2. Quinn
CHAPTER 2
QUINN
“ N ope?” I mutter under my breath, brows furrowed in confusion. His blunt words— word— hasn’t quite settled yet, but it forms a coherent thought right as the doors to the elevator begin to grind shut on creaky limbs. My body floods with so much annoyance that my chest aches with it, and I’m shoving myself away from the front door, lunging across the lobby towards the elevator in response.
My eyes catch his when they lift from his phone and my steps falter. They’re gorgeous, the color of jade or ferns. My breath hitches in my throat. It’s definitely because I’m worked up from the run to catch the doors and certainly not because of how pretty his eyes are.
The urge to start dumping out boxes on the living room floor to find my art supplies is both sudden and strong. Recreating those hues is going to be a challenge, but one that will be well worth it.
There is no way I’m going to catch the doors in time, and goddammit I probably look like a fool right now, with my flushed cheeks and blonde hair wild from the move, my forehead dewy with sweat. I’m blazing with intrigue and irritation, embarrassment and exhaustion. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a taunting smirk, as if he too, knows that I won’t be able to slip inside of the elevator with him before the doors shut. The machinery is slow as fuck when I need it but now it chooses to work properly? What’s that all about?
“Fucking asshole,” I screech, slapping my palms against the metal doors that separate him from me. I hope that he hears it, feels the ringing of my anger through the reverberating steel beneath my hands. I hope he understands just how lucky he is that I’m not on that side of the doors, making his life a living hell right now.
Releasing a long groan, one that comes from the depths of my tired soul, I press my forehead against the cool metal, squeezing my eyes shut.
The truck doesn’t have to be returned until tomorrow morning, but the spot we parked it in is a loading zone, and the last thing we need on our first day back in town is a parking ticket on a rented truck. Or worse, the truck getting towed. We don’t even have enough money to pay the bail, and the last thing I’m trying to do is call my dad and ask for money on my second day back.
I trudge up the stairs because I can’t be assed to wait for the stupid elevator to return to the first floor. While I take the treacherous trip, I stew in my anger. The effort it takes to climb to the fourth floor helps dispel some of the white, hot annoyance toward the handsome stranger, and I’m beginning to think that maybe I should have expected that kind of behavior from someone as good-looking as him.
I shake the thought from my head as quickly as possible and begin to take the stairs two at a time.
I filled Rory in on the lobby incident as soon as she finished her shower, which took a whole forty minutes after I returned from the stairs of doom. In that time, I’d called my mom, updated her on the moving progress and might have complained a tiny bit about the boy who wouldn’t move his motorcycle. I left out the fact that he was one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen, and tucked the phone between my chin and shoulder as I began digging through one of the many boxes labeled Art Supplies, searching for my case of colored pencils. She told me not to make any vendettas before the semester even started, to which I rolled my eyes and used the perfect excuse: “he started it.” It’s my go-to response for most arguments in my life, especially when I’m fighting with my older brother. It normally works like a charm then, but not tonight. Apparently, it’s my fault Rory parked there and that Mr. Tattoos blocked us in, which only fueled my irritation on the entire situation.
I told Rory to keep checking out the window every so often to see if either of the people blocking us in move their cars before I stalked for the shower.
Two hours later, once pizza fills my stomach and I’m swaddled in my comfortable pajamas, neither of the owners of those vehicles have left.
“Give it up,” Rory groans, tossing her half-eaten crust back into the pizza box. It’s stacked on top of a moving box labeled Living Room: Puzzles & Pillows. I don’t understand Rory’s packing techniques—if the two are placed in the same box because it makes sense in a way that I can’t comprehend or if it’s because they both start with the letter ‘P.’ I’m too tired to care about it right now, or ever .
Groaning, I slump back onto the couch in defeat. The truck remains ticket-less thus far, but the constant nagging of my conscience is keeping me from getting into the reality TV show Rory and I are obsessing over. It’s about a bunch of young couples shoved into a house to find love. It’s cringey as fuck, but the drama makes for some good entertainment.
My betraying mind wanders into no-no territory again as I wonder just how good Mr. Tattoo would look lounging around in the sun like the people on the show. Is he covered from head-to-toe in ink or are there only a few tattoos scattered across his pale skin?
Quinn, what the fuck are you thinking?
“I’m still pissed off about it,” I grumble, picking at the cheese crusted to my plate to distract myself from the thoughts of the man from downstairs. It’s gone hard and cold, but I nibble at it anyway. I should have ordered popcorn to be delivered or something. A bottle of tequila, perhaps.
“I noticed,” she answers drily. “But you being pissed off isn’t going to make the motorcycle magically move.” She readjusts herself on the small futon, elbowing me in the process. Rory suddenly sits upright, an idea lighting those piercing eyes of hers. “Oh! Maybe if you stop being pissed about it, they’ll magically move. Let’s try that!”
I roll my eyes, parting my lips to speak, when loud, brash music cuts me off. Rory and I exchange twin looks of confusion, turning to where the sound is coming from.
It blares through the walls. Specifically, the wall that my bedroom shares with the apartment next door.
I whine, shoving my face into my hands.
As if the day couldn’t get any fucking worse.
“What the hell is that?” Rory asks, pushing to her feet.
“It sounds like a bunch of metal pans clanging together with a surprisingly nice beat,” I answer sarcastically. It’s not my preferred type of music, but I can admit that the voice harmonizing with the other banshee is quite lovely.
Rory shoots me a look, pressing her ear against the wall. I don’t know what she’s trying to do because I can understand each and every word being screamed from my spot in the middle of the apartment. I’m too tired to ask, though, as my attention is more focused on the damn truck sitting outside of the building.
“Should we go over and ask them to turn it down?” Rory questions, making her way back to my side so that I can actually hear her. I sigh. I am so tired of today. “That’s going to get annoying, fast.”
“We can always try not being pissed off about it,” I answer, using her own words against her. Rory’s lips tighten sourly and she shoots me a glare. Instead, I grin, continuing. “Maybe they’ll magically turn it down!”
“Shut up, loser,” Rory says, her harsh look ebbing a little. “I get it.”
Of course, it’s fucking him.
The bastard from downstairs. Only the person who made my already rough day even shittier would be the person I’m forced to live next door to for an entire year. His onyx hair is wet, unruly like he’s only just run a towel through it, sticking up in all directions. It should make him look stupid, but instead he looks incredible. It’s the perfect length, a few strands nearly poking him in those bright eyes that are narrowed on mine.
He's dressed in a fresh, tight, black t-shirt that leaves very little to the imagination, stretched tight across his chest. The fabric cinches around his taut waist and it makes my mouth run dry. I can only imagine the muscles pointing to what lies beneath his low-slung jeans.
“Can I help you?” He asks, glaring from his spot in the doorway. His voice is a deep, delicious rasp that crawls up my spine. I trade a stunned look with Rory.
Her lips are slightly parted, eyes wide and sparkling as if she’s just seen her favorite sculpture come to life. I get it, and felt the same way when I first saw him, but then he went and opened his mouth to ruin the dreamy thoughts I was having about him.
He still looks great, unfortunately.
“Can you turn the music down? We’re trying to sleep.” I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin, showing him that I mean business, even if he’s looking down at me from his over six-foot height.
His beauty doesn’t intimidate me.
Not at all.
That blank, jade stare flickers between Rory and I. He takes his sweet time surveying the both of us, eyeing my loose pajama pants, oversized Vulcan University hoody, and the way that my wet and tangled hair clings to my neck. My toes curl in my slippers under his scrutinizing gaze but I don’t allow myself to back down, steeling my spine.
I can’t help the way that my teeth grind when he assesses Rory in a similar fashion, a white-hot emotion flushing my veins like a tsunami.
“It’s nine-thirty,” he responds bluntly, as if we don’t know what time it is. The waves stir in the pit of my stomach like a whirlpool.
“We know that,” Rory tries, and she must catch the glare I’m stabbing him with because she keeps her tone light. Polite. Or maybe she sees how tightly I’m clenching my jaw at his words. She must have picked up on the fact that this is the asshole I was referring to when I told her all about the lobby incident.
I definitely downplayed his looks when retelling.
“We would appreciate if you would turn it down,” I finish for her because he doesn’t look like he’s understanding what she’s saying. Maybe he just doesn’t care. I can’t tell because I can’t seem to get a read on him and the stoic way that he holds himself. I find myself eager to pull any reaction from him, and an idea sparks in my mind as I continue. “We’ve had a long day. People here park like shit and we couldn’t get our moving truck out of the loading zone, you know?” I ask, faux innocently, and can tell that he doesn’t know where I’m headed with this. His eyes bore into mine, unblinking, and I force back the smirk tugging at my lips. “We had to call the towing company to get them to move that silly motorcycle. Isn’t that right, Ro?”
Right there. There it is, at the mention of that motorcycle that wouldn’t have stood a chance against the big moving truck should I have put it in drive and hit the gas a little too hard on accident. I almost wish that I did, to be honest.
Jade eyes turn from a lush forest to a menacing storm, ripping needles from branches and limbs from trees. It causes my stomach to flip, a shiver working its way down my spine. The light in the hall seems to fracture with his mood change alone and I want to shift my weight with the sudden unease that accompanies it but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Maybe I shouldn’t be fucking with him.
Before I have the chance to tell him that I’m only joking, he slips back inside of his apartment and slams the door in our faces.
For the second time today, I have the urge to pound my fists against the door and curse his name, even if I don’t know it.
I don’t have to, though, because Rory’s doing it for me, rapping her knuckles against the thick wooden door with a frown on her face, her eyebrows slanted downwards in annoyance.
It isn’t the same asshole that answers the door this time. No, it’s another astonishingly good-looking boy with an aura to him that makes my knees a little weak. Rory flinches away from the door at his sudden appearance, her cerulean eyes shuttering at the sight. His shaggy blond hair swoops perfectly back from his face. It’s a little shorter than his friend’s, but it suits his sharp features perfectly. His cheekbones alone could cut glass.
Again, I feel the need to reach for my pencils, because the color of his eyes is so deep that it feels like I’m looking into the bottom of the ocean. They’re like the opposite of Rory’s ice blues that stand out starkly against her dark chestnut hair. I haven’t seen anything quite like the color of his, though, and I’m amazed as I stare up into them.
What the hell are they putting in the water here?
Rory’s breath hitches as he peeks through the tightly shut door, using the crack he’s opened to peer out at us like we’re some sort of wild animals come to break it down. His body blocks my view when I try to look around his massive form, searching for his friend. I’d shove right through him if I had any muscle left from lugging my life in boxes up the stairs all day.
“Sorry, ladies,” his voice is like silk, and his gaze lights with mischief while he takes a languid look at Rory, drinking her in like she’s a fine wine. He barely flicks his gaze in my direction and I tell myself not to take it to heart. There are more assholes out there than this one. His smooth voice drips like honey as he purrs, “We’re getting ready for an event tonight, but we’ll try our best to keep it down.”
Liar, I want to bark at him. I know it not because of the mirth in his tone or the sparkle in his eyes but because of the soft scoff behind the door when there’s a pause while the songs change from one screeching metal instrument to the next. My fingers curl into fists and I shove them quickly behind my back.
The blond doesn’t leave room for a reply, shutting the door on us with a click.
My jaw is clenched so hard that it aches. I take reign of the situation once again, since Rory seems paralyzed by the last boy’s looks, pounding so hard on the door that my bones rattle with it. I’m tired of this already. Of this building. Of the motorcycle. Of the fucking elevator. I’m exhausted and irritated and they deserve our wrath now.
Sorry mom, but fuck being civil.
Following a few incessant bangs, the door opens again, and this time my jaw goes completely slack.
A behemoth of a boy stands before us. He’s broader than the last two, taller too. And shirtless. His shoulders take up the width of the doorframe he’s leaning against, like none of this is bothering him in the slightest. His pectorals flex when he crosses his arms over his chest, and it makes my mind short-circuit as he stares us down. If he isn’t on the wrestling team or a football star, I’ll be thoroughly surprised. His tan skin on display is mine for the taking and I greedily drink him in like the dehydrated woman I’ve suddenly become.
Tattoos span across his shoulders, wrapping down his arms and covering one of his pectorals in tribunal pattern that is so intricate I find myself leaning closer for a better look. The muscles of his stomach ripple with silent laughter when I catch myself, rocking away so fast I nearly fall on my ass. My cheeks go red-hot and I rip my gaze away from the sweatpants hung low around his waist—so low that I can’t even see the elastic of his underwear.
I swallow dryly. I don’t think he’s wearing any.
Rory is silent beside me, and him in front of me. We’re all staring at each other, the sound of the loud music seems to drown away as my eyes linger. When I raise them to meet his molten chocolate eyes, I catch him biting his tongue, trying to smother a smile. His russet hair hangs loose around his shoulders and is the perfect length for pulling.
Not that I’m thinking about that, of all things.
“Well, hello there,” he greets, his tone a rumble of warmth. His mouth hikes up into a grin that feels welcoming, and my shoulders relax a little at the sight. He seems the most easy-going of the three, and hopefully he’ll be the one to listen to our complaints. “You must be our new neighbors.”
Rory nods, a dumbfounded look on her face. I’m sure it matches the one on my own right now, unable to form a single word. “That’s right.”
“Aren’t you two the prettiest things I’ve ever seen,” he compliments, and I wonder why it hadn’t been him in the lobby when I needed help. Or when we were moving our things upstairs. He’s a mountain of a man, and surely, he wouldn’t have minded putting all of those muscles to good use.
It’s like we’re all stuck in our own little bubble out here in the hall, taking our fill of each other. The friendliness of his voice is settling, smooth, and I know it’s something that women can’t resist.
“Right,” I blurt, cheeks flaring as his attention settles on me once more. The tilt to his mouth is as distracting as his naked chest, but the song inside skips to a new one, startling me back into focus. “About that music… ”
“Oh that?” The boy rolls his eyes, waving his hand like it’s no big deal. “That’s nothing. Just wait until later when it really starts picking up. That’s when—hey, wait,” he cuts off his own eager rant, craning his head around the door to speak to his roommates. “Why aren’t we letting them in, again?”
Laughter spills into the hall from the other side and I can barely make out the second boy’s response over the music. “They were mean to Knox.”
The boy in the door returns his gaze to us, disappointment scrawled across his handsome features. “Ah, sorry, ladies. No one’s mean to Knox.” He says it softly, like it hurts him to say it. “Have a nice night.”
The snick of the door shutting is the final nail in the coffin.
The click of the lock is them burying it.