Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Oakley
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling my attention from the textbooks scattered across my bed as I attempt to study for this damn economics test I have later this week. Which is insane, considering we’ve only been back in classes for two weeks.
That’s college for you. Cramming as much crap in our brains as humanly possible before tossing us out into the world to be functioning members of society.
Like Hayes so aptly pointed out earlier this week, Quinton’s already taken this class a couple years ago as one of his undergraduate requirements.
Which is lucky for me. Not because he still has the notebooks or anything useful for me.
It’s Quinn we’re talking about. But he knows the material and can still help me should I need it, which is more than enough.
And speak of the devil, that’s exactly who texted me.
Quinton: What are you doing?
Me: Studying econ. Wanna come help?
Quinton: Can it take a rain check until tomorrow?
I smirk at my phone screen. Ever since the night we broke the rules for the first time, we haven’t cared to go back to obeying them. Now, barely twenty-four hours can go by without Quinn or I touching each other.
Me: Is this a booty call, de Haas? Are you wanting me to put your sexual needs before my education?
Quinton: It’s not a booty call, though it’s comical to hear from the one who begged to come over last night so I could come all over YOU.
My dick twitches at the thoughts of Quinn and I last night.
It was like a repeat of our first official hook-up, only he was the one in charge this time.
It was different from what I’m used to, having someone else above me like that.
Pressing me down into the mattress and stroking us both to heaven while I sank my finger inside his ass.
But as strange as it was, I loved it. I loved every dirty, sweaty second of it.
And from the way he kissed me afterward—all teeth and tongue and need—I’d say he was definitely a fan too.
Me: That was so hot. Remind me some more and I won’t be able to leave without my dick saluting everyone I pass on the way out the door.
Quinton: Is that a yes then? Is it really that easy? You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to, Mr. Stick To The Plan.
Coming from the guy who’s made it his life’s mission to get me to loosen up and have a little fun.
Me: Do I have to know every detail? Unless you’re planning to kill me, chop me into tiny pieces, and toss my parts into Lake Michigan, I think I’m good.
Quinton: ...the fuck? How the hell did you jump from booty call to dismemberment?
Quinton: No, never mind. I don’t think I wanna know.
My grin is instant. Throwing him off-balance, even in the smallest ways, always makes me smile or laugh. Probably because it’s not an easy task, as I’ve learned over the past months.
Me: Let me know when and where to meet you for the non-booty call that may or may not be my plotted murder.
Quinton: You’re ridiculous. I’ll pick you up out front in ten. Bring a change of clothes.
Me: Thought you said this wasn’t a booty call?
Quinton: Just pack your shit, Oak. Before I turn you into fish food.
I do as he asks, and true to his word, Quinton pulls up outside our house in his flashy BMW ten minutes later. He’s halfway to the door when I slip out, not wanting him to knock and risk one of my roommates answering. Especially Brax or Cam.
Or Holden.
Quinn looks edible in a dark brown, worn leather jacket, a charcoal thermal shirt, and dark wash jeans.
A knit beanie sits on his head, and I try not to smile when I notice he’s wearing his glasses again today.
Something he’s been doing a lot more lately, and part of me wonders if it’s because I’ve mentioned liking them once or twice.
“Hey,” he says, grabbing my bag from me and tossing it in the trunk beside his own. “Thanks for agreeing to come.”
He seems excited. Giddy, almost bursting with energy as he moves back to the driver’s side door and climbs inside.
“You’re in a good mood,” I say slowly, sliding my body into the luxury car beside him. “Any particular reason why?”
Both of his brows quirk up, writing his amusement all over his face. “I can’t just be happy?”
“Absolutely not,” I deadpan. “I prefer it when you’re miserable.”
Picking up on my sarcasm, a slow smile breaks out across his face, and he lets out a low, rich chuckle. It washes over me like whiskey and warm honey, and I feel it to my toes. “Touché, baby. I know the feeling.”
We drive in silence for a while, the only sound coming from the roar of the engine and the low, seductive thrum of Bad Omens’s “THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND” from the speakers.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask about fifteen minutes later, just as Quinn pulls out onto the interstate that loops around Chicago’s eastern side. It runs right along the shores of Lake Michigan, the setting sun casting a glow over the relatively calm body of water.
He glances over to me for a second, tongue in cheek, before returning his attention to weaving the BMW through the traffic on the highway. “You gonna be mad if I tell you it’s a surprise?”
No, but it might make me slightly more irritated. Which I’m sure he knows, no doubt.
“Why do I have a feeling you really are about to turn me into fish food?”
A grin breaks out over his face. “You tell me. You’re the one who put the idea in my head to begin with.”
Laughing, I shake my head and stare out across the water. Soon enough, Chicago’s infamous Navy Pier comes into view. One of the main attractions for tourists visiting the city.
“Have you been here?” Quinn asks, and when I shift my focus to him, he nods toward the pier.
My brows furrow, and—
“I don’t think so,” I tell him, astonished by the fact. “At least, not that I can remember, anyway. I’d have to ask my parents to be sure.”
I put a pin in the thought, because with it so close to Millennium Park, I’ve been here a few times.
At least when my brother and I were younger.
I’m still lost in thought as Quinton veers off the highway and onto the exit for the pier, stopping a few minutes later when he pulls into a parking garage.
“Were you planning to come here all along? We don’t need an overnight bag to walk around the pier.”
“The world may never know.”
“You’re the most infuriatingly ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”
His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “So you’ve told me once or twice.”
After killing the engine, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the garage exit leading to the main level of the pier.
Though, dragging might be the more appropriate term, because, once again, I can feel the excitement radiating off him in palpable waves.
It seeps into my skin where our palms touch, and soon enough, I’m feeling the same level of anticipation he is.
Right until he starts crossing the plaza to the ticket booth for the Centennial Wheel.
I stop in my tracks, damn near yanking his arm from the socket. He turns and gives me a what the fuck look as I glance up at the wheel. When my eyes drift back down to him, I swallow my pride and admit something very few people know.
“I’m afraid of heights.”
The way his eyebrows almost jump into his hairline would be laughable…if I wasn’t being dead serious.
“You’re afraid of heights,” he repeats, to which I nod.
“Deathly afraid might be an exaggeration, but it’s close enough.”
I expect him to say we can forget about it and do something else.
Maybe go ice skating again, grab dinner, whatever.
But instead, a devious, shit-eating grin crosses his face and he drags me straight to the ticket counter, the line empty because it’s the middle of winter.
In the Windy City. On a giant pier. Sticking out into a large body of water.
Panic sets in, a thin coat of sweat already gathering on my forehead beneath my hat. “You heard the part where I said I’m afraid of heights, right?”
“Sure did,” he says, ordering us two tickets.
“Don’t worry, honey,” the middle-aged woman at the ticket counter says. “There’s those little puke bags in there if you start feeling woozy.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I mutter, which only makes her laugh.
“You two enjoy your evening.”
Quinn thanks her, pocketing his wallet and grabbing the tickets before taking my hand too.
“You’ll be fine, Oak,” he says, pulling me over to where the passengers get loaded. “I promise. And I’ll hold your hand the entire time.”
“It’s really not as bad as you think. Nothing like those ones they have at the fair,” a little girl in front of us says, clearly having never heard of the whole stranger danger concept.
Then again, I’m willing to bet the woman whose hand she’s holding is her mother, so how dangerous could it really be?
She’s right, though, it doesn’t look nearly as scary as those sketchy ones that travel around for fairs and carnivals and shit. But it’s also like eighty-five times the size.
“What she said,” Quinn says, motioning to the little girl and chaperone currently loading into their gondola.
“I don’t think that’s enough to stop me from having a panic attack while hundreds of feet in the air on a spinning wheel of death,” I say to Quinn, all the while keeping my eyes locked on the door sliding closed on the gondola.
Oh God.
My heart races, more sweat causing my hands to get all clammy as our own gondola circles around. It stops at the loading platform for us, and after the people inside it disembark—all in one piece, I note—Quinn hands over our tickets.
The attendant motions for us to board, and Quinn’s eyes lock with mine.
“Trust me,” he murmurs and holds out his hand.
I’m surprised to find…I do trust him. So I grab hold of his hand and let him drag me into the tiny box on the spinning wheel of death.
That’s when I’m also surprised to find how big it is. With little leather benches running down two sides and a capacity to fit at least half a dozen people. Not what I was expecting.