5. Georgia
Chapter 5
Georgia
T he next two weeks passed by like normal: visiting my grandmother every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and working at Hemingway's my regular forty hours. The thoughts of Quinn and the mask flitted away as soon as my water was restored, and life went on as usual. I had even been hacking away at my novel, still sitting at a cool 20 thousand words and 10 chapters. If there were an award for rewriting a sentence a week, I would have it plastered on my wall by now. Everything was fine, good even. I had my routine, and I preferred it that way.
The chaos of my younger life had left me with an innate desire for peace and predictability, something I’d only had after my grandmother had picked me up from my father's house having found out the condition I’d been living in for months after my mother died. Stability meant everything to me. So when that all came crashing down one Tuesday evening, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.
"Things have been a bit tight lately," Emma admitted, her hands tented in front of her as she leaned against her old desk. I had crammed myself into what my boss called her office, but it was really a glorified broom closet with a desk shoved into the corner amid piles of books that I hadn't yet cataloged. "When I bought this place with my wife twenty years ago, I never thought we'd even get this far. It's just been such a rough year." The older woman's face was full of regret, and I couldn't help but feel panicked, while heartbroken for my boss.
A framed photo of Emma and her wife Elaine hung over the same desk next to the solitary table lamp, with the first dollar they had made tacked underneath it. I remembered Elaine fondly; she had been such a smiling person, always sneaking a free bookmark into my bag when my grandmother and I came in once a month on allowance day. Cancer had snuck up on her in the golden years of her life, and as hard as Emma had tried, these last few years had been difficult without her spouse.
"But it's only two months before December! Surely the business will pick up before then," I reasoned softly, rubbing my arms as the chill of the day had seeped into the poorly insulated building. "We could host a book signing or a book club!"
Emma smiled at her, blue eyes full of sorrow. "I'm hoping it will only be for a month, mid-November at the most. But to be honest…" She paused and sighed heavily, as if what she was about to say physically hurt her. "Georgia, I am tired. I've been trying for years to keep up with everything after Elaine passed—to keep it running in her memory." She cast a mournful glance at the framed photo of their younger selves with the keys to Hemingway’s. "But this was her dream. And my dream was making her happy."
I sat down and carefully took Emma's hands in mine. Hands that had helped build this place, book by book. That had given me my first and only job. The ones that had held mine when my grandmother began losing her battle with dementia.
"And you did your job very, very well, Em." Emotion welled up deep within me at the sight of the older woman struggling to compose herself as she nodded, clutching my hands.
"Let me evaluate in a few months,” Emma smiled, squeezing my hand. “And of course, if you need another job to keep up with, I will be happy to give you a glowing recommendation. I just hope Hemingways can get through this. "
I nodded, but inside I was panicking. Losing sixty hours a month on my already tight budget was frightening—and not in the way that I might have to make more meals at home or relax my hold on late-night online shopping, but because I paid over twelve hundred dollars a month to cover what insurance didn't for my grandmother's care. I could have chosen another home that was completely covered, but it had smelled like old socks and radiated a sadness that I’d sworn I could feel from the parking lot. I hadn't even bothered to get my grandmother out of the car.
"Will you be alright?” Emma asked softly, her eyebrows pinched together as she studied my expression. “I hate to spring this on you. I hope you know I tried everything before I got to this point."
I smiled softly, squeezing the older woman's hands. "Of course, I have savings. I'll talk with Sarah at the coffee shop. I'm sure I can grab some hours over there."
"Shit, I wish you had asked me two days ago!" Sarah exclaimed genuinely. "We just hired someone, and he started training yesterday."
My shoulders slumped, and my once artfully curled hair lay limp against my shoulders as the drizzle continued to come down outside.
Shrugging, I sighed, "It's okay, but if something opens up, will you tell me? I'll even do overnight stocking. Seriously, whatever needs to be done." I punctuated the last sentence, hoping the desperation of my situation would stick. My friend nodded vigorously.
"Absolutely, I promise I'll text you immediately." Sarah set a disposable coffee cup on the ledge, pushing it towards me with a sympathetic smile. "This one's on the house."
Smiling thankfully at my friend, I accepted the free coffee and pulled my hoodie over my head before stepping out the door. The drizzle and rain made it difficult to enjoy the short walk to my house, and before I knew it, the warmth of the coffee no longer leached through the cup to my hands. Before I could reach out my stiff fingers to open the complex's door, it was ripped away from my grasp. My eyes raised from the ground where they were affixed to find myself staring at Sebastian Quinn, whose large body was blocking the entrance. I wasn't sure why I stood there staring at him for so long. It was like all of those curious feelings that had followed the great plumbing incident of 2024 came rushing back to me.
"Shit, Clark, you scared me!" He exclaimed, though he didn't look scared as he shook his head and stepped back from the doorway, allowing me inside. I huffed and scowled as I walked past him, holding my coffee close.
"I know this might surprise you, but I wasn't waiting outside on the off chance I'd run into you by the front door," I retorted, pushing my hood off of my hair as droplets clung to my eyelashes.
Sebastian rolled his stupid, big brown eyes and shook his head before turning to walk down the steps, though I swore I saw a smile tugging at the side of his mouth.
"You haven't been on a date in months, Georgia!" Exclaimed Sarah, throwing out another sweater from my closet to join the pile currently building on my bed. "You need this. You need to get laid. An orgasm will do you good."
I rolled my eyes as I finished tousling my hair. The brown curls finally decided to lay just right, the small wave of my bangs brushing my brows.
"I can't believe I agreed to this," I muttered as I touched the liquid blush to the apples of my cheeks, just light enough to allow my freckles to show through. "I've never had any luck with dating apps."
I heard Sarah huff from the bowls of my closet, "Let's be honest, you never really try! This guy is hot, has a good career, and picked a place to eat. That's already three green flags in his favor."
"The bar really is on the floor," I whispered as I finished my look with a soft setting spray, already exhausted, and the date hadn't even begun.
Sarah whipped out of the closet and set down my beige trench coat and soft cashmere sweater that I barely wore because it was dry clean only. Who had time for that?
"Okay, I actually like the outfit," I admitted, surprised, slipping into the maroon sweater. Its soft material caressed my skin. "Can you drop me off? I wasn't about to ask for a ride, but my car is on the fritz again…" I trailed off awkwardly.
Sarah waved a hand at me. "Of course I can drop you off. It's barely two miles." She snapped her fingers after checking her watch, "And it's time to go! Let's not keep—wait, what's his name again?"
I paused to check my phone screen before replying, "Jason."
"Okay, let's not keep hot, blond Jason waiting!"
Despite my apprehension, it did feel good to dress up. There was always an unspoken energy in the air before a first date. Full of the promise of more or, at the very least, a nice glass of wine with a meal.
In just a short drive, I found myself at the door of one of the nicest Italian restaurants in town; the smell of garlic bread wafted through the doors as one of the staff opened to admit me. I had barely opened my mouth to the hostess when a tall blond in a grey woven pullover stood up from the chair near the door.
"Georgia?" He asked, his blue eyes shining while looking me over.
I found myself smiling in response and nodding. “Jason, thanks so much for asking me here. I love this place." Before I knew it, we were seated at a table for two near a fireplace in the simple yet elegant dining area.
"So, what do you do for work?" I asked, buttering a piece of French bread as soon as the waiter had placed the basket in front of us.
Jason seemed to be tracking my every movement, and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or bad yet at this point. "I'm a marketing executive for a software company. They handle customer management systems for hospitals." I raised my eyebrows, impressed. "What do you do?" he asked.
I nearly choked on the bread that suddenly had turned into a rock in my throat. "I manage Hemingway’s. Been there for over four years now." Somehow, my very beloved job seemed a trifle next to his job title .
His perfectly manicured brows furrowed in thought. "The bookstore? On 2nd street?" I nodded, sipping at my red wine. I hadn't drunk in well over a month, and the familiar warmth calmed my nerves in a soothing wave.
"Yes! My grandmother and I used to go all the time when I was younger. It was a dream to land a job there." Jason looked thoughtful as he chewed on his bread before leaning back for the waiter to set down our Caesar salads.
"So when are you going to get a real job? I'm assuming you're still in school?" When I didn't reply, my fork poised halfway over my now forgotten salad, he added, "It took me a bit to get through my school, too; I had so many classes I had to take a gap year. Worked at my dad's firm for a bit."
Something sour bloomed in my stomach as I forced myself to spear a piece of iceberg lettuce. "I actually finished school already," I replied, attempting to keep my tone neutral. "I have a Bachelor's in English literature and a minor in creative writing."
Jason at least had the decency to look sheepish, coughing into his cloth napkin. "English Literature seems like a fun major. And creative writing, that's interesting! Do you write?"
I wanted to melt into the floor. "Yeah, it was fun. I enjoyed studying, honestly." I paused before I answered his next question. "I've been writing a book, actually. A novel."
He leaned forward, interested. "Really? That's quite an accomplishment; how long have you been writing it?" I opened my mouth but was blessedly saved from an immediate answer by the waiter bringing our food. As we took a few cursory first bites he resumed, "Sorry, so how long have you been writing?"
Allowing myself to swallow the lasagna that seemed stuck in my throat, I replied, my mouth suddenly dry. "About four years."
"Wow, must be a big book!" But his face betrayed what he was really thinking—what I was thinking, too. It was nowhere near being finished.
"So, um, tell me about where you went to college!" Jesus Christ, could a meteor just strike right then and there? My face was heated enough that I knew I must be scarlet at this point.
"Oh yes, master’s in marketing, bachelor’s in Human Resources and Business. I tried to diversify as much as I could, I went to Portsmith University, how about you?"
Fuck. Portsmith was one of the most prestigious colleges with a two-year waitlist. It was also the most expensive.
"Oh, just the community college in Kensington." I didn't even try to make it sound fancier than it was. It was a small college on the edge of a small town that had just barely gotten its university title five years before I began. A silence fell over the table, only broken by the scrapping of forks against china and the desperation that was screaming from me.
"Do you have any pets?" I inquired suddenly, breaking the awkward silence as I began to wonder what Hannah was doing about now and if it was polite to check her cat cam at the dinner table. "I have a cat; she's a ragdoll breed, so she goes to the salon more than I do." My attempt at a joke fell flat as Jason’s lips flattened into a thin smile before he replied.
"I'm actually allergic to cats."
Another agonizing hour later, the bill had been paid graciously by Jason, but I insisted on leaving the tip. I tried not to feel self-conscious about the waded-up twenty-dollar bill next to his heavy Amex card.
"I'd be happy to drive you home. I know you said your car was in for some repairs," he offered as they began walking to the door, the soft warmth of the restaurant escaping through the open door he held open for me.
I shook my head emphatically, "Oh no, I don't want to trouble you; my rideshare is just around the corner." I didn't say my rideshare was actually Sarah. I didn't want to feel any lower than I did at this moment.
"Listen, I had a great time," he said, stepping close enough that I could smell his wintergreen aftershave. "I'd love to see you again. Maybe you could swing by my place next time?" His place. The high-rise downtown with the ocean view he had enthusiastically painted a picture of at dinner. He was more like a proud parent than someone whose trust had bought him the largest unit in the building.
"Um, sure, that'd be great." I wasn't the best at letting people down—or confrontation. Or people in general at this point in my life. It would be better to just put him off in text and hope he would get the hint. It wasn't ghosting really…just a drawn out no?
Before I knew it, his lips were on mine. I stiffened in surprise, my arms settling on his elbows as he swept me into his arms. Is that where I should put my hands? Why were my eyes open?
Shut them, Georgia! Only serial killers kiss with their eyes open!
His lips were soft, and he tasted slightly like wine and garlic. I had to school my face as he pulled away, him looking like a lead in a rom-com and me? I felt out of breath for all the wrong reasons, and the urge to wipe the kiss from my lips was overwhelming.
"Text me when you get home, okay?" he said with an easy smile. I found myself nodding before he turned to get into his sleek, black car that looked as if dust had never touched its exterior. A beep behind me had me jumping as Sarah waved enthusiastically from the driver's seat.
I had never been so happy to see her.
As I walked up the steps to the apartment my phone chimed, a text message from Jason illuminating the screen.
Jason: "Did you make it home safe?"
Me: "Yes, thank you again for dinner."
Jason: "Of course, I'll be going out of town for about a week after tomorrow. Maybe you could swing by before my flight? "
The attached winky face emoji immediately made me frown in disgust.
Me: "I have to work. Have a safe trip."
So I wasn't good enough for a second date, but was good enough to fuck?
I immediately silenced my phone and walked up the steps, dry orange leaves crunching underfoot. I sighed as soon as I got inside the relative safety of the breezeway, my keys in hand I stopped suddenly. I turned towards Unit 2's door, taking a step closer.
My heart skipped a beat when I saw that Quinn's door was slightly ajar. A low groan spilled out from the dark apartment like someone was hurt. Immediately, I found my mace on the keyring, and I clutched the pink item in my trembling hands. Had he been robbed? My mind immediately flashed back to the night I had used his bathroom and how he had mentioned the door jamb being finicky.
Maybe I should call the police? What if the assumed burglar was still there? Or what if my noisy, annoying neighbor was hurt? I risked pushing on the door, the hinges thankfully making no sound at all as I peeked inside. There were no lights on, save the solitary oven light casting an eerie glow over the kitchen.
"Hello?" I whispered and immediately rolled my eyes at myself. So, I was that character in the murder movie? A low, guttural groan came from the back of the apartment, which I knew from my last visit here held Quinn's bedroom. Dialing 9-1-1 and keeping my thumb over the call button, I stepped inside, already mentally berating myself for what I was doing.
"Quinn?" I called again to no avail. My pink pepper spray keychain held out in front of me, I hesitantly made my way through the small kitchen to find red light spilling from underneath his door. Okay, I should just leave , I thought—this was the makings of a horror movie. But despite myself, I knocked on the bedroom door, ignoring the racing of my heart and every instinct telling me just to leave and call the cops.
Muffled cursing and the sound of a groan that could have only been someone in pain trickled past the door. Summoning every ounce of courage I had in my 5'8 body, I pushed the door open only to stand completely still.
Whatever scene I had imagined playing out, nothing had prepared me for this. Nothing had prepared me for the sight of a man’s naked body kneeling in front of a high-end digital camera, with red photography lights casting an erotic red haze that outlined the perfect dips and cuts of his muscled physique. I couldn't help the gasp that left my mouth when I realized it was Sebastian Quinn, fisting his cock with a black balaclava covering his face. The bottom half of the mask folded up to reveal the man's full lips and chin as the most inappropriate words streamed from between his full lips.
"What the fuck?!" I couldn't help the scream leaving my mouth as Quinn's eyes locked with mine in unbridled alarm. "You're Wolfe?"
"What the fuck are you doing here?" He cried, grabbing a blanket and covering his lower half while ripping off the mask.
"Your door was open, and I thought you were hurt or getting robbed!" I cried as I covered my eyes. Even with the blanket, I could still see the ghosting of coarse hair that I had traced with my eyes a thousand times over video that made its way to his?—
Quinn stumbled over his camera, and as I jumped back, my fingers pressed down on the pink security device. And before either of us could react, the biting scent of pepper spray exploded around us.