more than half the tables in the dining room and most of the space at the bar in the back of the restaurant occupied by people in various stages of eat, drink, and be merry. A few couples dotted the dance floor on the far side of the dining room, including Sam Faurier and a very curvy, very very friendly looking brunette, and Detectives Maxwell and Garza sat with Addison Hale at a table by the front entrance. But since Luke had never actually met any of the detectives before this morning, he refrained from lifting his chin in greeting, although their brief gazes told him all three of them had registered his presence, loud and clear. A closer look at the bar in the back of the place revealed Gamble and Kellan on one end, both looking shocked as hell as they caught sight of him, and Isabella, who simply smiled into her beer.

Luke headed through the darkly paneled dining room, leaving the tables, the dance floor, and the jukebox in his wake. “Hey,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and girding up for the heavy ration of shit that was going to be inbound in three, two, one…

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in!” Kellan said, reaching in to give Luke a brotherly clap on the shoulder despite the fact that Luke had never done anything more than work with the guy. Huh. “It’s good to see you out, man, albeit a little weird. Everything alright?”

He stuffed down the events of the last few days in favor of a status-quo smile. “Yeah. Just felt like having a beer tonight, I guess.”

“Definitely weird,” Gamble said, but Isabella nudged him with her shoulder.

“Oh, don’t be grouchy. I think it’s great that Slater’s out tonight.”

Gamble frowned, but somehow Luke was certain she could hold her own against the guy. Gamble might be a big badass former Marine, but a) Isabella had clearly been served a double helping of badassery at the police academy, and b) she lived with Kellan, whose days as an Army sniper weren’t that far in his rearview. Even if his days of being single sure were.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t cool,” Gamble muttered, looking oddly chagrined. “Only weird. And for the record, I’m not grouchy.”

“Oooookay,” Kellan interrupted, pausing for a good-natured laugh. “So who needs a beer?”

Gamble crossed his arms over the retaining wall that was his chest, but funny, his frown held more confusion than irritation. “What? I’m not fucking grouchy.”

“You got it, buddy. Let’s go with that,” Kellan said, waggling his brows at Isabella as he stepped up to the bar. “Another round? Slater, let’s get you that beer, yeah?”

“Actually, I’m going to borrow Slater for a second to introduce him to Hollister. My partner,” she added as she looked at Luke, and damn, she was good. “He’s right over there talking to Quinn.”

Luke took it back. Isabella wasn’t just good. The woman deserved a fucking Emmy.

“Okay,” Kellan said, dropping a kiss over her temple before unwinding his arm from around her waist. “I’ll just hang here with Oscar ’til you get back.”

Luke let Isabella usher him from his station-mates before Gamble let loose with a reply by way of his middle finger. The few seconds’ worth of ease he’d felt at their back and forth disappeared in a quick strike as soon as he caught sight of Quinn sitting at the other end of the bar. She was still gorgeous—Christ, he’d think so even if she was wearing a clown suit. Her blond hair spilled over the shoulders of her gauzy white blouse, the neckline just low enough to reveal the edges of the lacy pink tank top she wore underneath. She smiled just enough to release those dimples that made him want to do unspeakable things. But the gesture looked cobbled together, too big and too forced for the sadness flickering in her hollow, dark blue stare, and that feeling behind his sternum came roaring back, full speed ahead.

“Hey, you two,” Isabella said, smiling her way into the conversation as they arrived beside the two bar stools in the slightly out-of-the-way alcove where Quinn and Hollister had been talking. “Thought we’d come over and say hi.”

Quinn made a small noise of shock, but Hollister covered for her, extending his hand to Luke for a firm shake-slash-shoulder bump.

“Hey, man. Good to see you.”

Luke nodded, and for as awkward as he’d expected the whole out-and-about thing to be, he had to admit, being at the Crooked Angel could be worse. “Thanks. You, too.”

The two detectives excused themselves a few seconds later on the premise of needing to talk shop, leaving him face-to-face with his suddenly wary-eyed partner.

“Why are you here?” Quinn asked.

Whether it was his need to scatter the tension between them or his deeply rooted desire to make her smile for real, even temporarily, Luke couldn’t be sure. But he couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“It’s nice to see you, too.”

Quinn’s cheeks turned bright pink in the soft overhead light, and shit, this was going to be an exercise in restraint. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Okay.” Luke slid onto the bar stool Hollister had abandoned, his knee brushing against Quinn’s in a slide of denim on denim that he felt fucking everywhere. “How did you mean it?”

“We’re supposed to be doing what’s normal, and for you this”—she paused to sketch an imaginary circle between them with one index finger, then extend the loop to the rest of the bustling bar behind him—“isn’t really your normal.”

“I was worried about you.”

The truth was out before Luke could tidy it up or haul it back. He put the conversation on hold as a tall, edgy-looking brunette sidled up to their table wearing a dark red half-apron and a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.

“Oooh, I was beginning to think you might be a myth. Slater, right?”

“Yeah,” he replied, searching through his memory of all the stories he’d overheard at Seventeen to try and place her. Ah.

“Kennedy Matthews. I run the place,” she said, just a heartbeat after he’d guessed her identity in his head. She extended a tattooed arm in his direction, her stare shrewd as hell beneath the heavy fringe of her jet-black bangs.

“Nice to meet you,” Luke said, meeting her handshake halfway.

“You’re keeping good company tonight, Slater. Can I get you anything from the bar?”

He dodged her good-company comment like the hand grenade it was. “Sure.” Scanning the surprisingly impressive beer list on the chalkboard over Kennedy’s shoulder, he ordered an IPA he’d been meaning to try.

She turned her attention to Quinn. “How about you, sweet pea? You good, or do you want another round?”

“Oh, by all means,” Quinn said, her laugh holding very little joy. “Hit me.”

The piercing in Kennedy’s eyebrow glinted as she raised it, just slightly. “You got it.”

Concern twanged in Luke’s gut as Kennedy sidled away with their order and Quinn’s empty beer bottle. Quinn didn’t seem to have had more alcohol than was wise, but still… “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough,” she muttered. But he didn’t let up on his stare, so she added, “Two beers. I promise, I’m not wasted.”

Luke exhaled. “Good to know.”

“Look, I appreciate your concern, really. But you have nothing to be worried about.”

Oh, look. His bullshit detector had just self-destructed. Again. “Right. You’re fine, I know.”

Her chin jerked up as her stare went from a simmer to a low boil. “Don’t.”

Luke’s heart had risen halfway up his windpipe, but still, he didn’t scale back. He couldn’t. “Don’t what, Quinn?” he asked quietly.

Her voice wobbled, although whether it was in anger or sadness, he couldn’t be sure. “Don’t patronize me.”

His body leaned forward of its own volition, his fingers aching to touch her, his mouth ready to do anything to make her believe what he was about to say. “I would never do that to you. I meant what I said. You’re clearly off the level here, and I’m worried about you.”

For a heartbeat, she simply looked at him, those dark blue eyes churning with the sort of raw emotions he knew he should be guarding himself against. But right now, he could no sooner do that than he could move the goddamn moon to change the tides, so instead, he told her the truth.

“Look, I’m your partner. I told you we’d be in this together, and I want to keep that promise. So please, tell me how I can help you. Tell me what you need.”

“Do you really want to know?” Quinn whispered, her stare making it seem like they were the only two people in the bar, or maybe even the world.

Luke swallowed, loosening a breath. “Yes.”

Her expression grew steady, and her voice along with it as she said, “I need to get out of here. I need you to take me home.”