Page 27 of Love Marks

“It was—”

She looks like she’s about to say more, but she stops herself and looks down. She’s still raging, I can tell, but she looks thoughtful. Almost…disappointed somehow. She shakes her head and drops her shoulders.

“Yes?” I prompt impatiently.

She shakes her head, still avoiding my eyes. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong about me.”

I unclench my fist, flexing my fingers, and throw one last glance in her direction.

“Well, unfortunately for you, Miss Taylor, I keep my office drawers locked.”

I can’t stand to look at her for another second, so I turn on my heels and storm back to the elevator, needing to burn off this anger coursing through me. I thought that I’d feel better after confronting her, but if anything, I feel worse. The tension swirling in my gut is raging stronger than ever.

I should feel satisfied, but I just feel empty. Pushing my feelings down, I vow to move on. She won’t find anything on me, and I won’t waste another single thought on Quinn Taylor.

Chapter 14

Quinn

I’m so angry I can hardly contain it. The revolving subway doors I just walked through are still spinning with the force of my shove. I didn’t mean to take my anger out on them, but I can’t help it. I always walk with a purpose in the city, but the way I’m hunkering down the subway steps, it seems that purpose is now to destroy anything in my path.

I can’t believe him. I can’t believe I thought that underneath that hard exterior, he might be hiding some semblance of softness. The only thing underneath all that muscle is a hunk of metal where his heart should be.

The way he looked at me!

The false accusations he made!

The disgust dripping off his words!

I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for the train. I’ve never felt so out of control as I do right now. I’m stuck between wanting to scream, punch somebody, or just curl into a ball and cry. I haven’t felt this out of control since—

Don’t go there.

He really thinks I’m some sneaky journalist or PI trying to infiltrate his life. What an egomaniac! I couldn’t give less of a shit about his family, his legacy, or whatever bullshit empire he’s trying to build. I don’t have time for his Wolf of Wall Street drama. I’m a little busy over here trying to pay my mom’s medical bills and not get evicted this month.

What the hell has my life become?

I replay the last hour’s events in my brain, trying to figure out what went wrong. Admittedly, I shouldn’t have said those things to my mom, but how was I supposed to know he was standing right behind me, listening? In fact, he shouldn’t have been listening in on my conversation.

It is his apartment.

Whatever. Besides, he proved all my comments right today — he really is an asshole.

Maybe I should have told him about Ian. There was a moment where I almost did. I wanted to. It’s obvious to me that this story has done real damage to Wesley’s life. Underneath all that harshness and anger is a plain hurt that I know he’s trying to hide. Still, when I opened my mouth to tell him the whole story — how Ian took the folder from me, how it was his word against mine when I was fired — I felt an endless sense of despair. Like, what’s the point?

It’s not like he would have believed me. Nobody believes women, not where I come from. I was naive enough once to think that if you told the truth, people would listen. That if you needed help, you’d get it. But I’m not a child anymore and I’m not naive. I learned my lesson years ago.

Besides, Wesley has clearly already made up his mind about me. I had the chance to give him Ian’s name, and maybe he would have looked into it, but then Ian would probably get fired, and it’s not like I’m going back to The Phoenix now. I know how hard unemployment in this city can be and I don’t wish it on my worst enemy, which I guess Ian might be. Even if I had told the truth about Ian, nothing I could have said would have dimmed the burning hatred in Wesley’s eyes.

The thought makes me inexplicably sad.

I spend the whole train ride home listening to my most emo music — a combination of Car Seat Headrest and Phoebe Bridgers. It does nothing to calm my bad mood and by the time I stomp into my apartment, I’m still fuming. Still, the sight of my mom sitting with Sheila in the living room brings a smile to my face.

“Hey, guys,” I say, throwing my bag onto the floor and slipping my shoes off. “What’s up?”

“Banana bread in the oven. I’m doing Sheila’s toes.” My mom waves the nail polish brush in the air.

“She forced me into it.” Sheila shoots me a side glance.