4. Quinn
CHAPTER 4
QUINN
A deep rattling of the walls shakes me from my sleep. It vibrates through my chest, the ardent bass and pounding drums reverberates my bones. The timber of the singer’s voice swims in my head, throaty and low, and I’m unable to pluck the words from the lyrics and make sense of them this early in the morning.
I blink once, twice. My eyelids feel like sandpaper and my head is stuffed with tiredness; a sharp pain settled in my skull despite the darkness of my room.
Night still licks the walls and I groan, rolling over. I shove my pillow over my head but it does little to block the disruption coming from the other side of the wall. I have no idea what time it is. If it’s still the same night where I’d run into the asshole next door on my way back inside from moving the truck, I’ll be absolutely livid.
After I noticed the motorcycle was gone, I was hoping that things were starting to finally look up for the rest of my first night at my apartment. Knox—as the third boy at the door supplied—had left while his roommates’ party seemed to be winding down, if the three giggling drunk girls on the elevator ride down to the lobby was any sign. They’d been gushing about one of the roommates, Slate. One of the girl’s brunette hair was disheveled in her ponytail, as if someone had tried to run their fingers through it, or had wrapped said hairstyle around their fist.
Gag.
“He kept calling me baby,” she raved, her voice filled with awe. Both of her friends started squealing in excitement. I could hardly contain the desperate urge to roll my eyes at their annoyance, how they openly talked about the lines of muscle cording his body and the length of his cock with a complete stranger inside of this tiny metal box with them. It’s not as if they were whispering. I cut a glance at the girl swooning over one of my rude neighbor’s appendages.
Her bright green eyes were clouded with drink and I couldn’t help comparing them to Knox’s jade ones. I was still itching to draw them, but was much too annoyed and exhausted to do so. Her face was flushed, the top button of her shirt undone. She looked like everything beautifully fucked.
My mouth flattened into a line, wondering which of the remaining two roommates had been the one to claim her tonight.
Eventually, the doors to the elevator had screeched open, but even the shrill noise didn’t deter their gossiping. They stumbled out of the elevator with a cheerfulness only alcohol and dick could conjure, laughing their way up the quieting streets.
It was a miracle that I didn’t have a parking ticket clinging to the window of the rental truck. I had moved it both easily and quickly, something I would’ve been able to do if that asshole Knox had given me the damn space when I asked him to relocate his motorcycle in the first place.
And, of course, as I cursed his name for the umpteenth time of the night, he appeared.
Cloaked in a worn leather jacket that clung to his broad shoulders, and what I’m assuming is his usual garb: black pants, combat boots, and t-shirt. There was a tight line to his mouth, his deep eyes reflecting the nighttime sky, caressed by equally dark, thick lashes. He looked as tired as I felt with slight purple rings around his eyes. Knox’s helmet, that, when he shucked off, pulled his hair up in the most perfectly disheveled ways, even more so when he ran his gloved fingers through it with that damned smirk on his face, directed at me.
He hadn’t allowed my gaze to linger on his handsomeness. A streak of mischief glimmered in his eyes like a shooting star, taunting me. When Knox spoke, his tone was deep and dulcet, unexpected for the jeer that was about to fall from his perfectly pink lips. It took longer than I would admit for my tired mind to grasp onto the words coming from his moving mouth. His asshole-ish smile only widened when I scoffed and took his bait.
Oh, how he had gotten on my nerves.
Again.
And now this: music flowing so easily through the wall at who knows what hour.
I’m so exhausted, I could cry. My body is sore with the efforts of moving, my mind a muddled mess. Tears prick the back of my eyes, my sinuses tightening as I grit my teeth, trying to swallow the feeling back. If my pillowcase wets with a single tear, I will never admit it.
How has the day from hell somehow managed to turn into the night from hell too? Or is it morning again already? What the fuck have I done to deserve this ?
Even more so, how do his roommates deal with this? Are they all awake and circle-jerking to the music, long bored after their party has died down? Or do they delight in the fact knowing I’m their neighbor and have already complained about the noise once. Why not bother me again when any normal person should be asleep?
Frustration courses through my veins like a lance, hot and unyielding. The rush has tears leaking from the corners of my eyes as I push to my knees, channeling every ounce of burning hot ire and rotting exhaustion into my fists, pounding them against the thin wall.
My chest heaves, burning with each labored breath I take. I wait, hoping that banging on the wall once has gotten my message across to the boy on the other side. There’s something nagging at me, telling me that I know exactly which one of the three boys living next door it’s fated to be.
There is no response for a breath, two. Then, a thump as loud as my own answers. One singular knock is all I’m gifted back, for a split moment. The music rings louder as he turns the volume impossibly higher. It sounds as clear as day, like I’m standing in the front row to my very own rock concert.
I want to scream in frustration, claw my way through the plaster and tear the speaker to bits. And maybe tear into him too.
What a prick.
Sighing in exasperation, I rip another sheet of paper from my drawing pad and crumple it up with all of the rage and annoyance still cloying my veins. I force so much of my irritation into the motion that I fear it might burst into flames. I want to tear it to shreds and stuff those tiny pieces right up my douchebag neighbor’s ass.
Instead, I throw the ball of paper as hard as I can against the wall. I can’t hear the sound it makes when it hits its target, nor the soft crunch when it lands on the floor, staring sadly up at me.
Music of my own pounds loudly through the earbuds I stuffed into my ears when it became clear that the raging music next door was not going to be turned down. I considered marching over there to give Knox a piece of my mind, and I even circled back on my idea of punching a hole through this very wall, but instead I opted to play my own music so loudly that if I’m lucky, my eardrums will be affected so greatly that I never have to hear the music from next door again.
Okay, so I might be being a little dramatic, but I’m tired as hell and even angrier.
Art had been my next attempt at blowing off some of the steam turning my cheeks cadmium red. I pulled out the well-worn sketchbook from my bag, along with the colored pencils I always have stuffed in the front pocket, and flipped to a fresh page, trying to allow my mind to unleash anything across the creamy sheet.
Except—everything that comes from my hands is trash. My lines are heavy with fatigue and malice, so deep and dark that I’ve nearly torn through the pages. I’ve broken the tips on four of my pencils already and I couldn’t find the sharpener I swore I put in my bag.
It’s as if my mind doesn’t know what to draw. The beginnings of sketches quickly turn into shapes of madness and sleep-deprivation, things I can’t even make out. There’s a hand, bones tearing from the flesh as they splinter into pieces. Another is of a cloaked figure atop a black stallion that makes my stomach clench. A few soft strokes form a pair of lips curved into an incredulous smirk.
My shoulders finally begin to loosen as I work through the piece, but once I come to the realization of who I was subconsciously making the man on the horse’s back look like, I tore that drawing out, too.
That had been the very last page in my sketchbook. The black of the back cover stares at me, taunting me, laughing at me.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because my stomach has soured with the thought of my final attempt at letting this anger go.
I shove myself away from my desk. My spine is rigid and my bones are vibrating with tension. On the back of one of my scrap papers I began writing a list of art supplies to pick up while out shopping—pencil sharpener, new sketchbook, earplugs.
I even managed to unpack most of the boxes in my room before the sun barely tinted the sky with light. Terrible, I know, because I’ve only managed a little more than an hour’s sleep since moving into this hellhole of an apartment. I adore Rory’s sister, Peep, but right now I’m cursing her. How could she claim that this was her favorite place to live out of all the places she and her roommates have rented here?
At least I’ve been semi-productive in the hours since.
I dress in the first thing I pull out of my drawers, a t-shirt and a pair of jeans that never fail to make my ass look great. It doesn’t matter though because I’m not trying to impress anyone today, I just need to get out of this apartment for a bit. Maybe the fresh air will do me some good.
Quickly brushing through my hair, I shove it up into a ponytail as I make my way to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I look like hell, I notice as I stare at myself in the mirror, all puffy-eyed and paler than normal due to lack of sleep.
I grab my purse and lock up the apartment behind me. Rory must still be sleeping the morning away because there’s not a sound coming from her room. Lucky bitch.
Trailing the few blocks down to the art supply, I walk the familiar streets of Hardwich, home of Vulcan University. It’s a smaller town, one I’ve become well acquainted with during my freshman year of school.
One entire block is lined with bars and I can’t wait to be in there on weekend nights with Rory, drinking and dancing our lives away with our fake IDs. Each one is unique, fighting desperately to draw in the college crowds. There’s Revolver, a country bar, Jameson’s, an Irish pub, and a dance club called One More. Those are the bars I hear about on campus most often, but there are a handful more I have yet to explore.
I pass small businesses and restaurants, the early morning serene in comparison to how my apartment has been. I can feel my shoulders loosening with each step I take away from the building, my stress ebbing away.
The art supply store—Art Haven—has always been a place of solitude. Being surrounded by fresh supplies is encouraging. The sidewalk is painted colorfully, flowers and vines creating a path to the door, it’s open sign a vibrant blue where it hangs on its hook.
The large windows are covered with messages welcoming the Vulcan University students back to campus, and there’s an eerily spot-on drawing of Perry the Pinto—our schools beloved mascot—with a foam finger on his hand and the other on his hip, his horse mouth pulled into a grin that should seem cheerful, but looks like he’s ready to bite.
The bell to the shop rings as I push through the door but there is no one at the counter to greet me. I don’t mind because it’s still early and I’m not in the mood to pretend that my morning hasn’t been one of the shittiest ones I’ve had in a long time, and I’m not even hungover.
The scent of the store fills my lungs and I shut my eyes, reveling in it. I can feel the recharging of my creative energy already, my inspiration trying to blossom once more.
Maybe I can talk to the owner and convince them to let me live here instead.
Taking my time, I shuffle up and down the aisles, drinking in everything for all of its glory. Paints lined up by brand and color, a rainbow bursting with life. They’re pristine, swollen like plump berries, not yet crusted with use. There’s an entire aisle dedicated to sketchbooks and papers of all sorts; canvases larger than my body stacked against the back walls, pencils with graphite of all weights and strengths. I pluck a new HB pencil from its container and admire it. I might come back around for a few more before I leave, depending on my running total. One can never have enough pencils.
A kneaded eraser is added to my quickly growing pile and aha! there’s the sharpener I need. I sweep back around the front of the store for a basket, dumping the supplies in before I’m rocketing back off to the sketchbook section.
There’s a shuffling of noise in another aisle. I gather that it must be the associate on shift. Music begins playing softly through a speaker by the front and it’s much less grating than the kind that so rudely woke me this morning. The chill Indie music fills the space with even more life, and combined with the streams of sunlight sliding in through the windows, I think my day might just be starting to pick up.
I end up with three sketchbooks in my basket—a feat in itself not to choose one of each of the gorgeous books calling my name—and I continue traipsing through the store. Passing the sculpting section, I pause for a moment, wondering if I should sign up for a class next semester. At the thought of the clay thick against my skin, constantly caked under my nails and embedded into my clothes, I decide against it.
I grab a can of fixative for when my drawing class starts up and toss it into the basket hooked in the crook of my arm. We’re going to be using charcoals for most of the semester, another messy medium I don’t care for. I’m not a fan of the feeling of the dry chalk against my fingertips, sticking between the creases of my fingers. It takes forever to get out.
I’m a simple girl with simple tastes, graphite is best, though I do enjoy working with colored pencils every once in a while. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at painting. Rory’s talent with oils is incredible, but I’m sure she’s only making it look easy because of her insane talent, and it’s much harder than I think it is.
There are so many different types of art I want to try that it’s almost overwhelming. Well, anything in my current state of fatigue is overwhelming, but I don’t feel like I’ve found my style of art quite yet. It’s something I’m trying hard to figure out this year at college. I’ve loved drawing since I was a young girl, but as I’ve grown, my love for the art has become more of a nuisance than fun.
Surely, I will figure it all out someday.
I take the longest in the paint aisle. The different types are astounding: oils, gouache, watercolors, and acrylics. The possibilities are endless.
Tubes upon tubes of color scream for my attention and I admire each one, drinking in their vibrant hues. There are reds of all shades, ochres that remind me of autumn; phthalos and umbers and titanium white stare at me, waiting for me to take them home, squeeze the life from them so they’re bursting across my canvas. My gaze snags on a unique color and I lean closer to read the name: dioxazine.
I abandon that one, instead picking out a tube each of the most important colors that I can blend together to create any color that I might be in need of. It’s like a super power, the ability to mix any shade from only a few, and I love it.
There is a plethora of brushes hanging above the paints and I sweep my fingers across the bristles of a fan shaped one, smiling at its softness.
One of the sketchbooks I added to my basket is for painting, the paper thicker and able to withstand the viscous medium. It’s small, something for quick and rough paintings because I want to get used to the material before committing. I’ve always wanted to work with paint and now seems like as good of time as any.
After adding a few brushes to my basket, I make my way towards the front of the store to check out, halting in my tracks when I see who is behind the counter.
Thankfully, it isn’t Knox, but it is one of his roommates.
It’s the blond. He’s leaning against the counter, swiping though his phone without a care in the world. For a fleeting moment I wonder if he’s only working the opening shift because the music also didn’t allow him to sleep peacefully, but I think better of it. Knox’s music is probably a lullaby to him.
His hair is surprisingly neat, brushed back with the dampness still clinging to it from a morning shower. He’s clad in a dark t-shirt that leaves a plethora of patchwork tattoos on display. There’s an over-the-top cup of coffee on the counter that puts my order to shame. His posture exudes an effortless confidence, and when he looks up and catches sight of me staring at him like a deer in headlights, a dimple deepens in cheek .
“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor,” he greets.
I bite back the groan at the base of my throat, moving closer. All I have to do is pay for my things and then I can leave. Sounds simple enough. I don’t have to converse with him outside of the necessary cashier talk, and maybe, if I’m lucky, he won’t even try to taunt me.
Yeah, right.
“Hi,” I grit, placing my basket on the counter. He peers into it and I tense, feeling judged. I have no idea what kind of art he’s into, if he even is at all, but I don’t like him knowing this part of me, not when he and his roommates have been nothing but rude. It feels a little too personal.
Those ocean blue eyes flicker back to mine, studying me, as if he’s deciding—just like I am—if he should be civil or not. I don’t balk from his assessment, probably seeing nothing more than my tired eyes and the downturn of my mouth.
I shift on my feet, silently willing him to stop looking at me and start ringing up my supplies. Instead, he smirks.
And there goes my mood.
Much to my surprise, the first thing out of his mouth isn’t a jibe. “How are you this morning, Darling?”
Darling? I want to snort. Or grimace, but like the lovely woman I am, I swallow it down in favor of trying to get out of here without my state of mind plummeting further.
“Lovely,” I offer, trying for a smile, but it feels forced. His lips twitch higher as he catches me smothering the look. “And yourself?”
“Fantastic.”
I nod, pinning the sour remark on the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Yes, I’m sure your party was just lovely, unlike the rest of my night.
Jerk .
“Right…” I trail off, eyes flickering down to my basket in an attempt to tell him to hurry the fuck up without so bluntly saying hurry the fuck up like I so desperately want to.
“First year here?”
“Second,” I answer flatly, praying he starts moving. The muscles of his arms flex where they’re on display and he reaches into my basket, examining the first tube of paint he pulls out. Phthalo Green.
Not for anything specific really, like maybe, say, eyes.
I know that I shouldn’t be trying to make even worse enemies with the boys who live next door, but I can’t help myself. My attitude is on the fritz due to their actions. They should be the ones that have to deal with the consequences.
“I’m a junior,” he says, picking up the check-out gun as slow as possible.
“Congratulations,” I answer, trying to force a lighter inflection to my tone. He doesn’t seem to buy it by the huff of laughter that slips past his lips.
His mirth-filled gaze sweeps over me again and I try not to duck my head, fighting off the fire of both a blush at his attention and my irritation at his less than leisurely pace.
“I’m Ace,” he muses, and the chirp of the scanner going off makes me blink. “I think we’ve met somewhere before.”
It’s what I’ve been waiting for; the teasing. I remember him perfectly. The one who answered the door after Knox, leering at Rory like the horndog college student I’d expect him to be, before slamming it right in our faces again.
My temper snaps when he puts the gun down to pull out a bag, taking all the goddamn time in the world to unfold the paper sack. My fingers curl into fists and I can feel my gaze turning into a glare that my brother tells me could cut glass. “Are all three of you always this insufferable?” I blurt, cutting to the chase .
It’s a rhetorical question, one that I already know the answer to, but Ace answers anyway.
“Most call it charm,” he shrugs, grinning as he moves onto the next item in my basket.
I don’t hold back the urge to roll my eyes.
“That’s exactly the word I was thinking,” I mutter. If he hears it, he doesn’t acknowledge.
“So, your roommate is pretty cute,” he drawls, scanning another tube of paint. That’s two in the span of one minute. He should be fired for all of his lollygagging. I glance at the door, praying that his roommate doesn’t waltz right in, because that, I think, would mean that I actually have the worst luck ever. “Does she have a name?”
I cut my eyes back to his and narrow them. “Don’t we all?”
“And yet, I didn’t catch yours.” Ace cocks his head and his blond hair flops from one side to the other.
“It’s Quinn,” I grind through clenched teeth. My already thin patience is now threadbare. Only a few strings keep hold of my sanity, but Ace is quickly sawing through them with his grating banter.
“Nice name for a lovely girl, I’m sure,” he teases, but there is nothing funny about his words. These boys might be having their fun, but to me it was never something to laugh at and the situation has only gotten worse. “And your roommate’s name? Does she have a boyfriend?”
“Sorry,” I bite, “She’s not the secret fuck type.” Though, she might just be after her breakup with her long-term boyfriend, Max, at the beginning of summer.
Thankfully, my basket is nearly empty. I dig around in my purse for my credit card in haste, wanting to be prepared for when Ace finally tells me my total. The quicker I can pay and leave, the quicker I can hole back up in my apartment. Maybe take a nap on the couch.
“Trust me, Darling,” Ace says with a wink. “It wouldn’t be a secret.”
I can’t help the splutter of a laughter that bubbles up my throat. He startles, shocked by my sudden chortle as I stare up at him, incredulous. “That usually works, doesn’t it?”
I watch his fa?ade falter and I lift my chin with pride. Clearly, I’ve caught him off guard.
“What?”
“The whole ‘Darling’ thing. You just expect women to swoon at that, huh?” His smile is hesitant, and he takes the card I hold out to him. “I thought so. Can I have my supplies now, Darling?” I ask, batting my eyelashes a few times for good measure. Ever the face of innocence, I am.
Ace takes my credit card without further comment, running my total. I don’t even care what it is right now, I just want him to swipe the fucking card so I can hightail it out of here. His mouth is set in a firm line now, shoulders tense. The aura in the entire shop has changed with my retort, but I don’t have the ability to care right now, itching to get away.
When he hands it back to me, I stuff it back into my purse. Ace shoves my bag across the counter with a grumbled, “Knox was right.”
“Excuse me?” Knox was right? About what? The asshole doesn’t even know the first thing about me.
“You are grumpy.”
The sheath containing my ire is stripped away. My fingers curl into fists around the handle of my bag, my nails biting into the skin of my palm. The rumble of anger only fuels my irritation and I’m unable to keep the alizarin crimson from staining my cheeks as I glare up at him .
“Tell me you’re shitting sunshine when you haven’t slept all night because of your roommate.”
Ace’s answering smirk is cutting, suggestive. It makes me blind with rage.
Spinning on my heel, I shove myself out the door before he can answer my anger with another sly remark.
Fucking assholes, all of them.