Chapter 11
Quinn
I sat at my first bar. The swanky little place, with a few spotlights in corners and stiff leather booths around the outside, was way out of my comfort zone. But I’d made it to twenty-one, and it was a rite of passage to get a drink.
A Lemon Drop, complete with a sugared rim, now sat in front of me.
“Don’t drink that,” my dad said.
I took a deep breath. “Then why did you buy it for me, Dad?”
My dad frowned, looked at the drink, and then back at me. “Sorry, drink it.”
I understood why he told me not to drink it. I hadn’t had a blackout in six months. It was a record, given that one of the major side effects of my medication was sleeping. And you can’t really be crazy when you are asleep.
I stared at my drink, my rite of passage drink. I never got a fake ID. I never went to parties. This would be my first sip of liquor ever. It would be my first attempt at ingesting something, which encouraged me to lose control instead of fighting to keep it.
My excitement banked. “I don’t know if I should.”
My dad and I looked at each other. We were a pair at this point. My dad had lived with my crazy for twenty-one years. We stopped blaming each other and volleyed our individual neuroses back and forth like a tennis ball until I inevitably lost the point. And it was me every time.
Yellow tennis ball, yellow drink. Was it a coincidence, or did Miss Q know something I didn’t?
It took me ten more minutes, but I picked up the drink and celebrated twenty-one.
Pounding on my door woke me the following morning.
My head throbbed. The taste of stale cider coated my dry throat.
The stuffy air in my room, made worse by the fact I couldn’t figure out how to open the windows, didn’t help.
I moaned, reaching for my TB next to my pillow, only to paw at my sheets with no TB on them.
The knocking on my door started again, faster, and I sat bolt upright. “Shit!” My TB was behind the counter of the Happy Rooster, holding a tab open.
I adjusted my layers of sweaters and stumbled toward the knocking. The last stair tripped me, and I slammed into the door with a thud.
“Quinn!” Brody’s worried voice came through the wall.
I moaned and considered going back to bed.
Brody pounded on the door again. “Quinn, I can hear you. Are you alright? Open this now, or I’m going to find a way in.”
I gritted my teeth and pulled the handle. Brody’s tense body quivered, crowding the doorframe.
I kept the door between us. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s past seven,” he said, edging closer. “Your work-study starts at eight. You weren’t answering your TB.” He frowned disapprovingly. “Were you sitting with the Lawson last night?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you watching me?”
Brody scowled. “You’re alone. You need a keeper.”
Fear crawled down my back. I started to shut the door, and Brody slid his foot forward, stopping it.
“I don’t like your new friends, you shouldn’t have been drinking last night.
” He gripped the edge of the door, and anger filled his gaze.
“You should have been out with me. Not with them. They’re not the right friends for you. ”
My heart skipped a beat. Friends. Winston and Ezra’s similar words came back to me. My stomach twisted.
“Let go of my door,” I said coolly.
Brody dropped his hand but didn’t move his foot. “I want the same chance you’re giving Hero and the Lawson.”
“I’ve been here for four days.” I glanced down at his foot, renewing my grip on the door. “I’m not giving Hero or Cayden a chance for anything. I’m still figuring myself out. Please, Brody. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not. I’m helping you.” Brody put his hand on my door again. “Let me help you.”
I slammed my weight against the door to close it. Brody jerked back as if realizing what he was doing, his eyes going wide.
“No, sorry. You're right.” Brody put his hands up, though his foot still didn’t move. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. I only came here to make sure you were okay. That’s all.” He slid his foot back.
“If you really want to be my friend, you’ll give me space,” I said, before slamming the door so hard it jarred my arms. The lock clicked into place.
A wave of nausea made my skin prickle with sweat as my hangover reminded me of its existence. I slid down with my back to the door, listening for Brody’s retreating footsteps. Time ticked by. My sweat cooled. My butt started to ache on the cold stone.
“What are you doing in my hallway?” a voice called.
“I’m waiting on a friend,” Brody answered.
I closed my eyes and brought my fists to my forehead. He was waiting for me.
“Get the fuck out. This isn’t your dorm,” the voice continued.
“I’m not hurting anyone waiting,” Brody insisted. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Footsteps approached my door. “If your friend wanted you here, you’d be in the room. Fuck off.”
Brody let out a pitiful meeping sound, and a set of footprints booked it down the hall. A heavier set walked past my door, grumbling. I waited for either to come back, but they didn’t.
I sagged. This wasn’t real. All of this was another delusion. Miss Q messing with me. I bonked my head against my door, utterly aware that last night, I’d partied with my new friends, believing the exact opposite.
This couldn’t be real when I was happy, and a delusion when I was sad. Except that’s exactly how I’d started viewing it. I pressed on my throbbing head before pushing away my existential crisis. I was getting good at that; hopefully, it wouldn’t bite me in the ass later.
The Architect’s castle was still better than nothing, which is exactly what I’d go back to if I missed my work-study.
As fast as I could move in my current state, I spread out my dirty trainee uniform on the couches alongside my now dry but sweat-stained gym outfits. Airing them out was the best I could do at the moment. A laundromat hadn’t shown up on Brody’s tour or during orientation.
Still cursing my lack of fundamental knowledge, I stumbled into The Happy Rooster, dressed in a clean, red-checked button-down and heavy overalls, which made up my work-study uniform.
A few folks were eating breakfast. A man with glowing puce eyes gave me a huge grin and sang a verse of ‘Sweet Caroline.’ Three men turned their heads in confusion while the table next to them joined in. “So good, so good, so good.”
I smiled, having thoroughly enjoyed teaching everyone the Neil Diamond song last night. After I’d bought a round, Cayden and Everly had also escalated the evening in a way I’d only ever seen in movies. My heart pounded. I loved it. We’d talked and danced until everything became a blur of pure joy.
Riding my high, I walked up to the bar and caught the bartender’s attention. His burnt-caramel hair framed his terrifyingly average face.
“Good morning.” Some of my high eased. “Ah, you have my TB behind the bar.” I batted my eyes, having no idea how to pay my tab.
“Name?” the man asked.
“Quinn Question,” I answered.
He turned from me and opened a box at the back of the counter. Returning with a long scrawl and what I assumed was my TB in his hands. He put down the scrawl and looked me up and down with a frown. “Is that a work-study uniform?”
“I start today.” I ran my finger down the long list of drinks.
The words glowed a soft purple, so not the bartender's scrawl. Although I understood the left column, filled with things like ‘ale x24’ and ‘pear cider x7,’ the right string of numbers didn’t trigger any memory. Nor could I find a currency symbol.
“So, Chateauneuf-du-Pape is, um, a third of the bill?” I asked, looking for clues.
The bartender nodded. “Cayden’s tastes, most likely. He’s been trying different wines each night, most of them imported.” He leaned forward. “I hear they only drink wine they make in his family. He’s been enjoying his firsts.”
“Right,” I said, biting my lips together.
I couldn’t comment on Cayden’s family. The rune mage was slippery and way too smart for his own good. He changed the subject, dazzling me with magic a few times, so I’d stop asking about his life. However, Everly had been more forthcoming.
A family was exactly what I’d already gathered, people related by blood or marriage.
Except marriage didn’t exist anymore. Most women had multiple partners, and it was all handled by a contract system.
It took me several tries to wrap my head around how normal it was for women to have children for another family to raise.
Usually, families stuck together, but not everyone was happy in a big family, and not every family was big enough to survive.
Some people didn’t have families at all.
And that’s where the Architect came into play, welcoming anyone and everyone regardless of their past. His family of completely unrelated people was not only unique, but a relatively new concept.
“Can you actually pay for that?” The bartender’s question.
“Well, ah.” I rubbed my lips together. “I don’t have any money.”
The bartender laughed. “Nice try, leather coat.” He picked up my TB. “I got called in last night. I saw everything.” He gripped my TB. “No money, no TB. You got a problem, my boss Horax is in this afternoon. You can take it up with him.”
I sighed. “Can I at least see my schedule for today?”
The burnt caramel of the bartender’s eyes glimmered with triumph I didn’t understand.
He grinned. “Talk to Horax this afternoon. I’m sure he’ll cut you a deal.
” He studied my TB. “You’re twenty minutes late for your work-study in the library.
And you have imagination placement at noon. Better scurry.”
I clenched my fists before releasing them and sprinted out of the Rooster.