Hunter glared darts at Wyatt. “Fuck off, motherfucker.”
Restlessness spiked inside Quinn, and he was suddenly anxious to be out of this stupid conversation and away from these asshats. Why was he here anyway? Oh right. To get away from his mom for a few hours. They were the only two losers who didn’t have anything better to do, which left him with the unsettling thought he was a loser too.
Wyatt’s chuckle turned into a full-on laughfest. “Your epic comeback says it all, Hunts.” Wyatt flicked his eyes Quinn’s way and jerked his thumb toward Hunter. “Know what this asshole was doing last night while you were balls deep in that blond?”
“Who said I was balls deep in anyone last night?”
“Her girlfriend saw you guys putting on quite a show in the backseat of your truck.” Wyatt wasn’t laughing anymore, but he still wore a stupid-ass grin.
Goddamn. Quinn pushed down his alarm. Not only had he been stupid enough to screw this girl in his truck, but he hadn’t checked his surroundings once they’d gotten going. He dragged a hand across his neck. “As much as hanging out with you two dipshits is the highlight of my day, I’m out.”
“Wait. Don’t you want to hear how Hunts was begging—and I mean begging—for a piece of ass? Fuck, it was embarrassing.” Wyatt giggled like a girl while Hunter cussed him up and down. Shit was getting old.
“I don’t give a fuck about what Hunts—or you—do off the ice.” Except Quinn somehow always wound up in the middle of whatever they were doing. Why was that? He picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
“We’re starting at the Red Room at ten,” Wyatt called.
Quinn waved a noncommittal hand behind him. Maybe if I’m ready to stick needles in my eyes because my mother is bugging the shit out of me …
By the time he strolled into his house, he’d zenned himself into a state of calm—only to be yanked out of it when he reached the kitchen. His mother lay on her side on the floor. Several feet away, out of her reach, sat her upright wheelchair.
Fuck!
He dropped beside her, and her eyes fluttered open. Thank God! Patting her face, he scanned her. “Mom? Are you okay? What happened?”
“Oh, Quinn. There you are.” She said it matter-of-factly—as if she weren’t in a prone position on the floor—before grasping on to him and hauling herself up onto one elbow. “Help me sit up.”
“Hold up, Mom. I don’t want to move you until I know you didn’t break anything.” He slid his arm along her back.
“I didn’t break anything,” she sighed. “That darn chair and I had a disagreement, that’s all, and then I couldn’t get my legs to work in sync.”
Christ! “How long have you been like this?”
She craned her head and peered up at him. “No idea. Forty-five minutes? A few hours?”
“Jesus, Mom!” He pulled her upper body into his arms and cradled it. Guilt swamped him. I should have been here instead of wasting time with the two yokels. This wouldn’t have hap—
“Swear jar!”
“For fuck’s sake—”
“Quinn! That’s ten bucks!”
Yeah, she was okay. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder and began laughing. And couldn’t stop. Whether it was relief, the absurdity of the situation, or a combination of the entire FUBAR day, he had no idea. Soon her shoulders were shuddering along with his, and she let out a few whoops.
“Isn’t this great, son? We’re finally getting some quality one-on-one time.”
He brushed tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah, on the fucking floor!” She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. “I know. Ten bucks. Twenty. I don’t give a shit.”
She shook her head, but he caught the chuckle in her voice. “I taught you better.”
“Yeah, you did, Mom, but guess what? I unlearned most of it.” Judging by his dumbass behavior of late, a truer statement had never been spoken. “C’mon, sassy. Let’s get you up.”
“‘Sassy.’ I like it.”
After he’d gotten her situated in her wheelchair, he handed her a glass of water and guzzled one of his own, keeping a wary eye on her. “Mom, we’ve gotta get someone in here for you. Any of the ladies that were here before know the setup and—”
She shook her head so hard he thought it might fly off her neck. “No, no, no! I will not tolerate any of those Nazi cows. I’ll get back on my own two feet, and I won’t need a Nurse Ratched. I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.”
“Your stubborn streak’s the reason you fell down today. You could’ve broken your neck!”
She flapped her hand. “Not really. Besides, a Nazi cow babysitter would’ve been completely useless. A waste of couch space while she sucked down popcorn and watched soap operas. Did you know not one of them knew how to play Parcheesi? For heaven’s sake! Who can’t play a simple child’s game?”
He pushed a cleansing breath through his lungs. “Parcheesi skills are not a job requirement.”
“Well, being smart is,” she scoffed. “What about your friend’s sister, Sarah?”
What the actual fuck? Feeling as though he’d been doused with a bucket of ice shavings, he coughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am serious. We’re simpatico. She’s spunky. Way better than any of those stodgy biddies you’ve hired. I want her as my caregiver.” She bobbed her head as if signaling the end of the discussion.
“No. No way.”
“Why the hell not?”
Fighting the quirking at the corner of his mouth, he pointed his finger at her. “Swear jar.”
“I’m allowed one a day.”
“Since when? You can’t just arbitrarily change the rules to suit yourself.” He bit back his amusement. “Look, Mom, there are a million reasons why Sarah can’t be your caregiver. Let’s start with the most obvious ones.” He held up his index finger. “First, she hates my guts.”
A little gleam came into his mother’s eyes. “Why don’t you just use your charm on her?”
Oh no. He
