Mason is doing homework at the breakfast table. He catches my eye when mom and I walk into the kitchen but his gaze quickly drops, and his mouth forms a sympathetic frown. If Mason is feeling sorry for me, I know I’m in serious trouble.
My dad wastes no time. “What’d you do with the gas card, Quinn?”
My brow puckers in confusion. Gas card….?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, shaking my head. I really don’t have any effing clue-it isn’t an act for once.
In response Dad dramatically slams the Exxon-Mobil bill on to the counter top. I peer over at it and see an itemized account of gas charges and quick stop purchases totaling over six hundred dollars.
I step back so I can look him in the eye. “I didn’t do that.”
I glance over in Mason’s direction. He is staring straight down at his World History book, but his eyes aren’t moving across the page. Faker. My parents never make him leave the room while we argue. I’m positive it’s a deliberate decision. They make sure that they keep him torn between the two sides-the parents and me.
What Mason doesn’t remember is how I would wake up in the middle of the night to Mom screaming because he wouldn’t sleep as a baby. I was just a kid, but I would take Mason from her and rock him until he dozed off, or watch Mulan on repeat with him until the sun came up and I had to get ready for school. That is yet another fact my mom has wiped from her memory. Mason looks at me with such disappointment that it tears at me. I don’t want him to think badly of me. My brothers are two of the few people that I actually give a shit about what they think of me.
I shrug my shoulders and give him a small smile. He looks away without reciprocating.
“Cut the crap, Quinn,” Mom says. “Give us the card back.”
She’s waving her finger dangerously close to my face, and I have to tell myself not to try to go after it like chum.
“Am I on glue, or did I not just say-I.Don’t.Have.It.”
My dad yanks my purse off of the coat rack and gives me one last bug-eyed warning glare before dumping the bags contents on to the pristine counter.
“Look what kind of example you’re setting for your brother, Quinn,” Mom says. Wait, my example? What about them? Every part of me, even the tips of my ears prickle with anger.
Dad quickly rifles through the pile, the vein above his right brow pulsates with rage. Left unsatisfied with the Stila Lip Polish, tampon and Starbursts that he finds, he moves on to thumbing through my wallet. I watch annoyed as he tosses it back onto the counter and storms out.
“Don’t they have surveillance cameras or something?” I call after him. I hear an angry grunt and a door slam in response. So, no?
My mom turns to me, the hazel in her eyes swimming with alcohol. “Well, someone took it Quinn.”
I silently wonder if my dad gave the card to the girlfriend that I know he has, and is trying to blame me to get himself off the hook. I’d never say that to my mom though. She’s far too unstable, there’s no telling what she’d do with an emotional blow like that.
“Someone that isn’t me.” I toss my belongings back inside my small clutch. “So, just”
I throw my hands up in frustration. I know she has tuned me out and is currently mesmerized by the glug-glug-glug sound of her wine glass being topped off. Again.
“Whatever,” I mutter, and race upstairs. Once inside my room, I slide my desk drawer open. My heart picks up pace as I run my hand along the splintered underside of the top drawer, until I find the two Valium I ganked from my mom taped to the top.
A good ten minutes pass with me standing there, rolling the two pills in between my fingers. I sigh, and tape them back inside the drawer. If I swallow them, and then pass out, I won’t be able to remember that beautiful kiss from that beautiful boy.
Chapter Seven
Ben
This girl is like nothing I have ever known before. I’ve never seen someone command attention the way she does. It isn’t even her looks that do it, although, truth be told, she is freaking gorgeous, and I’ve never seen an ass like that either. But the way she talks to people, and the way she carries herself, with witty, casual confidence-it’s unbelievable.
Still, what surprises me most about Quinn is the vulnerable side she keeps so closely hidden. The side she thinks I don’t notice-but I do.
She got into another fight with her parents tonight. I’ve only known her for a couple of months, but from what I can tell, the fights are a constant thing and always have been. So here she is, passed out on my chest, her minute shorts showing off her lean, tan legs that have molded themselves to the side of my body. My arm underneath her has long fallen asleep, but I don’t give a shit. She looks like she has finally managed to capture a little peace as she sleeps, aside from the slight twitching every so often. I wonder if anyone has ever told her she does that. Second thought, I don’t want to think about anyone else watching her sleep. In the short time I’ve known her, I already feel so fiercely protective of her.
I run my fingers through her long brown hair, the citrusy smell of her shampoo floats up in the air. God she smells amazing.
The sound of my mom’s footsteps shuffling up the stairs interrupts my serenity. I inhale deeply and hold it, hoping against hope that she will pass right by my bedroom door. Tomorrow is the first day of school and I know my parents assume Quinn has already left for the night. Mom cracks my bedroom door and frowns at the sight of Quinn and I lying on my bed.
“Benny.” The disappointment hangs extra thick in her Southern twang. “We don’t have boy-girl sleepovers.” She glares at Quinn’s tiny frame that has shaped itself to me while she speaks.
I nod in response, and she shuts the door while shaking her head. Why can’t I have the parents that don’t care once you’ve turned eighteen?
This would never have happened back in Kentucky. Not only because I didn’t know anyone like Quinn in Kentucky, but because the last girlfriend I had, Caroline, never would have been here like this. There was no chance I would have ever been kissing Caroline the way I had kissed Quinn tonight or touched her the way that I touched Quinn. My mom is happy we moved to Atlanta, but I know she’d be even happier if we could have just packed up sweet Caroline with us.
I nudge Quinn gently. She only curls up tighter on my chest in response.
“Quinn,” I whisper.
Her body quivers slightly, but she still isn’t budging. Part of her t-shirt is folded up, exposing her tan, toned stomach. I run my calloused hand across the gorgeous muscles, then she gasps and shoots straight up. I jerk my hand back and instantly feel like an ass for waking her.
“What the fuck?” she asks. The fragile vulnerability of her sleep fades when she speaks. She glances around the room like she doesn’t immediately know where she is. “I fell asleep?” She rubs her hair roughly, tangling it in to a ratty mess. Strangely, the disarray only makes her look even sexier.
“Yeah, it’s late, you’d better get home.” I trace a line along the back of her neck.
“I don’t want to go,” she pouts. Her frown is adorable-I brush my thumb across her lower lip.
“I know baby, I don’t want you to go. But my mom will have a coronary if she comes back in here. And your parents will be freakin’ pissed if you didn’t come home.”
Quinn leans forward and starts kissing my neck, her warm mouth making silent promises. Her lips make their way to my ear.
“They won’t even notice, I promise,” she whispers. I don’t really believe her, but her lips are so damn convincing. Her skin is on fire against mine. I’m desperate to be close to her.
“Oh to hell with it.” I concede. I throw the blanket over both of us, and pull her tiny body close. She easily finds my mouth with hers in the darkness. Now that she got what she wanted, I refuse to let her go. Just as they had the first time I kissed her out on her deck, her soft lips move perfectly in-sync with mine. I only wish I had the slightest fucking clue what I’m doing. My han
ds fumble along her bony hips. There is barely a fraction of a centimeter separating us, but I want the space to disappear. God, I want her-like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. My head knows it, and my body certainly agrees.
I want her— and shit. I can’t do this right now.
“Quinn, we can’t do this.” I groan against her lips, since they refuse to leave mine. I know she isn’t taking me seriously. There is no doubt she’s going to make this difficult on me.
“Quinn, baby stop.” I kiss her deeply and then force myself to pull away. She’s frowning again.
“What’s the matter?” she purrs, her voice breaking through a breathless pant. God, she’s beautiful. The mood is officially killed when I toss the blanket that covered us to the floor.
“We just can’t….” How can I say this and not sound like a complete tool?
“Because of your parents?” she asks.
“That’s part of it,” I say, with nod.
“Oh.” Her voice is flat as she jerks away from me. Her tan cheeks turn the lightest shade of pink, and I realize that she thinks I’m rejecting her.
“No Quinn, it’s my parents being here, and, shit…”
“It’s fine. You’re right, I should go.” She stands up and grabs her car keys off of the nightstand and is standing at my bedroom door in one quick movement.
“I’ve never, crap-I’ve never had sex before and I just think we should maybe hold off a little while longer,” I blurt out. My stomach lurches. This is a girl who is not used to being turned down.
She doesn’t say a word, and instead, wraps her hands around the back of my neck and pulls my lips back to hers, kissing me fervently. Did she just hear what I said? Was I somehow unclear? How does she manage to make me so freaking crazy?
She pulls back, her mouth forming a luscious smirk, “I think that’s the sexiest thing I have ever heard.”
Chapter Eight
Quinn
Do you know what the definition of “a sick joke” is? Old Webster calls it, “An amusing or ludicrous incident or situation.”
My definition: me having to work at my dad’s CPA firm as punishment for sneaking out of the house last night. Oh, and for the still unsolved mystery of the missing gas card. Have I mentioned how mentally incompetent I am when it comes to numbers? Sure, it’s just office work, but still. Just being around all of those numbers is like having to sit through an M. Night Shyamalan movie. I don’t understand it, and it’s guaranteed to have a shitty ending. Obviously, the love of math is not an inherited trait. I knew when given the choice between going to therapy and working for Dad, I should have picked therapy.
I’ve already been to counseling once before though. It was this lame group therapy. My parents ordered me there after I took their Macy’s card without permission….Ok, whatever, so I stole it. I bought a shirt I had no intention of ever wearing, and then returned it the next afternoon. I even had the refund credited back to their card. Don’t ask me why I do stupid shit like that because I can’t explain it. Maybe I do need help, but I was a freak in therapy too.
We were all forced to sit in a big circle, drinking old coffee a la AA style. The Goth girls in the group therapy sessions were too busy channeling Winona Ryder circa Beetlejuice to “share”, there was a handful of methamfetafiends, and the highlight was the wannarexics recounting their bingeing and purging of the week. Then there was me. Even the group leader laughed when I told her the reason I was there was for stealing the credit card. The entire group treated me like I wasn’t fucked up enough to hang with them.
I didn’t go back after that, so the parents changed my punishment to taking my car away. That lasted all of two days because in addition to being crazy, my mom is l-a-z-y and she didn’t want to have to get up and take me to school and gym, so she handed me back the keys.
So lucky me, after my first day of school today, I get to go to Pops office to “work”. I’m pissed I have to do it, but if my parents and I hadn’t got into another fight last night about the still absent gas card, I wouldn’t have snuck out to Ben’s house-and then he wouldn’t have said the things he said to me, and looked at me the way he did. And AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! Last night was definitely worth the punishment that it garnered.
“Earth to Quinny,” Tessa says. She waves her hand in front of my face. I’d zoned out sitting at a stop light on our way to school.
I blink and shake my head back and forth to clear my momentary daze before finding the accelerator.
“Sorry, just tired I guess,” I say.
Tessa smiles, “I can’t wait to meet the reason for all these late nights. Is he as hot as Daniel? I bet he is. How is Daniel, by the way?”
I’m covered in goose bumps again at the thought of seeing Ben. I can’t believe what a total spaz I am turning in to.
“Huh? Daniel? Oh, I haven’t talked to him since the beginning of the summer.”
“Really? I heard he was hooking up with Shayna Gillan now.” There was a time when even though Daniel and I were broken up, this would have really bothered me.
“That wouldn’t surprise me. Here, have some breakfast.” I toss a brown paper bag containing home baked goodness onto her lap.
“Ugh, what is that?” she says, peeking inside before shoving it back onto my lap.
“Sopapilla cheesecake bars.”
“Ugh, nast. Do you know how many calories are in one of those?” Her nose crinkles up in disgust.
“Yep, I made them. Just take one little bite.”
“No way, that would kill my diet for the week. I don’t know how you can stand to eat so unhealthy, Quinn.”
“Come on. Just consider it an amuse-biatch.” I laugh at my own joke- (which I think is hilarious) while she just stares at me (equally) repulsed.
“Anyway, back to me. Did you even hear a word I said before?” She doesn’t bother trying to mask the annoyance in her voice that I dare sidetrack her uber important story.
“Something about your shoes?” I guess. There’s a reasonably good chance that I’m right.
“No, but since you brought it up, did you see these gorgeous raffia rose print peep-toes?” She puts one high-heeled shoe onto the dash of my car for me to inspect. “Only two-hundred-fifty dollars! Can you believe it?”
“Lovely,” I say. And if we’re being honest, all Southern gals know that lovely is a synonym for butt-ass ugly. Tessa knows it, and in turn, she scowls at me.
Tessa and I are what the tabloids would call, “frenemies.” We have known each other since the third grade, when our family moved down the street from her. Growing up, she and I were practically Siamese twins. We’d walk to and from school everyday and race to the ice cream truck during the summer. Now, I only see her when we carpool to school. The rest of her time is spent with her new group of friends, led by my least favorite person alive, Shayna Gillan. I’ve un-affectionately dubbed their posse, “The Skirts,” for good reason.
I used to admire Tess for her sweet demeanor-a trait I knew good and well I would never have. She was always content with herself, even though she was extremely over weight. I wanted to be like that, even at the age of ten. But now, Tess is about as authentic as Madonna’s British accent.
She wants you to know every detail about everything she owns and how much it cost her (or her parents). She wasn’t always like this. Then again, maybe I just didn’t notice it until recently. Last year, her mom got remarried. Tessa’s new stepfather is a preacher at one of those mega churches that are bigger than shopping malls. Ever since then, Tess has changed dramatically in every way. Lately, I go back and forth between being totally pissed off at her for her superficial attitude, and worried that I might need to stage an intervention before she runs off to join the Fellowship of the Sun or something.
If I hadn’t known Tessa for ten years, it’s pretty safe to say that we would not be friends now. The old Tessa cared more about people than how white her teeth are (never white enough, mind you). The old Tessa could finish a senten
ce without telling you how much something cost. The old Tessa wore pants, (now, it is literally against her religion). And the biggest difference is that the Tessa of yesteryear, was fat. And she didn’t get to be a size four by eating fiber-filled bars and running 5K’s. Nope, she got there the old fashioned way, little packs of diet pills, of course. That, combined with the fact that she’s permanently trying to keep up with, and compete with The Skirts, has turned her bitchtastically skinny. I don’t even think I’ve seen her eat a real meal in about six months, but she pops those tiny white tablets like they’re Tic Tacs. (Not that I’m judging here, I mean, I may or may not have helped myself to a mild sedative before leaving this morning.) I think that along with losing weight, she lost the filter from her brain to her mouth, and now has a mild case of turrets. As usual, she’s talking a mile a minute, insulting me frequently I’m sure, but I can’t keep up.
It’s a shame her attitude is so stank now, because she always had such a pretty face. Ha.
She is less than thrilled with my lack of enthusiasm over her heaven sent heels.
“You know Quinn,” Tess starts. “Would it really kill you to care a little more about what you look like? I mean, you’re pretty and all, but honestly, would it physically hurt you to put a little thought into your outfits?” She takes in my cotton shorts, navy blue hoodie and flip-flops.
“It just might,” I say. “And frankly, I’m not willing to take that risk.”
She crosses her arms over her cardigan and exhales sharply.
“Oh Tess, come on, I just don’t care about the same crap that you do.”
She starts speed talking again. I do my best to concentrate on my driving and tune her out, but as I pull into the student parking lot, I hear her mumble something else about her shoes.
“Oh, Christ on a cracker,” I say under my breath.
Grounding Quinn Page 3
