Quinn hated this s**t. He chain smoked as he tried to keep his foot on the gas to get to his old hometown. His whole body rebelled at the idea of going back there. Elsewhere, he could be himself. In Spruce Creek, Nevada, he’d always be a MacGregor first, and anything else second.
He was two weeks out of rehab, and while he was pretty sure he’d kicked the habit, he felt twitchy like he hadn’t since withdrawals. All he’d wanted was to find a place to live somewhere as far as possible from Nevada, but he had unfinished business and so here he was, driving through exceedingly familiar scenery: tangled wind-flattened shrubs at the side of the road, houses with the paint worn off them by the weather, everything sun-bleached and a little run down.
He hadn’t been back since he was about to turn
