by Monica James
“Real smooth,” I say, raising the rim of the glass to my lips and tossing it back quickly.
“I wasn’t trying to be smooth,” Quinn says with a shrug.
As I lick my sticky fingers—the liqueur trickled over the sides of the shot glass—Quinn grabs a hold of my seat and spins it so I’m facing him. I have about a second to register what he’s doing before he smashes his lips to mine, kissing me with such intensity I nearly slip off my seat.
“Now, that’s smooth,” he says, pulling away with a smirk.
He looks calm and collected, while I’m all crazy-eyed and panting noisily. Damn him for beating me at my own game.
The lights suddenly dim, and the crowd cheers as the first member of Wild Child takes his position behind the drums. The guitarist and keyboardist follow not long after. I’m surprised, because they are clones of the original band members of The Doors. I can’t help but wonder what the sexy Jim Morrison will look like.
I don’t have to wait too long, because as soon as ‘Jim’ comes out, the girls go wild.
The guy, who is no older than twenty-one, takes his spot behind the microphone, wearing the infamous leather pants, boots, and white shirt, which falls open, revealing a nicely defined chest. His hair is tousled and long, and my God, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Jim Morrison lives.
The girls in the venue rush to the front, pushing and shoving to get a prime spot for a performance, which will, no doubt, get a lot of men in here laid.
Now I know why there are so many men here.
Jim starts off with “Alabama Song,” and the girls bop away, hands above their heads, dancing to the catchy tune of the keyboard. This happens for the majority of the show and I must admit, I am a little starstruck, as he is really good. Voice, stage moves, everything is down to a tee to the real Jim Morrison, who I have a little crush on.
“L.A. Woman” ends, and Jim laughs when a thong gets thrown onto the stage. I really hope whoever threw it up there has another pair.
“We’re going to slow it down a bit,” he says, running his fingers up and down the microphone stand seductively.
“The Crystal Ship” begins, and as Jim’s smooth voice lulls me into a hypnotic state, I close my eyes and get lost in the music.
“Dance with me,” Quinn whispers into my ear.
My eyes snap open and I turn to look at him, stunned. No one has ever asked me to dance before. And because of that, I don’t know how.
“I don’t… I…” I stutter, lowering my eyes.
But Quinn reaches for my hand, leading me to the wooden dance floor where many bodies are swaying slowly, and some, a little perversely.
As we reach a small spot, I look from side to side, attempting to subtly watch others and replicate their movements. Quinn encircles my waist with his arms, drawing me into him and I instantly relax.
“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he says into my ear hoarsely, and the heat of his hands on my waist scorches my skin raw.
Nervously, I raise my arms, enclosing his neck in a tight grip. Biting my lip, I feel beyond stupid just standing there, not knowing what to do. But as Quinn leisurely begins swaying, his eyes focused on mine, I mimic his movements, shuffling from foot to foot, and thankfully, I don’t feel too uncoordinated.
I lower my eyes to ensure I’m not stepping on his feet, but Quinn dips his face to meet mine.
“I’ll lead you, Red. Just trust me,” he says, his emerald eyes shining under the dim lights.
I know his words have nothing to do with what we’re doing on the dance floor, but rather, where we’re headed, and I don’t question it.
I give him a small smile and rest my head against his chest, listening to the hypnotic voice of Jim Morrison.
But what’s more hypnotic is the steady rhythm of Quinn’s heart, which is beating wildly in sync with mine.
Chapter 10
Lost
The next morning over breakfast, Quinn suggests we call Tabitha at the diner, but I’m not really listening to him.
All I can think about is the way we danced last night through the rest of Wild Child’s set. Being in his arms that way, snuggling into him as he sung softly into my ear, is something I will never forget.
It still gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.
Who knew I liked dancing? Although, I have a feeling I only really enjoyed it because I was wrapped up in Quinn’s embrace, feeling safe, and enfolded in his smell.
“Red? Do you want me to do it?” he asks as he stands outside the glass phone box I’m squished into, looking at me with worried eyes.
“Huh? Do what?” I ask, totally oblivious to what’s going on.
“Call Tabitha,” he explains with a smirk.
“Oh right,” I say, clearing my throat and shaking my head.
Focus, Mia.
“No, I’m good,” I reply, slipping my hood over my head, wanting to hide away from reality.
Slipping a few quarters in, I dial Bobby Joe’s and hold my breath. On the third ring, Tabitha answers, and the sound of her voice immediately causes my eyes to water.
“Abi, it’s me,” I stupidly whisper, seeing as no one is around.
“Mia?” she gasps softly.
“Yeah, it’s me. How are you? How’s Tristan?” I reply.
“What happened to your phone? I’ve been trying to call you,” she whispers, and I can hear the background noise fade as she takes the cordless phone out back.
“We had to get rid of it. Someone claiming to be you sent us a message asking where we were.”
She gasps. “It wasn’t me.”
“I know, Abi. How’s Tristan?” I ask again, looking at Quinn, who is sucking on his lip ring, listening closely.
“He’s better. He’s still in the hospital. He’ll be there for another week for observation. Mia, the police have been around here asking questions.”
“I’m sorry that you’re involved in all my mess.” I sigh sadly.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve got my dad working on your case.”
“What?” I question loudly, which has Quinn stepping forward, raising an inquisitive brow. I shake my head at him and continue to listen to Abi.
“My dad isn’t like my mom, that’s why they divorced. He’s kind, unlike her, and I trust him. He’s a powerful man with connections, and he’s trying his best to pull some strings to get the police off your tail.”
“How’s he doing that?” I ask, nervously scratching at a sticker on the glass, as Abi has never discussed her father in great detail before.
“Don’t be mad,” she says. “But I told him about you, and he’s hired a private investigator to look into everything.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, looking at Quinn anxiously.
“It means he’s trying to clear your name, and pin everything onto your dad and Phil.”
“You know about my dad. Phil… Me?” I add, my stomach dropping.
“I know everything, Mia,” she confesses softly.
Oh my God, she now knows what I did. And she now also knows who I really am.
When Quinn and I took off, Tabitha only knew a sliver of my past. But now… now she knows it all.
“And you still want to help me?” I ask incredulously, tears stinging my eyes.
“More than ever,” she replies. A tear slips down my cheek.
Quinn looks like he’s about ready to explode, and takes a step toward me. I raise my hand, indicating I’m okay.
“Phil covered his tracks,” she says, brushing off the fact she knows about my tainted past.
“I know,” I sadly add, wiping away my tears.
“But my dad has hired the best, and they’re working around the clock to put a case together to prove to the police that you’re innocent. When that happens, hopefully the police will listen, and you guys won’t be wanted for murder.”
“So they’re pegging the murder on Quinn and me?” I ask, making eye contact with Quinn, as this proves that we are actua
lly wanted for murder.
We both believed there may be a slim chance that we were only wanted for questioning. But with Brad’s dad on the case, there is no such thing as innocent until proven guilty.
“Yes. Sheriff Davidson won’t let it go. He’s been coming here almost every day looking for you. Tristan is under watch at the hospital, too.”
“What? Why?” I shout, instantly feeling a wave of protection at the mere mention of Tristan’s name.
“Because they think Quinn will make contact with him.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my aching forehead.
Quinn has had enough and tries to squeeze into the booth, but I put my arm up, needing some space before I suffocate.
“The sheriff has a personal vendetta against you. What happened?” Tabitha asks.
I don’t want to tell Abi what happened, but she’s sticking her neck out for me, so she needs to know the truth.
“I had a fight with Brad on the night that he drugged you. I went after him, pulled a knife, and threatened him. Things got ugly, and he tried to—” I look at Quinn, whose jaw is clenching as if reliving the memory.
“He attacked me, and Quinn saved me. But not before Quinn beat him nearly to death.” And then I take a breath.
There is silence on the other end, and if not for the clanging of pots and pans, I’d say Abi has hung up.
“Abi?” I ask. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” she finally croaks. “You did that for me, Mia? You put yourself in jeopardy for me.”
“Of course I did, you’re my best friend,” I reply like it’s a no brainer.
“Oh God… this is my fault,” she gasps as I hear her plonk onto a squeaky chair.
“No! None of this is your fault,” I say passionately.” Don’t you ever say that, okay?”
“Okay.” She sniffs loudly. “Thank you, Mia. What you did for me—”
“Abi, don’t mention it. I better go. I’m not sure if this line is tapped.”
“Okay.” She sniffles into the phone. “Just keep running, okay? Just until my dad comes up with a plan. Don’t go to the police, as Sheriff Davidson has an APB on you and Quinn, and issued it through most counties.”
Shit, that just made things a whole lot harder.
“Okay, Abi. I’ll check in with you tomorrow,” I say, my head pounding.
“Um...” she hesitates.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, hearing her apprehension.
“I’m not in tomorrow,” she replies.
“But it’s Tuesday, you always work Tuesdays.”
“Um—” After a few seconds, she whispers, “It’s Hank’s funeral.”
I can feel the color drain from my face and my knees suddenly go weak, threatening to buckle underneath me.
“Mia?” Abi says, panicking when I don’t say anything. But I can’t reply because all I can hear on repeat is… funeral. “Mia, put Quinn on the phone,” Abi demands.
Like a zombie, I hand the phone over to Quinn as I step out of the booth and blindly sit on the curb, tears stinging my eyes.
Hank’s funeral? Oh my God, I think I’m going to be sick. Staring vacantly ahead, I will not allow myself to cry, as I have no right.
I can vaguely hear Quinn in the background, trying to get a word in.
“Okay, Abi, I—” and he stops abruptly.
I can hear Abi chatting noisily from the other end, which goes on for about a minute.
“They haven’t been that bad,” he says defensively, and I wonder what she’s grilling him over.
“Okay… yes…” more pauses. “Sheesh. Yes… ah-ha.”
I turn to look at him and he gives me a small, crooked smile.
“Okay, yes, I got it. Talk to you in a couple of days.” He hangs up, blowing his messy hair out of his eyes.
“Everything okay?” I ask softly as he takes a seat near me, his long legs stretching out in front of him.
“Yeah. I now understand what they mean about redheads having a temper,” he says with a smirk. “You all right?” He bumps me with his shoulder lightly when I remain silent.
I shrug. “Not really. But the good news is Abi’s dad is helping to clear our name. But the bad news is the police are keeping an eye on Tristan 24/7, like some fugitive. And thanks to Brad’s dad, who has a hard on for us, I might add, we are wanted in every county in a thousand mile radius. And to make matters worse—”
But suddenly, Quinn’s finger is poised over my lips, stopping me from continuing.
“Red, stop talking,” he says, and dips his head to look me in the eyes. “We’re going to New Orleans.”
“What? Are you insane? Did you not hear what I just said?” I ask, widening my eyes to emphasize my point.
Quinn shrugs. “I heard you.”
“And?”
“And what?” he says casually.
“And… I…” I falter, because I don’t really know what to say.
“You got someplace better to be?” he asks with a smirk.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head.
“So, c’mon then.” He stands up, extending his hand down to me.
Looking at his hand, I shake my head. “Quinn, this is crazy.”
I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to distract me from falling into a heap.
He waves his hand, coaxing me to take it. “Red, nothing about this isn’t crazy. So, what’s a little extra crazy gonna do?”
“But Hank,” I say solemnly as I finally accept his hand.
“Hank would want you to stop frowning and be happy,” he says, pulling me up and wrapping his arms tightly around me.
It’s exactly what I need to feel and hear.
***
To get to New Orleans, it should take us roughly seven hours, but with Quinn’s driving, it takes five and a half.
The whole car ride, Quinn and I have been deep in thought, occasionally speaking, or humming along to a tune on the radio. But overall, what’s happening back home hits us both, and we’re happy to travel in silence.
It’s about 3 p.m. and Quinn’s stomach grumbles, while I’m gaping at the terrain of New Orleans. I’ve heard stories about the beauty of this place, but actually seeing it before my eyes is like nothing I ever imagined.
As Quinn’s stomach gripes yet again, I tear my eyes from the magnificence before me and chuckle.
“You can’t possibly be hungry again?” I say with a smile.
“You bet ya ass I’m hungry,” he replies, returning my smile. “There is no sincerer love than the love of food. My mom always used to say that to Tristan and me when we were kids. I never really got it till I had my first bite of her chocolate marble sheet cake.”
I see him flinch at the slip of his mom, something he has never done before. He doesn’t speak of his mom or dad, or his past, and I don’t push, because I know how it feels to want to forget your history.
“Your mom sounds like a smart woman,” I say cautiously, trying not to upset him.
He only nods uncomfortably and pulls into a desolate gas station, which I’m pretty sure closed down in 1984.
“Um… Sparrow,” I say, looking at the building which has half a roof. “Just a hunch, but I don’t think you’ll find any food in there… or anything at all for that matter.”
Quinn smirks, killing the engine, and reaches over his head, slipping his sweater off.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him curiously as he begins wiping down the steering wheel and dash.
“It’s time we part ways with this eyesore. It was fun while it lasted, but I want something bigger and badder.”
“And less offensive,” I add, slipping off my sweater and mimicking Quinn, as I meticulously wipe down the truck from top to bottom.
By the time we’re done, the cab is wiped clean of our fingerprints. Searching under the seats to ensure we haven’t left anything behind, I give Quinn a nod when I’ve checked the truck thoroughly.
“Where to now, Sparrow?” I ask
, looping Lucky’s lead through my hand.
“Somewhere where there’s food,” he replies. His stomach grumbles loudly in agreement.
“Lead the way,” I say with a smile, following him as we begin our trek down the highway.
Quinn shoulders both our bags and smirks. “Follow me.”
***
The worst thing about new shoes is blisters. And judging by the pain I’m feeling in my feet, it’s safe to say I have a few—a few dozen.
I’m hobbling behind Quinn, trying not to expose how much pain I’m currently in. Quinn stops and casts a cheeky grin over his shoulder as he waits for me to catch up.
I’m a few feet away when he slips our backpacks off his shoulder, dumping them onto the grass. “Jump on,” he says, turning his back to me.
“Excuse me?” I ask, looking at his massive upper body.
“Jump on,” he repeats. “I’ll piggyback you.”
“What?” I ask stunned.
Surely he’s joking. “I’m too heavy.”
Quinn turns at the waist to look at me with an incredulous smile. “Red, Lucky weighs more than you do.”
Lucky grumbles, giving Quinn a dirty look, while he laughs. “Sorry, buddy. C’mon, Red,” he persists, wiggling his shoulder at me, trying to tempt me.
My unhappy feet cheer at the possibility of not having to take a further step. “Okay, but only for a bit,” I say, collecting our bags and slipping them onto my shoulder.
I hesitantly approach Quinn, because I actually don’t know how I’m going to climb up his colossal back without a ladder.
“Just jump on like you would a horse,” he says, laughing, sensing my dilemma.
“I’ve never ridden a horse,” I reply, scratching my head.
“Well, now’s your chance,” Quinn says, shooting me a quick wink over his shoulder.
He crouches down low, allowing me to climb on without falling flat on my face. I stand on my tippy toes and reach up, placing my hands around his thick shoulders. As I boost myself up, I yelp, because suddenly Quinn grabs behind my knees and shuffles me up his body so he has a firm grip around my legs. Once he’s got a tight hold around me he slowly stands. I firmly latch on, clutching his neck with a death grip, afraid I’m about to fall.
