Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Hunter rolled through Scribe’s office doors, wearing a white tank-top that made his arms look as beefy and intimidating as Booster Gold’s. “Which one of these geeks do you think is The Night Warrior?” he asked, with a sideways grin.
“Guy in the corner,” I said, beelining to the back of the room where a crowd had gathered around the noticeboard to see the first set of BCA results. Obviously, I hoped to place first through twenty-fifth, but it was possible not all three articles pulled high rank.
“With the bags under his eyes, wearing a rugged red shirt?”
“The one with a permanent sneer on his face.”
Hunter clapped the back of my brown pants. “Give me five minutes with him.”
He wheeled toward Jill, who sat alone staring blankly at Jack’s empty desk.
I rounded the dissipating crowd and slunk through a gap to the board. Hannah bumped her shoulder against mine.
“Thirty-second place for my report on guns on campus.” Her breath came out in excited puffs close to my cheek, and her smile lit her eyes.
I recalled the article. “It was a thorough and thoughtful article. I’d have thought it’d place higher.”
Her smile faltered. “Do you know how many reports are submitted to the BCA?”
“About 3000 on average.”
“That wasn’t what I meant. I meant . . .” she sighed. “Thirtieth is pretty good.”
Thirtieth put her in the ninety-ninth percentile. I laid a clumsy hand on her shoulder. “You’re right. I should have said congratulations. I think you are very talented, Hannah. I just wanted more for you.”
Her lips quirked into a smile. “Better,” she said, backing away. “I hope you’re satisfied too. I’ve got to get to class.” She bit her bottom lip. “See you tonight then?”
“Yes. Let’s meet at the theater. Seven-thirty.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.” With that, she spun on her heel, clutched her messenger bag tighter to her side, and wove toward the exit.
I fingered a line down the list until I hit my name. I let out a relieved breath when I caught the title of the article that won twenty-eighth place. The Ghosts of College Past, Present, and Yet to Come.
If that got me twenty-eighth place, then I had a right to be excited about the final placements. I turned from the board, making my way toward Hunter.
Chief Benedict stood, leaning against his office door, staring toward the BCA list. His gaze panned toward me and he nodded his head in congratulations.
The article he’d submitted on my behalf had done well, which was great. But I still didn’t believe it to be my best work. When the top placements came out, I would prove it to the chief as well.
Hunter’s voice reached my ears. “Dude, calm down. It was just a joke.”
“Well fuck you,” Jill said, gathering his crap from the table and stuffing it awkwardly into his bag with his left hand. “Nobody beat me up. I can handle myself! I can.”
“Aren’t we getting a bit touchy?” Hunter asked, unfazed—almost amused—by Jill’s cutting sneer.
I stopped closer to Jack’s desk and pivoted toward the window, staring at the two from the corner of my eye.
Jill flushed. “Touchy? I’m not—”
“Yep, you are. It’s a good thing Liam isn’t your friend, else I’d have to question his judgment.”
I startled at my name and blinked toward Hunter casually drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair.
“Liam?” Jill spat. “You know him?”
“More than that, I like him.”
Those three words functioned like a warm blanket on a cold day. I approached Hunter’s side, resting a hand on the back of his chair. Jill wasn’t going to confess. “Let’s get lunch,” I said.
We left Jill guffawing, and grabbed some sandwiches to eat at the park. We planted ourselves at the exact spot near the trees where I’d spoken with Mitch. Hunter reluctantly donned a sweater.
“I think the guy needs to be laid over a knee and given a good spanking,” Hunter said, “but I don’t think he’s The Night Warrior.” He motioned toward my face. “Crumb.”
I blinked away the image of Jill ass-up and swiped a hand over my mouth. “Not him? But—”
“Look, he checked me out, okay? You know,” Hunter slowly stroked his gaze over me from head to foot, lingering a moment at my crotch. “He’s gay. My bet, the victim.”
Jill? The victim?
“He was acting defensive back there,” Hunter continued.
“Then he can identify who attacked him!”
“I don’t think he’s going to come forward about it any time soon. He’s angry, embarrassed.”
“Then what should we do?”
Hunter cocked his head and grinned. “Leave it to me—I have a way with stubborn men.”
“Didn’t seem to work with Mitch,” I pointed out.
He hurled his sandwich wrapper at my stomach. “You really say what you think, don’t you?”
“Because it’s true.”
Hunter laughed. “Yeah, but sometimes a little sugarcoating or downright fake forgetfulness goes a long way.”
“You want me to forget this thing with you and Mitch?”
“Yeah. Because there is no me and Mitch.”
“Making your own luck didn’t help then?”
“Sure it did. Mitch wasn’t the only one I was making my luck for. He wasn’t even the main one.”
I scrunched my sandwich wrapper around Hunter’s, attempting to mask the warm feeling flooding me. I tried to thank him, but it struggled to come off my tongue so I nodded instead.
“Right,” Hunter said, rolling forward. “Let’s go somewhere I can take my sweater off.”
I dressed in a suit because it was a date, after all. The cuffs were stiff at my wrists, alternating between annoying and, well, pleasant when they tickled my skin lightly.
Quinn stomped around the kitchen, so I decided against blow-drying my hair in favor of giving him a quick greeting.
He stopped abruptly, the milk from his glass splashing on the floor.
Placing the newly-emptied glass on the bench, he dropped a dishtowel onto the small puddle and swiped his foot over it, side to side.
“Might want to lose the jacket,” he said tightly, his gaze doing the same sweeping that Hunter demonstrated earlier.
“Really?” I asked, veering around him for a slice of bread to pop into the toaster. “Is that why you were checking me out?”
Quinn picked up the dishtowel with a thin laugh and tossed it into the sink. He suddenly appeared right beside me, prying the bread from my fingers. “Why eat if you’re going out on a date?”
“We’re just doing a movie. Then she wants to help out with ideas for my column.”
“Your column? That’s your idea of a date?”
“Well, yeah. We’re going to Jell-O Fight Night just off Fifth. So right now”—I snatched back the bread and popped it in the toaster—“I’m hungry.”
Zing!
The toaster spluttered and sparked and I jerked my arm back.
Quinn swore and pulled the plug from the socket. He twisted me toward him with a tight, panicked grip on my forearms, checking me over carefully. “Are you okay?”
I swallowed. Blinked. “Have I ever told you you’re better than a cat?”
Quinn’s lips contorted into a grin that he proceeded to smother and turn into a frown. His hands moved to my jacket and pinched at the V just above the first button. “Jell-O Fight Night? I thought you wanted some muscle at your side when you went to party?”
“Somehow Jell-O Fight Night doesn’t sound all that intimidating. If you were a mop and a bucket, I might have taken you along.”
“In case you change your mind, I’ll be a phone-call away.” His fingers slid to the buttons, undoing them one at a time.
I let him. I liked watching the slight shake of his hands as he drew his fingers over the material, knuckles scraping gently over the shirt underneath. I shivered at the loss of the touch when he pulled back. “Wear it undone.”
“Thanks for the tip. When are you meeting the cheese tonight?”
He looked at me blankly for a moment, then twisted toward the fridge and opened it. “Yeah, Cheddar. He . . . uh—I mean, we—are meeting soon. What movie did you say you’re going to?”
“It’s that student documentary, Played With. Lost. At the campus theater.”
“That’s a coincidence,” Quinn said, pulling out some lettuce and tomato and moving to the chopping board. “We were planning on seeing that too.”
I tilted my head slowly. “This isn’t you getting jealous, is it?”
He laughed so loudly I had to rub my ears a little. “Nah, just a coincidence. And . . . since neither of us have any pathetic crushes on one another, you won’t mind if we’re there too, right?”
I rested against the bench and passed him the bread when he gestured for it. “Right. I just didn’t pick you for the documentary type,” I said. “You or the cheese. But since you are, would you mind giving me a lift?”
Quinn prepared sandwiches, cutting them neatly down the middle. “You know who might mind? Cheddar. Let me just give him a call and see how he feels about it.” He passed me the plate of prepared sandwiches and darted off to his room.
I stared down at the plate, a solid weight in my hand, just as Quinn was a solid weight in the apartment. I could get used to this. With a smile, I moved to the table and ate.
I sat close to the front of the small, almost empty theater with Hannah, who was a bouquet of smiles and laughter next to me. Behind us somewhere were Quinn and Cheddar, but I gave them their privacy by not looking back.
About halfway through the documentary, I slipped my hand over the arm separating our chairs, and nudged Hannah’s pinkie. I whispered, “Maybe we should—”
Hannah pressed her hand against mine, threading our fingers together. Clammy and stiff, but warm too. Reassuring, somehow.
Well, yes, the kiss with Quinn had been better. Comforting and spiced with little electric thrills. But holding hands was hardly a fair comparison. I’d never done that with Quinn. Maybe kissing Hannah would be just as good.
Colored light from the screen flickered over Hannah’s face, softening the sharp profile of her nose and highlighting her full lips, stretched into a nervous smile. She peeked at me from the corner of her eye. “What?” she mouthed.
Again, I whispered in her ear, “May I kiss you a second?”