Chapter One: Quinn

Cheat Codes

Book One in the Dawson Family Series

Copyright 2018 Emily Goodwin

Chapter One

Quinn

I am a glutton for punishment. Ever since the tender age of fourteen, I knew there was something wrong with me. Because of all the boys in all the world I could go and have a crush on, I fall for him.

My older brother’s college roommate. The mysterious boy with the troubled past who could have any girl he wants. The cute boy with the dark hair and deep brown eyes who’s as smart as he is cocky, who somehow managed to both get into med school and win over a lifetime friendship from sports-loving Dean, who only attended the same college because of a basketball scholarship.

And those girls? I was never one of them. Not then, and I won’t be again now.

I don’t expect to see him here tonight, but if he shows up, I won’t be surprised. Everyone is back in town for Dean’s engagement party, and it’s inevitable we all end up at Getaway, the bar owned by my twin brothers. My heel catches on the toe of my other shoe, tripping me and making me slosh my very full Dirty Shirley down the front of my dress.

“Shit,” I mutter and sip my drink as I turn around to grab a napkin.

“Smooth, sis.” Logan holds out a rag.

“It was that obvious, huh?” I set my glass on the wooden bar top and take the rag.

“In your defense, I did fill your glass to the top. I thought I was doing you a favor, but now I know otherwise.”

I roll my eyes at my brother and blot at the stains on my dress. Of course I’m wearing white. Never fails, does it? I slide onto a barstool and wipe the sides of my glass, taking a big drink before returning the rag to my brother. He takes it and tosses it at Owen’s face, making him lean away from the girls he’s been flirting with all night.

“What the hell?” Owen snaps, throwing the rag in a bin behind the counter. “I had a good thing going.”

“You’re going to pay for those drinks you gave away, right?” Logan shifts his eyes from me to his twin. They’re identical, thick as thieves, but radically different in many aspects, which works out in both their favors. They balance each other out—most of the time.

“Take it from my pay.” Owen grabs a bottle from the top shelf, arms himself with a cocky smile, and goes to the end of the bar to refill empty shot glasses. I pull my phone from my purse and see I missed a text from Jamie. She got held up at work and is rushing to get changed. She says she’ll be here in fifteen minutes, which could mean up to an hour in Jamie-time. I relax in my seat and sip my drink as I mindlessly surf the internet.

“You’re working, aren’t you?” Logan rests his elbows on the bar and leans in, peering at my phone.

“Not this time. I’m trying really hard not to even check my email. I’m looking at a castle for sale in Scotland.”

Not missing a beat or even questioning me, my brother just shakes his head. “Mom can hardly handle you being less than two hours away in Chicago. She’d lose her shit if you moved to Europe.”

“But look, it has a bookshelf that opens to a secret staircase.”

“That is pretty badass.” A moment passes as I continue to look through the images of the castle. Logan sets a glass down on the bar next to me and grabs a bottle of whiskey. “So you’re just going to sit here, drinking by yourself while you look at castles you’re not really going to buy?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Logan just chuckles and goes to take drink orders from new customers. I slowly sip at my drink, mildly entertained by what’s on the glowing screen in front of me. A large group comes in, filling the bar with bodies and noise.

Newly expanded, Getaway is a large bar, and it needs every single square foot it can get. I’m proud of my brothers for turning this place around from the hole-in-the-wall bar it was when they first bought it into something people flock to.

The woman next to me gets up and a man immediately slides onto the stool. His cologne is overwhelming, making me gag.

“I couldn’t help but notice” —he starts, leaning in— “that you were here alone.”

Blinking, I look up from my phone at the man next to me. He’s wearing a dark suit with the jacket unbuttoned and is flashing me a bright-white smile.

“I’m Cam, by the way.” He extends his hand, showing off his large-faced watch in the process. He’s overdressed for the bar which caters to the blue-collar people of Eastwood, Indiana.

“Quinn,” I say, finding it hard to be anything but polite. It’s in my nature to assume people aren’t assholes. His attention is unwanted, but not rude. Not yet at least. He grips my hand tight, pressing his finger over the pulse-point on my wrist like he’s trying out some lame move he read about in a dating-blog article.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No.” It feels like a lie. I am from around here. I just don’t live here currently. I always assumed I’d end up back here someday.

“Didn’t think so. I’ve been doing business in Newport the last few months and have stopped in here every now and then. If you’d been in here before, I’d remember it.”

I force a smile and shift my eyes to the bar. All I need to do is look at one of my brothers for them to come running, shove a fist in this guy’s face and kick him out for life.  Three of the four are here tonight, and they all take their roles as big brother seriously. Instead, I grab my drink and fiddle with the straw, wishing I had the power to speed up time and make Jamie walk through the door.

“So, you’re here alone,” he says more than asks. Of course I’m alone, and it’s obvious.

“For now. I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Yeah.” He gives me a wink. “Me too.” He inches closer. “We can wait together. Want a refill?”

“No thanks. My friend is a boy. Well, no, more like a man. Not more like. He is. He’s my man-friend.” The words keep coming out of my mouth even though I want them to stop. “I’m waiting for my man-friend.”

“Right. Man-friend.” Cam’s eyebrows arch in amusement. “In case he doesn’t show, you know where to find me.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, flashing a polite smile before getting up and going behind the bar. I fill a glass with a small amount of vodka and then fill it with cherries.

“What are you doing back here?” Owen breezes past me to get a bottle of tequila. I pull a cherry from its stem and pop it in my mouth.

“Making myself a drink.”

“That’s just cherries and vodka.”

“Exactly. I’ll give the cherries a few minutes to marinate in the booze then I’ll eat them.”

Owen responds with a head shake and points to something next to me. “Hand me that glass?”

“Sure,” I say and hand it to him. “It’s getting busy in here. Where’s Heather?”

“Waiting on her sitter to show up. She’ll be here…eventually.”

“I can help in the meantime.”

Owen considers it as he pours a drink, hurrying back across the bar before coming back. “Can you make an Old Fashioned for the guy in the white shirt?”

“A what?”

“Old Fashioned.”

I blink and reach into my purse again for my phone. Holding up my finger to tell Owen to wait, I do a quick G****e search. “Got it. Well, maybe. What does it mean to ‘muddle’ a drink?”

“I’ll make it. Here.” He hands me a bottle of whiskey. “Pour ten shots and take them to Dean’s table, along with this margarita for Kara.”

“Easy enough.” I move my glass of cherries to a safe spot, grab a tray, shot glasses, and carefully pour. I worked at a bar in college and lasted three nights before getting fired for not being able to keep up. I like fast-paced jobs. Hell, I’d go so far as to say I enjoy being in a field I can describe as demanding. But there was something so overwhelming about being surrounded by drunk people all shouting and yelling for their drinks.

Centering the margarita and arranging the shots around it, I lift the tray. A few shot glasses wobble, and the amber-colored liquid sloshes around. I take a step—nothing spills. Holding the tray as level as I can, I slowly make my way through the bar and feel a new appreciation for Heather, who can sprint through here, in heels no less, and deliver drinks without so much as losing a drop of booze on her way to the table.

I spy Dean and my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Kara, at a crowded table at the back. I sidestep to avoid a group of drunk women all wearing matching pink shirts that say “Marie’s Last Fling Before the Ring” and grit my teeth as I watch the smallest bit of whiskey roll down the sides of the glasses. Maybe I shouldn’t have filled them so high.

Stopping in front of Dean’s table, I make my move to set the tray of shots down. Right as I’m lowering it, a drunk guy stumbles and bumps right into me…and the tray full of alcohol.