by Anyta Sunday
A soft chuckle came from Quinn, and the mattress bowed as he shifted himself into a sitting position. “‘P.S. I’m gay?’” he read aloud.
I pressed send as I nodded, and then opened a fresh document for brainstorming. “Thought telling her might be appreciated.”
Quinn nudged my leg and I glanced at him as he picked at the seams of his bedcover. Slowly, he raised his head. “So, was I clear enough back there in the bathroom?”
My fingers stilled over the keyboard. “Yes, you want a relationship.”
“And?”
I clicked opened my calendar, and looked over the dates and appointments and deadlines. “Can I give you my thoughts after I’ve submitted my features article?”
“You don’t have thoughts right now?”
“Of course,” I said, resting my head back against the wood, “but they are . . . overwhelmed. I’d like to sort them first and find the right answer, and at the moment, I’m too distracted with this article I have to wow the chief with.”
Quinn twisted onto his knees, sheets falling to reveal his stunning nakedness. “Sometimes there is no logical answer. Sometimes it’s just a feeling. Stop thinking up here—and start thinking here.”
He touched my chest, and I frowned at his fingers, staring at the bitten-off nails a long moment before I spoke. “What if I will never be like you, Quinn? What if I don’t always yell and laugh and cry and cheer at things you or others might?”
He dropped his fingers to the edge of the pillow under me.
“Maybe,” I said, drawing the laptop closer and jotting in the date, “we should both think about things.”
His nod was slow and measured.
“Do you want me to leave?” I asked, gesturing toward the bed and the door.
“No.” He planted a kiss on the side of my lips. “I still want you to sleep next to me. And would you think about something else if I asked?”
“Of course.”
“Would you come home with me, Shannon, and Hunter for Thanksgiving?”
CHAPTER 16
Heavy. My limbs felt heavy as I made my way into Scribe that Friday. Each step toward the office felt like I had weights around my ankles. I chalked it up to a case of extreme nervousness, but that didn’t help the matter. Logically, I knew my articles were of the utmost quality and that I had to place in the top twenty-five of the BCA competition, but . . . but—
What?
There was no reason to allow this heavy feeling to consume me. I shook my head as if it would help lighten me, but it only sent a wriggly, tickly feeling to my stomach.
My pocket buzzed. A text from Hunter. He wanted to meet for coffee at Crazy Mocha Coffee that afternoon.
Okay, I wrote back. By then I might be able to eat something. I couldn’t eat this morning—Quinn had pressed a spoon of oatmeal to my lips but they wouldn’t budge. Even the kiss he gave me afterward, licking away the smudge of mushed oats, left me empty of our usual thrills. All I’d wanted was to lean my head on his shoulder, for him to take the heavy feeling away.
I stepped out of the stairwell. In front of me were the frosted glass doors separating me from the buzzing, literary-charged atmosphere that encompassed most of my life—and the BCA results.
If I placed in the top ten, along with winning a feature article, surely the chief would be hard-pressed not to promote me to features editor? As soon as I had his word, I’d have a reason to mail my father again. He’d sit up and pay attention then—or at least keep me on his radar over the next couple years.
I pressed my clammy hand to the textured glass, rolled my shoulders back, and opened the door to the next stage in my life.
The board loomed at the back of the room, a halo of white notices around the navy-framed results.
One step in. To my right, in the corner of the room, Jack leaned back in his chair, swiveling as he chatted to a copper-haired girl I’d never seen before.
“So,” she said in a playful voice, “are you going to invite me to the cathedral party or not? It’s supposed to be the party of the year, and I could really make it the party of your year.”
“Sorry, babe, not this time. I’m only there to work. But maybe next time.”
Five steps in. To my left, photocopiers murmured and beeped, and ahead the chief was bent over the sports reporter’s desk, tapping Nick’s fingers away to type into the laptop.
“An intro something like this . . .”
Ten steps in. Hannah was frowning as she grumbled into the telephone, doodling on a loose piece of notepad.
Twelve steps in. Someone cut in front of me. His Mohawk casually lifted before he returned to studying the stack of old Scribe magazines he carried.
Fourteen steps in. I was one step away from the board. A few people stood checking it in front of me, and I tapped my foot, unable to hold back the impatience. I glanced back to Hannah and raised a hand. She nodded and then turned into the phone once more. The doors at the back opened. I pivoted. Jill was coming in, fumbling with the flap on his satchel. He let it go with a frustrated slap and stepped toward his corner desk—
And froze. His body seemed to tighten as if he’d been magically turned into a statue. I followed his gaze to Jack’s hand climbing up Copper Girl’s arm to her cheek.
Jill snapped into action, twisting away from the sight, and left the office.
Jack scowled as he stared over Copper Girl’s shoulder at the fogged doors. There was definitely something going on between the two of them, and my initial thoughts were: lover’s quarrel. Then I adjusted them to: unrequited love.
Maybe that was the reason Jill didn’t want to speak up about that night. Maybe he didn’t want it known that he was interested in his best friend. Perhaps The Night Warrior had seen him try something on Jack and when Jack retreated, leaving Jill humiliated, The Night Warrior had his victim just the way he wanted him. Vulnerable. Easy lunch.
Jill would hate anything that made him appear weak or outcast to his peers. It would affect his having a “life.”
Finally the board was free. I nudged my glasses upward and read the list from the bottom up. The heaviness affected my finger too, increasing with every inch I had to lift.
I stole higher and higher, my stomach twisting again, a panicked flare gurgling out of me when I reached the last few places.
My name. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t . . .
“That can’t be right,” I said, scanning through the list again. I must have overlooked it—
Nothing?
I blinked at the paper over and over as if somehow my name would suddenly appear. I scratched the back of my neck, my glasses popping forward with my frown. I rubbed a knuckle against my brow, and slowly picked my way to the chief. Hannah sent me a sympathetic smile as I passed. How long had she already known?
The tight lump in my throat hurt to swallow, but I swallowed nevertheless before moving into the chief’s office.
He wasn’t in there, but I’d seen him talking to the sports reporter. He’d be here soon. The chair dug into me and the seat was still cool after ten minutes of sitting on it. I fumbled with the pen in my pocket, but it was a lazy, irresolute touching. I couldn’t even summon the energy to click.
The air stirred as I waited for the chief to round the desk.
He did, slowly. “Liam,” he said as if he’d been expecting me to pop in. “How are you doing?”
He sank into his chair and stroked his beard, gaze leveled to mine.
“There must have been some mistake,” I heard myself saying. “My articles should have placed.”
“It’s a blow, I understand. But you did well with one of your three submissions.”
“Twenty-eighth? It’s a good ranking for that piece, but—”
“That piece, Liam, is good, and it is what your peers want to read. I’m sorry you didn’t do as well as you wanted to, but that is the nature of competition. From what I’ve seen developing in your party page columns, I’m very sure you’ll do even better next yea
r. Look at this as a learning curve, not a curve ball.”
I let go of my pen, withdrawing my hand from my pocket, and stood. The chief had certainly made his point. Perhaps I should be thanking him for submitting the story that placed at all, but I couldn’t. Every swallow was bitter and painful.
Chief Benedict sighed and smiled, soft and empathizing. “Look, Liam, It might not seem like it now, I’m just trying to help nurture your potential.”
My glasses kept sliding down my nose, and I pushed them up again as I stood. “I’ll still wow you with my feature article, chief.”
Crazy Mocha Coffee. Two o’clock, and half full. I sat at our usual table and lethargically leafed through a Booster Gold I’d had carefully tucked in the back pocket of my bag.
Hunter rolled in at quarter past, a smug smile on his face. “Get me a latte. I think it’s your turn to shout.”
When I came back, two coffees in tow, he slapped the comic shut. “That’s a good one,” he said with a wink.
I nodded and slumped onto the chair.
He took a sip, placed his cup on the table, and reached for his camera. “What party is up for tonight? I was thinking, maybe you want me to take some pictures that you could add to your column? If you want.”
My column. Oh, the party page. I couldn’t remember what party I was supposed to go to tonight. It was on my calendar. I’d check it later. I gave Hunter a short nod and dipped my finger into the foam of my coffee, swirling it around.
“That’s it?” Hunter asked, cocking his head at me. “I thought I’d get more than a nod.” He flipped off the lens cap. “Say cheesy balls. . . . Still a no? Okay, then cheesecake.”
Snap! Snap!
“I’m good, you know,” he said from behind his camera. “This could add some cutting edge to the whole overall impact of your column.”
That sore lump rose in my throat again.
“And that’s exactly what my work needs to be enjoyable, isn’t it?”
Hunter drew back, lowering his camera. “Whoa, man. It’s just an idea. I’ve been searching for something to do besides economics and thought maybe you’d put in a good word at Scribe.”
I played with the froth on my coffee some more. “Sure, I’ll put in a word.” I glanced up at him. The last time we met had been the night we discovered the true identity of The Raven. “Have you had a chance to talk—?”
His jaw flexed and he rested his camera on the table with a light thunk. “I tried.”
“And?”
“I didn’t know what to say, so I rambled on about basketball for longer than anyone wants to hear.”
Had he also been heavy with nervousness? Had his limbs felt as if they’d never feel normal again? “Were you nervous?”
He chuckled and veered his gaze away from mine. “Ah, fuck it,” he said picking up his drink. “I was shit scared. All I could think was, dude, I’ve known you my whole life, how could you not tell me about this? And suddenly, I didn’t want to hear the answer.” He shrugged, and gave a cursory glance toward his legs.
“Maybe it will go better next time.”
“Maybe.” He took up his camera again and stared at the screen. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I brought my foam-covered finger to my lips, but it seemed too much of an effort to lick it. I used a napkin instead.
“Come on. Spit it out.”
I shook my head even as I began spilling every detail about the BCA competition. “I just—I thought for sure . . . What’s wrong with them?”
“Them the judges? Because it’s obvious, a lot.”
“Them, my articles.”
Heat sprang at the backs of my eyes, an unfamiliar feeling. I closed them and kept swallowing until it was under control. When I opened them, Hunter was pushing his way around the table. He used his buff arms to yank me toward him and held the back of my head firmly as he pressed his forehead to mine. “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that? Right now you make me wanna cry. I’m sorry the BCA thingy turned out to be a dud, but you’re gonna be awesome, Liam, and I’m stoked I’ll be around to see it.”
“Thanks,” I murmured as he slowly pulled away. “It’s . . . I mean . . . when I get your texts . . . I look forward to seeing you.”
He waggled his brows. “I tend to have that effect on people.”
The Buck Boozer was exactly what it sounded like: a party selling beer for one dollar per polystyrene cup. Quinn, who rarely drank at parties, gave me a funny frown as he shared the backdoor step with me. “Drinking beer now?”
“It tastes horrible,” I said and took another bitter sip. “I thought you were hanging with Shannon.”
“Yes, well . . .”
We stared into the dark yard, toward a large maple with a couple draped over a tire swing.
“She’s that upset with you?”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling on his ear. “I wish she’d let me talk. I’m afraid I’ve really disappointed her.”
“Sorry. I’m sure she’ll come around.” I twisted the beer cup in my hand, and drained the last drip of beer.
“Have any cash I could borrow?”
I felt for my wallet in my jacket pocket and handed it to him. “Take as much as you need.”
He opened to the flap where I kept my bills, slipped all twenty-five dollars out, and crammed them into his pocket. “Great,” he said. He handed me back my wallet, as empty now as I was feeling.
Huh. “What do you need it for?”
“Insurance.”
“I’m sorry?”
Quinn steered his gaze toward me, half his face shadowed by the night, the other side glowing dimly in the light that seeped through the fogged window of the back door. “Insurance against you getting drunk because you’re upset at something.”
Oh. Well, in that case, perhaps he had good foresight. Not that I planned to get intoxicated, but I didn’t care about how the night turned out. I hadn’t even written any notes for my column.
“So, what’s going on, Liam?”
“Just a bit off today.” I counted the swings of the tire as it swung in our direction, and when it stopped swinging, I tried to map out the branches of the maple—darker blotches against an inky sky.
Quinn inched nearer. Axe and toffee wafted over me. “Blue days suck,” he said.
I stopped counting branches and started counting how many times Quinn blinked. His eyelashes lowered as he dropped his gaze to my mouth, as if wanting to kiss me. Or perhaps waiting for me to respond. Maybe both.
My lips parted and my heavy breath slipped out, making a sigh. I followed it up with a shrug, and pulled out my notebook. “They are not fun, no.”
Quinn pinched the end of my notebook. “Can I help you come up with an angle?”
I handed him the pen. Tonight, it was just too much effort. “Go for it.”
He took my pen and scribbled a quick note in the margin, which I read over his shoulder. Sorry about the BCA results, it read.
“Hunter’s a bigger mouth than I thought.” But I was glad he talked to Quinn. Maybe it meant they’d be fine.
Quinn bumped his shoulder against mine and stared out into the night again, tapping my pen to the notebook. “That’s Hunter, he’s the epitome of selflessness, even at the cost of being a big mouth.”
“I like it.”
“Me too.” He pushed to his feet, and cocked his head toward the back door vibrating with music. “Now let’s get your angle.”
CHAPTER 17
Quinn and I sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, both plugged in to our laptops. It was Monday evening, and I was wrapping up my party page column, ready to draft up my feature article. I curled my bare feet around the chair’s legs.
“Yes!” Quinn pumped a hand in the air, looking over at me with a wide grin as he sank triumphantly against his chair. “Done.”
I fished around for specifics. “Your essay? Or is this a Dungeons and Dragons thing?”
He cut a glare.
“My essay.”
In that case, maybe he shouldn’t be cheering quite yet. I saw his last essay. All of those stray and completely absent commas tampered my nod of approval. “Send it my way,” I said, closing my document. “I’ll proofread.”
Quinn shifted, lips poised to comment, and then he shook his head and rapidly started pounding at his keyboard.
A few minutes later, his email and attached essay popped into my inbox.
You’re fucking gorgeous sitting there, grinning away as you work. Makes me want to sweep our laptops off the table and have you on it.
Q.
P.S. What about Thanksgiving? Going to come with me?
P.P.S. I damn well know I have a problem with commas. Your constant choice in grammar-oriented T-shirts has not been subtle.
I replied:
Give me an hour on your essay, and then I will carefully remove my laptop from the table. After which, you can ravage me as you please. But don’t mistake it for anything more than sex.
Liam
P.S. Too much to do this weekend, I’m going to pass.
P.P.S. It must be working. The grammar in your mail was spot-on.
Quinn bit his lip, which didn’t hide his flushed cheeks. He typed something, then lurched up and disappeared to the bathroom.
I refocused my attention on his essay. Certainly the grammar had improved since the last one. But improved didn’t mean great.
A few minutes later another mail came into my inbox, and Quinn was back, squirming in his chair.
Re. Ravaging. Only sex. Got it. (For now.)
Then this is how it’s going to go and not to worry: it’ll be a laptop-friendly pillaging:
I’m going to start by stealing under the table and taking your big toe into my mouth. I’ll suck it hard and good as I slide my hand to your crotch and rub through the taut material of those slacks you’re wearing. You’ll sag at the sensation, and I’ll take my opportunity, sliding you under the table with me, where you will beg me to get you off. A warning, I’m going to make it slow. I’m going to make sure every scrap of clothing is off both of us, and then I’m going to lather our dicks in lube, then lie on top of you, hard and solid. I want to feel you arch and rut against me. I want to hear you pant. I want to watch you come. Afterward, I’m going to kiss you until we’re stuck together, right? And then I’m going to ask again if you’ll come for Thanksgiving.
