“No landscaping jobs?” said Nick.

“No jobs. I was actually planning to watch James so she could go out with her folks. We could take him with us, but I thought maybe I could get one of you to watch him . . .”

The air was practically trembling with anxiety. “You’re nervous,” said Nick.

“I’ve met her dad, but it wasn’t on the best terms.”

Meaning, the night Gabriel had been arrested for arson. Hannah’s father was the county fire marshal.

“They asked you, right? I think that’s a good sign.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“I’ve never done the parent thing.”

“Pretend they’re new clients.”

Michael looked at him. “Yeah, okay.”

“No. Seriously. That’s what I do.” Nick never had any idea how to treat his girlfriends’ parents. He always worried they’d see right through him, and it wasn’t like he wanted to pretend to stare at his date’s boobs right in front of Mom and Dad, just to prove a point. He knew how to deal with teachers, and how to deal with landscaping customers. He treated parents the same way. They always liked him. Then again, maybe they could sense he wasn’t a threat to anyone’s virginity.

Whatever. He shrugged. “It’s worked so far.”

Michael smiled and hit him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Nick.”

He headed for the stairs. Nick watched him go, bemused. And relieved.

And a little disappointed.

“Hey,” Nick called after him.

“What?”

“I’d lose the long hair.”

Michael made a face. “If I cut my hair, that means I have to keep cutting it.”

Typical Michael. Not making a statement with his looks. Just not taking five minutes to care what he looked like. “You’re the one who wants to make a good impression. Just saying.”

Michael gestured. “I can’t do what you guys do.”

“So cut it short.”

“It won’t look stupid?”

“Right now you look like you’re trying to bring back the grunge era, so you tell me.”

Michael rolled his eyes and started up the stairs. “All right, all right.”

Nick watched him go. The camaraderie felt good. He’d missed this. So much that he wanted to call Michael back down, to take him up on that option to talk.

Then again, his older brother hadn’t really meant it. That had been BS conversation until he could get around to asking a favor.

And really, if he’d said a word about Adam, that camaraderie probably would have vanished into thin air.

Quinn woke to the sounds of a guitar strumming.

She lay in bed and listened, trying to orient herself. Darkness cloaked the room, barely letting any light through the blinds. A light was on somewhere down the hallway.

Right, Tyler’s apartment.

The guitar was muffled, probably a neighbor or something.

She was alone in bed, which wasn’t a surprise. She was in the room with the double beds, curled up under the quilt.

The whole night had been bizarre, from her fight with Nick, to the kiss from Tyler, to the drug addicts in her bedroom.

It hadn’t gotten any better.

Tyler had asked if she wanted to take a shower to clean up a bit, which she’d assumed was an implication that it was time for her to earn a place to sleep for the night. Kind of like when boys took you out to dinner and a movie and then expected a little somethin’-somethin’ in the car before they took you home, but on a whole new level.

But no, she’d climbed in the steaming hot shower alone and stayed that way. She took her time, too, not knowing when she’d get another chance to spend more than five minutes in a shower before someone started screaming at her.

And later, when she’d emerged with pinned up damp hair and yoga sweats, Tyler had been killing the lights in the apartment.

“Stay up and watch TV if you want,” he’d said. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got an eight a.m. class.” Then he’d taken a quick look in the second bedroom and said, “Do you want an extra blanket?”

Pretty clear where he’d expected her to sleep.

Thinking about it now, she wondered if she’d messed something up.

You going to judge me for something Seth did?

She had no idea how to read him. He’d said terrible things to her in Nick’s driveway—though he’d talked his way out of those. But then that night behind the 7-Eleven, when he’d burned her . . . was that a cruel side of Tyler, the way boys would yank the wings off flies, or was that a panicked side trying to figure out what dangers were affecting the Elementals in town, using the only leverage he could find?

And here she was, sleeping in his spare room. After he’d helped her get her things and protected her from an addict and a dealer. That had to count for something.

No, a lot. That had to count for a lot.

The guitar music kept up, and she listened, thinking of Nick, of the night he’d told her his family secret, the way the air had carried her.

She thought of how much he hated Tyler, and wished she knew how to reconcile all these facets of the same guy.

The guitar music changed, becoming something more lively.

Still muffled, still at a distance, but enough that she could pick out the rhythm and melody. Was someone outside? But they were on the third floor.

She swung her legs onto the velvet softness of the carpeting, padding into the doorway. Definitely outside.

She peeked through Tyler’s doorway, expecting to either find him asleep, or sitting up in bed, as confused about the music as she was.

His bed was empty.

The light over the sink was on, casting a soft glow across half the apartment. Quinn approached the glass door that led to the porch, seeing that someone was indeed out there, sprawled on one of the porch chairs, a guitar in his lap.

Tyler.

Quinn slid the glass door open. “What happened to your eight o’clock class?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.” He was good enough that he didn’t lose the rhythm or the melody. “Did I wake you?”

“You’re probably waking half the building.”

“Doubt it.” She opened her mouth to fire back, but he nodded at the opposite chair. “Want to join me?”

Like she had anything better to do. She dragged the door closed behind her and eased into the vinyl chair. It was way too cold for a tank top and stretch pants, but she was used to being underdressed for the weather. She caught a whiff of smoke in the air, then saw the lit cigarette perched on an ashtray on the table beside him. A beer sat there with it.

Definitely way too old for her. She didn’t give a crap.

“You’re very good,” she said quietly.

“Thanks,” he said equably.

“Do you sing, too?”

She’d been kidding, but he nodded. He didn’t demonstrate, however.

“I don’t get a show?” she mocked, thinking of his comments when she was dancing in the woods.

He pressed a hand against the strings, stopping the music abruptly. “Do you want one?”

Was his voice suggestive? She couldn’t tell.

“Sure.” A breeze slid through the railing and she shivered, running her hands up and down her arms.

He picked up his beer. “Cold?”

“No, it’s a tic.”

He laughed softly, then moved the guitar off his lap. He wasn’t quite holding his arms open for a hug, but the invitation was there. He clinched it when he said, “Want to sit with me?”

Quinn studied him in the near darkness for a long moment.

She remembered their conversation about the lion earlier. Right now she felt like she was climbing into a lion’s cage. Or rather, his lap.

Another gust of wind gave her all the urging she needed. She eased into Tyler, finding him warm and solid. He smelled like cigarettes and beer and something warmer, more inviting, like cinnamon or vanilla or both. His arms came around her, dragging the guitar into her lap. He shifted, moving her slightly. It put her face almost against his neck, his breath against her hair-line.

She suddenly wasn’t cold at all.

“I don’t think there’s room in this chair for the three of us,”

she said softly.

“Please,” he scoffed. “As tiny as you are? Plenty of room.”

Tiny. Tiny! Quinn almost fell off his lap. Maybe he couldn’t feel her crushing his femurs.

But then he started to play, his fingers spilling across the strings, picking out a quick-yet-slow rhythm. His arms were warm and strong, caging her in his lap, and Quinn closed her eyes.

When he began to sing, it took her by surprise. His voice was low, rough and raspy, carrying a tune effortlessly. She didn’t know the song, but it felt vaguely country, with lyrics about pretty girls and apple trees. Her cynical mind wanted to mock it, to mock him, because he was being gentle and kind and it threw her off balance more effectively than when he’d physically dragged her out of her apartment building.

But damn, he had a sexy voice. Quinn felt drunk on the sound, like he was playing her body instead of the strings.

His fingers eventually went still, and he dropped a kiss against her temple.

She shifted in his lap, turning, rising up to kiss him.

For an instant, she almost panicked and drew back, thinking of the night she’d spent with Nick, when she’d kissed him and made an absolute fool of herself.

But Tyler was kissing her back, setting the guitar against the wall, using both hands to catch her waist and slide under the tank top. She was suddenly straddling him, and even though she’d gone all the way with boys before, this felt like more, like she’d been playing Little League all her life, and all of a sudden she’d been dropped in the middle of a Major League game. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

He grabbed her h*ps and pulled her against him, and Quinn gave a little gasp.

Then his mouth was on her neck and his hand was under her shirt. When his fingers discovered that she wasn’t wearing a bra, he made a low sound in his throat. His thumb stroked over her breast again, and Quinn felt the touch all the way through her body.

“God, you’re good at this,” she gasped.

He laughed, and she felt the sound roll through his body. His hands pulled free of her shirt to stroke up the lengths of her arms. “Are you still cold?”

She shook her head.

He brushed blond hair out of her eyes, tracing a finger down the side of her face. It was the first time she’d ever known him to be gentle. “You know I didn’t invite you here for this,” he said softly.

“Careful,” she whispered back. “I might start to think you’re nice.” She reached down and grabbed his beer, then took a long sip.

She watched his eyes follow her movement, and she had a pretty good idea what he was thinking when she put the bottle to her lips.

Then his eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “How old are you?”

he said.

She shifted against him, leaning closer, beginning to stroke a hand against his neck. “Does it matter?”

He caught her hand. “Yes.”

Quinn froze and looked at him. “Eighteen,” she said. “Too young for you?”

He visibly relaxed. “For a second I was worried you were going to tell me you were sixteen or something.”

A month ago, she had been sixteen. “Yeah, that would’ve been crazy.” She laughed and took another long sip of beer.

Tyler watched this, then snatched the bottle out of her hands.

He took a long drink and finished it off. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“You are sixteen.”

“Seventeen,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes and banged his head back against the chair. Several times.