“You can do this.” He pulled out the Nutella and caramel for his brownies, which had completely cooled down by now. He wasn’t completely jaded—in fact he was usually a very cheerful and positive guy. This whole mess with Quinn had turned him upside down. Sure, Quinn was really hot and could probably snap Spencer in two with little effort, but Spencer genuinely wanted to help the guy. If Quinn wanted nothing else to do with him, not even the possibility of being friends, well, at least then Spencer could stop daydreaming about what-ifs.
With renewed determination Spencer got to smothering chocolate on the brownies. Quinn needed help, even if he didn’t think he did. He needed someone. Spencer was going to do his damn best to be that someone.
QUINN WOKE
up to a sharp pain coursing through his leg. Damn it, he was getting really tired of this shit. With a groan he sat up. It had been a week since he was released from the hospital, and look at him. He glared at his leg in the hopes he might somehow intimidate the pain away. No such luck. He needed painkillers. Where the hell was Rick?
Quinn snatched his phone off the coffee table to check his messages. Five missed calls from Rick. Damn, he must have really been out of it not to hear Rick at the door, or his phone. Tapping the screen, he waited for his brother-in-law to answer.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Where’s my drugs?”
Rick laughed. “Now you sound like my patients.”
“Except I’m not hitting on your nurses or plotting the demise of Castro from your waiting room. How many proposals did Christina get this week?”
“Six.”
“Damn. I was off by two.” Every week he and Rick kept a running tally of how many proposals Rick’s lead nurse got from her patients. Most of them were old enough to be the nurse’s grandfather, but it was hard to resist a pretty girl fussing over them. Rick had to put his foot down on a few occasions with some of the old boys who came in just to see Christina, usually feigning a cough or the appearance of a new liver spot simply to see her and flirt.
“I left your prescription with Spencer.”
Quinn frowned. “Who the hell is Spencer?”
“Your neighbor. Seems like a nice guy. He was coming by to see if you needed anything while I attempted to wake the dead. I had to go, so I left your prescription with him. I’ve got his number.”
Quinn wracked his brain. “What’s he look like?”
“I don’t know. Gringo. Skinny. He was wearing some kind of superhero T-shirt. He thought I was your boyfriend.”
“Gross.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re my brother-in-law. Not that you’re unattractive or anything.”
“This conversation just got weird.”
Quinn smiled. “Right. Back to my neighbor.”
“Bro, you’re a cop. How can you not remember what your neighbor looks like?”
“I’ve assessed all my neighbors for possible threats. If I don’t remember him, he’s not a threat.”
“That much is probably true. Guy looks like he needs some of your mom’s cooking.”
Quinn threw a hand up in frustration. “Man, why did you have to bring her up? Now she’s probably going to call or show up or something.”
“You’re so superstitious,” Rick said with a chuckle.
“It’s not superstition. It’s fact. Cuban moms have a sixth sense for these things. You know that as much as I do. All you do is mention her and—”
His phone beeped, and Rick cackled in his ear. His brother-in-law knew who was calling.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Talk to you later.” Rick hung up before Quinn could curse him out some more.
If Quinn didn’t pick up, his mom would think that the apocalypse had come and claimed him, or that he’d drowned in the tub, fallen down the stairs, died in a grisly steak-frying accident, or suffered any one of the other horrific tragedies her overactive imagination could conjure up, because his demise was the only acceptable reason for his not picking up her call. It was in his best interest to answer.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Mi cielo, ¿cómo te sientes?”
“I’m fine.”
“You eat?” she asked.
“Yes. I ate.” His mother was under the impression five meals a day would solve all his problems.
“You ate something healthy? No sandwiches.”
She also never believed him.
“Yes. I made food.”
“Mentira. Why you lie to your mother?”
Quinn let his head fall back with a groan. Why did he bother? “It was a healthy sandwich. It even had vegetables in it.” Sautéed onions counted as vegetables, right?
There was a long pause. She was wondering whether to believe him. Always stick to the truth as much as possible.
“Está bien.”
She rattled off the latest gossip regarding her archnemesis neighbor and the insolence of the witch to have placed her recycling bin past the hedge dividing their property. He could see his mother now, fuming in her fuzzy slippers and flowered nightgown, glaring at the bin invading her lawn by mere inches. Of course she’d pushed it back, and of course her nemesis had seen her.
Ten minutes later his mother moved on to the latest baby news from her friend’s daughter’s sister-in-law’s cousin, whom Quinn had never so much as heard of before, much less met. He looked at his watch. “Ma, I have to go. I need to pick up my prescription next door. Rick left it with my neighbor.”
“Okay. Me llamas.”
“I promise I’ll call you. I gotta go.”
“Te quiero. Besitos.”
“Love you too.”
He hung up and checked the text Rick had sent him with his neighbor’s phone number. As the phone rang on the other end, he tried to think about what his neighbor looked like. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember, and he was very good at remembering. He was pretty sure they’d shared the elevator a few times. The guy owned that yellow Skittle parked next to his truck. Who the hell could fit in that thing, and why would anyone buy a bright yellow car? On his fourth attempt to get through, he gave up. Rick had texted him that the guy worked from home. Maybe he was away from his phone and couldn’t hear it ring.
Normally Quinn would have left it for later, but his leg was killing him. With much blustering, and cursing in two languages, he managed to get himself up. He grabbed his crutch off the coffee table, where he’d left it earlier, then went to the door. How the hell was he supposed to do weeks of this? The thought of all the paperwork and therapy sessions that waited for him before he could get back out in the field had him grinding his teeth. In seven years he’d managed to avoid any serious injuries, and now he was out of commission for who the hell knew how long.
Pissed off, he snatched his keys from the bowl on the narrow table by the door before stepping out into the carpeted hallway. He locked up and shoved the keys into his pocket, grumbling to himself as he maneuvered to his neighbor’s door. His brow was already beaded with sweat by the time he got there. He glared down at the crutch.
“I hate you.” He knocked on the cream-colored door and waited.
Nothing.
“For fuck’s sake.” He knocked louder. When there was no answer, he pounded on the door. What the hell was the guy’s name? Steve? Shawn?
“Hey. You looking for Spence?”
Quinn glanced over his shoulder at a tall, lanky guy wearing a Best Buy polo shirt standing in the doorway of the apartment across the hall. “Who?”
The guy pointed to the door Quinn had been pounding on. “Spencer Morgan.”
“Oh, right. And you are…?”
“Danny. A friend of his.”
Quinn gave him a nod. “I’m Quinn.”
“Yeah, I think by now everyone in the city knows who you are.” Danny’s gaze went to Quinn’s leg and the padded brace that went from his ankle to above his knee.
Damn news stations. Quinn was glad he’d slept through most of the reports. He didn’t want to know what they said about him, good or bad. There would have been plenty from both sides, but more of the kind that branded him an arrogant, trigger-happy dick. Quinn had been doing this job long enough to know how thankless it was the majority of the time. Didn’t matter that some drug pusher had tried to kill him while he held an innocent child in his arms, the guy’s own nephew for fuck’s sake. There were times when Quinn wondered why he bothered. Then his mom would beam up at him and tell him how proud she was that her son helped people. She never hesitated to remind him of the good he did, even when he was surrounded by so much fucked-up shit.
He turned his attention back to Danny. “Do you know how I can get hold of your friend? I tried calling his cell and knocking, but I’m thinking he might not be home.”
“Oh, he’s home. He just has a habit of popping in his earphones and forgetting about the rest of the world. I’ve got a spare key.” Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He removed one and held it out to Quinn. “He can just give it back later.”
Quinn hobbled over and took it from him with a frown. “I hope you’re not in the habit of giving strangers the key to your friend’s apartment.”
“You’re not a stranger.”
Danny smiled, and Quinn wondered if there was something Danny knew that he didn’t.
Okay.
“You sure he won’t mind?”
“Nah. He’s cool.”
There was that wide, knowing smile again. Quinn peered at him only to receive a salute from Danny before he disappeared inside his apartment. Hopefully Spencer wasn’t as weird as his friend. Quinn turned and made his way back to his neighbor’s apartment. He tried knocking again, but when he received no answer, he inserted the key and turned the knob. Warily he let himself in, closing the door behind him, and scanning the room, surprised by the trendy gadgets and movie-related decor. Aside from the trinkets and canvas prints of movie posters, the room was nicely decorated in blacks, grays, and whites, with bold splashes of red. It was the exact same layout as his but looked much nicer. It was kind of shameful. He’d been living in his apartment for years, and it still looked like he’d moved in recently. His apartment was less minimalistic and more “didn’t really have the time to care.” His younger sister was always trying to convince him to let her decorate, claiming the place was an insult to aesthetics and her designer’s palette. Whatever the hell that meant.
“Hello?” He turned to his left where he knew the medium-sized kitchen would be.
What the—
Quinn gaped in disbelief.
Spencer—or he assumed it was Spencer—was dancing around in nothing but a short apron covered in superheroes and tight Captain America boxer briefs, the blue and red shield painting a very convenient target on his ass. It was a cute ass; Quinn would give him that. Shame that ass was attached to a crazy person. The guy was tall and slender, with brown hair sticking up at all angles. Rick was right. His neighbor could use some of his mom’s cooking. Quinn could bench the guy with one arm tied behind his back.
Quinn’s leg was throbbing, but he was mesmerized by the spectacle before him. Suddenly he was hit by an onslaught of disturbing flashbacks from last year’s Pride, specifically his manwhore cousin dragging him up and down South Beach, gyrating against anything that moved while sporting a pink tutu, neon yellow heels, and nothing else. No one needed to see their family members half-naked and suggestively sucking on a penis-shaped ice pop. The image would forever be seared into his brain. He’d have bleached his eyeballs if he’d thought it’d do him any good.
“Holy shit!”
A loud clatter startled Quinn from his unsettling thoughts, and his brow furrowed when Spencer dove behind the counter. The room fell into silence. Quinn waited.
And waited.
“Uh, hello?”
Nothing.
Had the guy knocked himself out? Frankly Quinn wouldn’t be surprised. Gritting his teeth, he got himself moving, hobbling around the kitchen island counter. His mouth opened to speak, then closed. Spencer sat on the floor with his back to the counter, knees drawn up, with a spatula clutched to his apron.
“You okay?” Quinn was really starting to worry about the guy’s mental state. He tried to pick up on any signs of instability. After all, how well did one really know their neighbors?
Captain America—pretransformation—looked up at him, big green eyes widening. “Oh, hey there, neighbor. I, uh, was just looking for, um….”
“Some pants?” Quinn offered.
“Yeah, must’ve left them….”
“Somewhere else.” Quinn carefully moved back as Spencer got up.
“Yep. So you’re here for your meds? I mean prescription.”
Quinn nodded and placed the key Danny had given him on the counter. “Your friend Danny let me borrow his key. I tried calling, but I guess you were… busy.” He looked at the lit-up oven and then the ingredients on the counter. “Baking cakes.” His gaze went back to his half-naked neighbor. “In your underwear.”
“Brownies, actually. Also, I’m doing laundry.”
“And you only own one set of clothes?” Quinn asked, arching an eyebrow at him.
Spencer let out a nervous laugh. “Right. Um, I’m baking brownies in my underwear while listening to my iPod. I do that. Let me get you your pills.”
He started to turn around, then appeared to remember his lack of clothing. Sliding up to the refrigerator, he remained facing Quinn as he reached up. He tried to grab the bag off the top of the refrigerator but couldn’t reach at his weird angle. Quinn waited patiently, wondering what to make of the strange man in front of him.
Seeming to realize he wouldn’t be able to reach the bag, Spencer turned and made a quick swipe for it. The bag toppled backward. With a frustrated groan, he stood on his toes, snatched it, spun, lost his balance, and ran right into Quinn.
“
Fuck
!”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
Quinn took a quick step back, and Spencer threw a hand out to grab him, most likely thinking Quinn was going to fall over. Except he wasn’t. At least not until Spencer kicked his crutch. Quinn flailed and caught hold of Spencer’s arm, a futile endeavor considering Spencer’s scrawny frame would never be able to hold up his two hundred and ten pounds. They both crashed hard onto the tiled floor, Spencer landing on Quinn’s injured leg.