Masquerade

Dirty and tired, Quinn shoved to her feet and headed for the bathroom. She could use a long soak. Too bad for her muscles, made sore by the tension of the day, there was only a shower—and a tea cup sized one at that.

When the washrag and bar of soap made the room over-crowded, she didn't bother closing the door—the knob would take up too much space. Hoping to let the water run to get the rust out of the pipes, before she undressed she turned on the water. Nothing.

Had she rotated the handle the wrong way? After twisting it back to its closed position, she cranked it open as far as it would go. Still nothing. Nada. In frustration she shook the faucet, which rattled inside the wall, but didn't release even one rust-stained drip.

Damn. She'd have to disturb whoever lived in the other part of the bottom floor so she could get water turned on to her side. Muttering to herself about ignorant building designs, she marched out of her apartment, across their shared foyer, knocked on her neighbor's door and leaned against the frame. 

After a moment she knocked again, then ran her hands over her face. The dirt was gritty against her skin. Nice impression she was about to make. If she had any luck at all, her neighbor would be a woman so old and blind, she wouldn't be able to see how dirty she was. She just hoped whoever it was could see well enough to find the door.

Finally she heard footsteps as the tenant approached. Surprised when they were fairly quick and not the shuffle-step she expected, she straightened away from the doorframe, pasting on a smile.

As she waited for the knob to turn, her father's presence intensified until she could feel his warmth. The way he'd smelled of toothpaste and aftershave on Sunday morning just before they left for church was so strong, she closed her eyes and took a deep, deep breath. Change jingled in his pocket. His shoe scraped against the floor tiles as he stopped behind her.

He gave that low, back of the throat sigh she'd heard each time he was gathering one of "his girls" in his arms for a big hug, then the pressure of his embrace weighed across her back and shoulders. She glanced back, hoping desperately to see his face, but he wasn't there. He squeezed her tighter as the door in front of her eased open. A tall man with broad shoulders filled the doorway. Then her heart died.

Jack Ridgeway.

Gasping for breath, she wondered how a dead heart could thunder so.

You can get through this, Quinny girl, her father whispered. I'm here with you.

Jack's hair was still that just lighter than honey color, and his hazel eyes still had enough green mixed in to keep them from being baby blue. His chin hadn't lost the dimple, which was exactly in the middle, nor his jaw its firmness, yet somehow he'd changed. He looked . . . older. As if he'd seen way more of life than a person should.

As he focused on her, his face drained of color. He grabbed the doorknob and held it so tightly his fingers blanched. His mouth dropped open, then closed a couple of times as if words wouldn't come. His nostrils flared while his eyebrows slammed together in silent rage.

The world dimming around her, Quinn realized she'd stopped breathing. She sucked in a breath filled with his familiar scent. "I-I'm sorry. They didn't tell me you lived here."

"What the—" he said in the same instant. He shook his head, then glanced at the ceiling as if waiting for something to crash through it. When nothing did, he looked at her again, then lifted one of his brows. "What are you doing here?"

The intensity of his voice was just this side of thunder—she could feel it reverberate inside her chest. It was obvious he wanted to curse, but held to his rigid, self-imposed rules. 

She decided to at least pretend to be house broken. "Hello, Jack."

His jaw tensed but he just looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded once. "Hello. What do you want?"  

Memories crashed into her, practically knocking her to the floor. She was tempted to answer, To time travel so I can change the past, but he would never understand. He didn't understand thinking outside the box. For him, once something happened, it was set in stone. Apologies and intentions didn't matter.

She searched her mind, trying to remember why she was there. "I need to turn on the water to my apartment . The valve's in your bathroom."

Glancing quickly at her door, he lifted his eyebrows practically to his hairline. "Your apartment?"

At her nod, he clenched his teeth so tightly, she wondered if he'd have to have the jaws of life to pry them apart.

"The valve that turns the water on is in my bathroom?"

She tried to answer but all she could do was nod.

"And you want me to turn it on so you can live across the hall from me?" When she started to answer, he continued. "Where I'll have to see you every day? And share an entryway and mailbox?"

She swallowed, still unable to speak. Now she couldn't even nod.

"After . . . everything. You would live right beside me."

She wanted to shout for him to forget it or to turn and run away, but as if she were frozen, she just stared, meeting his gaze, which in the past had held her spellbound. At least it was still there, that tiny blip in his nose from a fight in seventh grade that made it slightly off-center. At one time, it had sent a fissure of desire sliding down her spine, but that had been long, long ago. The electrical current, surging through her now, was a memory. Not the longing that would be so familiar if it was real.

He studied her for a full minute—or was it an hour?—first her hair and her face. Then his gaze slid slowly down her body until it reached her bare feet.