Holding up a hand, Quinn waved it back the way they had come. “I didn’t start that. He hit me first, remember?”
Allie nodded. “Sure, after you insulted his girlfriend. Don’t play games with me, Quinn. You knew what you were doing, and what kind of reaction you’d get.” She paused, releasing a sigh of disappointment. “Look, I know things have been rough for you since your friend died. I get it, but you can’t be using that as an excuse to come in and disrupt my place.”
“Your place?” Quinn said, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I thought this was Tom Walker’s place?”
Rolling her eyes, Allie replied, “You know what I mean, you idiot. Tom wanted me to throw you out weeks ago, but I kept talking him out of it, because I know you’ve been hurting, but I can’t keep covering for you if all you’re going to do is cause trouble. You get that, right?”
“Yeah, I do,” Quinn said, reaching up to rub his bruised jaw. “I’m sorry, Allie. It’s just …” He let the words fade away as thoughts of Bridget McLellan forced their way through the fog clouding his muddled brain. Bridy Mac, his partner, confidante, and lover, had died on a planet with no name—Starfleet might have given it a name by now, but Quinn did not care—sacrificing herself to keep Shedai technology from being acquired by Kling-on agents. Everything about her had made Quinn come alive, filling him with a confidence and conviction he had not felt in years. After the second chance he had been given, thanks to the timely assistance of T’Prynn, the enigmatic Vulcan intelligence officer, having Bridy Mac around had only strengthened his resolve to continue the arduous task of reforming and remaking himself. In the aftermath of years wasted on drinking, gambling, carousing, and simply eking out a marginal existence on the fringes of civilized society, partnering with McLellan and doing something that actually mattered had given him a fresh, optimistic outlook on whatever years might remain to him. Her passing had taken with it all of the hope and drive he had worked to accumulate. What was the point? He had done his best to pay whatever penance might be owed for his earlier mistakes and sins, and had come up short. Bridy Mac, the only part of his life that made the rest of it worth a damn, was gone, and so too was his ability to care about whatever might come next.
In short,he reminded himself, to hell with it. To hell with every last damned bit of it. He knew that such a cynical stance should not include innocent bystanders and those concerned for his welfare, and it was this errant thought that made him regard Allie with an expression of apology. It was the first time in weeks that he had acknowledged caring about anyone or anything other than where he might acquire his next drink.
Reaching out to grip the doorjamb in an effort to steady himself, Quinn drew a deep breath and tried to blink past the bourbon. “I just miss her, Allie.”
“I know you do,” Allie said, placing one hand on his arm. “But that’s not good enough, not right now.” She nodded toward the door. “Go and get yourself cleaned up. Until you do, I don’t want to see you around here.”
“Come on, Allie,” Quinn said, genuine regret taking hold in his alcohol-addled mind, at least for a moment. “You know I’m just a harmless idiot.”
“Don’t make Tom ban you outright,” Allie said, her tone now firmer. “Go sleep it off. I’ll check on you when I get out of here, okay?”
Unable to resist one more leering grin, Quinn eyed her with mischief. “Promise?”
Allie’s response was to push past him and open the door, after which she prodded him toward the street. “I mean it, Quinn. Not until you clean up your act.”
Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Quinn nodded. “Okay, okay. I get the message. You’ll be sad when I’m gone, though.” The parting comment would have been more effective, he decided, if he had not chosen that moment to trip on the steps leading down from the door to the cobblestone walkway.
“Damn,” he muttered. “I hate when that happens.”
He turned back to the bar, but Allie was already gone, the door closing behind her as she made her way into the crowd and back to work. His last sight of the comely bartender was of her shapely, leather-clad backside.
Anyone who doubts the existence of a supreme being need only look at that.
Chuckling at his lascivious thought, Quinn cleared his throat as he looked up the street, getting his bearings. Humans and other assorted species, some wearing Starfleet uniforms but many more dressed in civilian attire, were walking past the various storefronts or sitting at tables positioned outside some of the establishments. Stars Landing had its share of bars and restaurants, catering to a wide range of clientele and cuisines, but for Quinn none of them held the charm of Tom Walker’s place. Feeling a wave of lightheadedness beginning to wash over him, he considered stumbling his way back to the apartment that had been provided by Commander ch’Nayla on behalf of Starfleet Intelligence for “services rendered.” He frowned at that idea, knowing that the suite of empty rooms and their Starfleet-issue furnishings would provide him nothing in the way of solace. It was little more than a place to grab a few hours’ sleep and a shower, but it was not a home.
“Guess it’s another bar, then,” he muttered, the fingers of his right hand fishing into his trouser pocket to retrieve his credit chip. He tried to focus his bourbon-fogged mind long enough to recall his account balance, and decided the best way to verify the state of his funds was while buying another drink.
“Quinn?”
Turning at the unexpected summons, Quinn had to blink several times before the figure walking toward him came into focus. When recognition finally dawned, he could not help offering a broad, toothy grin. “Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit—if it isn’t Timothy Pennington, superhero journalist to the stars and beyond.”
“Cervantes Quinn,” Pennington replied with a smile, “I’d heard you were dead, or in jail.”
Quinn shrugged. “The night’s young. How they hangin’, newsboy? Still trying to write your own chapter for the history books?”
“I’ve been looking for you, mate,” Pennington replied. “Seems like we’re always missing each other these days. If I’m not off following a story, you’ve been busy doing whatever it is … Commander ch’Nayla’s having you doing.” His expression turned somber. “I just wanted you to know how sorry I was to hear about Bridy Mac, Quinn. I’m truly sorry I didn’t get to say that to you before now.”
Holding up a hand, Quinn shook his head. “Don’t sweat it, ace.” Had it really been that long since he and Pennington had last seen one another? Quinn tried to do the arithmetic in his head, but abandoned the notion when the numbers began drifting in and out of the haze clouding his brain. All he knew was that it had been a while—plenty of time for Pennington to show up before now to offer his condolences. He did not know the reasons for the journalist’s not being able to find him before today, and the more he considered the issue the less he cared. “These things happen.”
Pennington frowned. “I know what she meant to you, Quinn, just as I …” He paused, clearing his throat, and Quinn sensed that the journalist was recalling an unpleasant memory. “I know what you’re feeling, is all.”
“Oh,” Quinn replied, “you do? Well, then. Maybe we could just hug each other until the pain goes away.” Though he knew the reporter was divorced, there had never been mention of some other lover who might have met some tragic fate. That in itself was an interesting notion, considering the amount of time the two men had spent crammed inside the Rocinante,Quinn’s late and very much lamented Mancharan starhopper. Of course, now that his thoughts turned to his former ship, they served only to deepen his foul mood.
Thanks for that,Quinn mused. Jackass.
His expression darkening further, Pennington cast a glance toward a pair of passersby who had overheard Quinn’s comment. “I was thinking you might want to talk about it, maybe over a cup of coffee or something.”