by Eden Butler
That barb hit the target. Quinn’s frustration turned to rage, and he grunted, a loud, desperate sound I’d never expected him to make. Before I could react, he charged forward, and grabbing me by the shoulders, backed me up against the concrete column I had parked next to.
His fingers dug into my shoulders. I expected him to shout. I expected him to get right in my face and make threats. I expected him to curse at me, rail against me, say things I’d likely never be able to repeat to any of my friends.
I did not expect Quinn O’Malley to grab my chin.
I did not expect for him to stare down at me, gaze on my mouth, his tongue wetting his lips.
I did not expect him to kiss me.
And I damn well didn’t expect to like it.
There was so much anger in his touch. Fingers gripping tight, breath fanning from his nostrils, warming my cheek; his angry, desperate movement against my body—it should have insulted me. It should have hurt. But Quinn’s angry kiss changed when I didn’t struggle, when I took what he gave me, when I welcomed it with a return of my lips against his, my fingernails running up his scalp, pulling him forward.
I forgot who I was, who was touching me. Quinn’s anger turned into something that ebbed against the cool temperatures around us. He warmed me, lit me up from the inside with his tongue intruding, commanding inside my mouth, with his teeth against my bottom lip and his fingers tightening against my hip, pulling me toward him.
It only lasted a moment, but it was a moment that stretched, one that seemed to slow into forever until I suddenly remembered who had hold of my mouth. It was a realization that Quinn seemed to have at the same time and he pushed away from me, grunting again before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as though my taste insulted him.
I barely noticed when he walked away. The shock that came into me then, wasn’t from the sting on my lips left by Quinn’s kiss. It wasn’t the anger that left me speechless. It was the fact that I had liked it. His kiss has set something loose in my brain, and, various other tantalized body parts. And as his footsteps clicked against the concrete as he retreated, a singular agenda pulsed in my brain like a neon sign: Get him to do it again.
DEAR GOD, DECLAN Fraser was a ridiculous drunk.
This entire night would have been more enjoyable had we been watching a real rugby match and not just the local feed for regional semi-pro squads playing the Rugby Sevens.
“Ridiculous fecks.” That’s what Declan decides is the appropriate insult to sling at the two squads in the last match he actually watched. This, according to the Irishman, was nothing like “real” Sevens competition. “Not even playing in the right bleeding month, for feck’s sake!” The Sevens were usually held later in the year for the international squads, two teams pitted against each other for quick fourteen-minute matches. It’s the roughest, quickest matches you can watch and is a true display of real athleticism and teamwork.
The squad from Jefferson County and the pathetic redneck squad from Mississippi weren’t performing up to Declan’s liking and so the cable access feed got muted in exchange for beer pong. Joe’s house had been taken over by the CPU rugby squad and it was well past eleven when the squad’s captain, Declan, decided he needed several shots to erase the piss poor playing he’d just watched.
“Tequila?” Donovan asks, fighting both Declan and Vaughn for the bottle—it seems like the entire squad had ended up in the kitchen, where the entire center island was covered with bottles and plastic cups.
“Who’s up then?” Declan asks, tilting it toward Mollie and Autumn.
I bypass the offered shot glass, handing it over to my best friend. Seeing his girlfriend down the drink then quickly suck on the lime, Declan forgets he is hosting his squad in the eager hurry to have a go at Autumn’s neck.
“Fecking hell, love, you’re sexy.”
And… that little praise and the Irishman’s mouth descending on Autumn’s neck is enough to make Joe retreat to his bedroom and the entire squad to leave the kitchen.
Mollie crinkled her nose and the way Vaughn tugs her out of the room, tells me I’ll likely not be seeing them the rest of the night, not if the Marine’s groping hands are a clue to his plans.
Across the kitchen island, Donovan glances at me, rolling his eyes at how Declan and Autumn carry on before he snags the tequila. “Later, Sayo. I’m going to crash in the den.”
And then I’m alone with the happy couple, itching to be rid of them as well. I have plans for that spare bedroom that won’t stay empty all night.
“Um, guys?” I say, looking away from the couple as they block my exit from the kitchen. Declan fondles Autumn, hands firmly on her ass and she returns the attention, shoving her hand under his shirt, raking her nails across his chest before she uses her free hand to flirt her fingers against his waist. She is at his zipper before I can clear my throat.
“Autumn!” I shout, breaking their contact with my sharp yell.
“Oh, Sayo, sweetie, I’m sorry,” she says, doing a poor job of getting Declan’s lips from her neck. “Do you… you want something to…”
“Ugh, Autumn, take it to his room. The crowd is thinning and you guys are blocking my escape.”
“Autumn my love, is it sometime yet?” Declan whispers against Autumn’s skin and I roll my eyes, pushing them aside when Autumn giggles at him.
I wait for Declan’s bedroom door to close, and move purposefully towards Quinn’s empty bedroom, only to find a couple making out in the hallway. I tap the guy on his massive shoulder. It’s Sona Pulu, a new Wing recruit from Samoa who is sweet if not a little thick, especially when it comes to girls. He’s not yet cottoned on to the notion of rugby groupies and is currently tangled up with Lizzie Hamilton, a sophomore Cockie, (Cavanagh Cocks groupie), who spent all of last semester trying to get into Donovan’s bed.
“Sorry Sona, party’s over,” I tell him, shrugging when Lizzie frowns at me.
“We can’t just borrow…” Lizzie nods toward Quinn’s room and I laugh.
“Not unless you want a very grumpy Irishman kicking you out when he gets home. I nod toward the door and Sona smiles as Lizzie pulls him out of the house.
Not including Donovan, only two players are left from the party, both passed out in the den. Joe slips back into the kitchen, but only to retrieve a bottle of bourbon that he tucks under his arm. I watch him from the dining room entrance and wait to hear his bedroom door shut before I beeline toward Quinn’s bedroom.
It takes more effort than I’d like to admit, but I manage not to wonder why his date is going on so long. I feel like a hypocrite. I know damn well Quinn’s date isn’t my business, but neither is anything in his room. The guilt is a small burn against my conscience, one that I try to ignore right along with the assumptions of what Quinn is doing on his date as I slip into his room, a little surprised that it was tidier than it had been the first time I snuck in here. There is still a mound of dirty clothes near the window, but the bed is made and there aren’t any half-eaten meals or empty bottles of beer with floating cigarette butts next to the bed.
A few errant pieces of clothing litter the floor, near the closet. I open the closet door and suddenly discover where all the previous mess has gone. Bypassing the clutter that falls from the open closet door, I reach up, feeling for the box on the top shelf I know holds his sketch book. When I find nothing but empty boxes again and a small, empty duffle bag, I step away, standing on the balls of my feet to see if anything else has been stuffed in the back of that shelf. But it is empty and a quick inspection of the floor under the bed and Quinn’s bedside table provides no sketchbook. I think about leaving. It is a risk snooping in here when he can return at any second, when Joe can walk in at any time, but I want to see what he is hiding. I need to see the sketches he’s kept from me. I have no real reason, nothing that makes any sense other than blind curiosity, but I suspect my motivations are twisted, a little unsettled from that kiss.
Just the thought of that kiss makes
my bottom lip throb and I shake myself, squashing the memory before it can rise up properly and stuff the rubbish and clutter back into the closet before I start for the door. One look at the dresser, though, and the open bottom drawer on the left side stops my exit.
Listening for any noise down the hallway, I kneel in front of the dresser, pulling open the drawer and there it is, the sketch book, looking just as it had the day before. But it holds so much more than the first time I found it. Now it holds all those sketches he’s been creating for Rhea, and I waste no time flipping open the pages, smiling when I spot the picture I glimpsed yesterday—my beautiful baby cousin looking fierce, strong. The glint of health, of power in her eyes is enough to blur my vision with unshed tears and I push them back, sniffling as I turn the page. There are more variations of the same sketch, Rhea soaring through the night, her zipping among the stars, past clusters of galaxies, then more of Rhea, as she is now, only without the pale skin and bags under her eyes.
This is Quinn’s version of my cousin—strong, beautiful, timeless. The image is so detailed, so real that I find myself touching it, absently believing that I will get some sort of spark from one graze of my fingers on the page.
But it is the next page that staggers me, leaves me unable to do anything other than stare unblinking.
Quinn has never struck me as anything other than crass and unaffected. He has never looked at me with anything similar to longing or respect. He’s only ever made me feel anger, rage, like I am someone to toy with, not anyone he’d love.
Yet the face staring back at me was drawn with emotion. It’s right there, me, through a mirror distorted, altered by whatever filled Quinn’s mind when he drew it. It’s a picture that is both totally me and not me at all. That face is beautiful, if not a little sad. There is strength behind those eyes and vulnerability in that expression.
Unable to move, I can only look at myself as Quinn sees me. The movement of the image, the wave in my hair, the flawless shape of my features, all tell me one thing: Quinn O’Malley is capable of emotion. He’s capable of a lot of emotion and all of what he feels for me, what opinions he has of me outside of the public bluster, are reflected in the paper and lines, shading and shadows that stare back at me.
“What the fecking hell are you doing in my room?”
My heart jumps to my mouth and pounds wildly. I’ve been caught. I was so wrapped up in staring at his sketch of me that I didn’t hear him come in.
“Quinn…” I stop, but can go no farther. I have no excuse. There’s nothing I can say that would make that anger leave his face. Me, here, among his things, it’s a betrayal, an offense that I have no way of justifying.
He kicks the door open all the way open, charging at me as I jump to my feet, retreating. “Find everything you want, did you?” He jerks the book out of my hands, and rips out the drawing that had stunned me into silence. “Here, have it then, you nosey bitch.”
“Don’t you dare…”
“And don’t go thinking me drawing you means a fecking thing.” His voice is low, so quiet that I feel the sting of each word as though he’s funneled them directly into my veins. “This,” he says, jerking the torn picture between his fingers, “is nothing more than bleeding wank material I might use when I’m too fecking pie eyed to remember that pretty face of yours.” Quinn grabs my arm, pulling me across his room, too angry for me to make much of an effort of prying his fingers off me. The doorknob slams against the wall when he opens the door and pushes me harshly across the threshold. “I don’t think I’ll be needed to remember what you look like anymore, now will I?”
“If you’d shut up for a second…”
“No, I bloody well won’t.” His frown pinches his mouth tight and Quinn stares at me, disgusted, his nostrils flaring. After a second of scrutiny, his grip on my arm eases and he tilts his head, pulling me close to whisper in my ear. “Did you think this sketch and that snog last night meant something, Sayo?” When I only manage to swallow, trying to wake myself out of whatever trance his touch, the smell of his skin is doing to me, Quinn touches my face, his fingertips barely against my skin. “Because it didn’t mean a fecking thing.” He tones is light, soft but it belies the mix of emotions in his eyes. There is a twist of something I don’t recognize in his expression. “It won’t mean a thing, but if you’re so damn curious, I’ll take you right here, just feet from my brother and your best mate. We can see just how loud you get, see if we can’t be louder than them going at each other like it’s the end of the fecking world. You want that?”
“I…” Clearing my throat, jarring away the knot there, doesn’t help. Quinn’s closeness is too much, the rude invitation that I know is supposed to offend me only twists up my logic, has my heart pounding.
“I didn’t bleeding think so,” he says, shoving me into the hall and just before he slams the door in my face, Quinn throws the sketch at me. It flutters to my feet, and I am left alone in the hallway with my own face staring up at me.
QUINN DOESN’T CARE about anyone.
At least, that was my thought as I left Joe’s house, still reeling, livid that I hadn’t given him much of a fight. Outside my small apartment, the early November wind moves the small planter hanging from my balcony against the sliding door and I watch the ivy leaves tangle and break in the wrought iron light fixture above the door frame. It’s a mesmerizing sight and it takes my mind from the tangle of emotions that keep me from moving off my sofa. I haven’t even bothered to take off my coat or drop my purse on the coffee table.
I am numb. Still.
Part of me understands the reaction. That vapid, young girl part was transfixed by Quinn’s temper, by the sliver of idea that he was capable of real emotion; that the façade he forces on the world is just a mantel he wears. He is a scared little boy broken down by tragedy and loss.
But he is still an asshat.
That ivy limb continues to move and I give fleeting thoughts to the speed of the wind and the storm that approaches. There are lawn chairs in the back that need moving. Mrs. Walters in 2C has a cat that likes to go hunting mice in the wooded area behind our complex. There are newspapers stacked up in the recycle bin right outside my door that I haven’t found time to get rid of… all these thoughts compete for attention right alongside the memory of Quinn’s mouth and the steely strength of his hands. It’s those hands, that mouth, that flicker in and out of my recall when I realize someone is pounding on my door.
It takes two loud bangs to get me up and off the sofa and when I open the door, I don’t think of anything—not how I’m still wearing my coat, how my purse is still over my shoulder or why my keys are still in my hand. I can only stare stupidly at Quinn on the other side of that door.
“Are you off then?” When I frown at him, confused, Quinn nods at my keys threaded between my fingers.
“Uh, no. I just…” I exhale, standing straighter, bothered with myself that I thought to answer him. “What are you doing here?”
Once again Quinn’s features tighten and those bright, clear eyes become hard. “You’ve something of mine.”
“No,” I say, stepping away from the door, not bothering to close it. I know that wouldn’t keep him out. “I don’t have anything of yours.” When he steps inside I pull the sketch from my purse, smoothing it out on top of the coffee table. “You gave it to me.”
“That’s not what I’d call it.”
“You’re right, Quinn.” I wave the sketch between my fingers. “You threw it at me swearing it didn’t mean a damn thing.”
“It still doesn’t.” He moves to stand the table from me, eyes still burning fire as though he wants to lash out, to scream and yell. “But it’s a good piece and I want it back.”
“That’s not why you’re here.” One slip of my gaze down his body and I catch the tight fist he makes and his whitened knuckles.
He’s holding back, shooting for patience, something I’ve never seen from him in the few brief months I’ve known him. “Say what
you need to and get out.” Finally, I slip off my coat, throwing it across the sofa. The day, the weariness, hits me at once and all I crave is a dreamless night and my comfortable bed.
He moves around the room like a fighter preparing for a match, hands massaging the back of his neck, jaw working behind whatever he tries to keep from speaking. It would be funny if he wasn’t so angry.
“Quinn…”
“Tell me why you were in my room.” It isn’t a request. Quinn demands and though I know I should feel guilt, at least a little shame for snooping, his attitude has me wanting to lash out.
“Oh now you want to know?” I drop the sketch on the table and walk around it, needing to see his expression close up. “Before you didn’t give me time to explain.”
“Well I am now.”
My temper loosens, I block out what he says, too amped up to make him feel as shitty as I have since I left Joe’s. “All you could do is scream at me like a crazy man.”
“I’m a bit calmer now, am I not?”
He steps closer and the heavy scent of hard liquor and male skin permeates in the room. “And then you made lewd offers to me like I’m some common…”
Quinn stands right in front of me, the twitch across his lips stilling. “There isn’t a bleeding common thing about you, you mad woman.”
Rare moments come, like this one, where I’m not certain of my next step. Warring thoughts still consume me, taking up space along with the shape of Quinn’s mouth and the small pulse that moves the pale skin along his neck. “I…” He’s rendered me speechless and if I’m not careful, my inability to form coherent sentences will give him the upper hand. “I… I’m not crazy, I just…”
“Sayo,” he says coming so close that his fingers graze my wrist and the scent of liquor moistens my face as he watches me. “Why were you in my room?” When I only stare back at him, Quinn’s shoulders lower and any softness that made him look less livid, disappears. “Why the hell am I here?”
