11. Quinn
11
QUINN
T he only time the world is quiet is in those first few minutes before I fully wake.
When my brain has been quiet in sleep and hasn’t yet woken up enough to realize it’s free to start its daily rampage of thoughts and to dos and remembering that one time nine years ago when I was at a party and said the wrong thing.
But this morning, there is only one thing…
one person…on my mind.
Smoke.
He’s wrapped around me so tightly, it would be impossible to squeeze a nickel between the two of us.
I’m utterly baffled by how he managed to sneak in here and climb into my bed without waking me, given the slightest sound grates on my jagged nerves these days.
I hate to think it might be because I’m getting used to him.
That the sound of his footsteps on the wooden flooring, and the scent of his cologne, and the vibration of his body is…
comforting…rather than frightening.
It’s also hard to truly think about anything but him with his chest pressed up against my back and his strong arm beneath me, holding me tenderly.
Through my boxy pajamas, I can feel his heat.
His palm has slipped through the buttons to cup my breast, and even in sleep, he occasionally strokes his thick thumb over the nipple.
I’m sure there must be a pool of moisture between my thighs because of the sleepy gesture.
His thick erection sits aligned between the cheeks of my butt, and I wish I weren’t wearing shorts.
I’ve grappled with the notion of consent here.
He certainly didn’t ask if he could join me, and definitely didn’t ask if he could touch me the way he is.
But I find myself weak for him.
And I’m guessing he’s in here because he was drunk.
Is it wrong of me to lie here and benefit sexually from the ways he’s crowding me and stroking me and making me feel safer than I have in weeks, when he’s clearly oblivious to what he’s done?
I have no answers, because sometime in the last hour, I’ve decided that I want this man, even though it is in no one’s best interests.
Sometimes, horrible and irrational questions would pop into my head.
Like, what would Melody say, or what right does she have to be upset at me at all?
And do I hate her for taking my own life from me and making me doubt this moment?
I don’t remember him coming home or what made him climb in behind me.
I’m just glad he’s here, with his warm breath and soft snores.
All the different versions of him.
A stranger.
A young adult I once knew.
A man I’m getting to know.
A safe harbor.
When I first woke up, a burning question had rattled around in my chest. Did he climb in here because he was confused as to which sister was in his house?
But then I rationalized.
It’s been so many years since we saw Melody.
That’s a long time to hold on to those kinds of feelings for someone.
And it’s irrational that a man like Smoke would care that much about a girl he had feelings for once.
There is no way he’s spent so much of his life waiting for her to return.
It could only have been me he thought of in that moment last night, even as the lingering scent of cigarettes and alcohol remind me he was unlikely sober when he joined me.
And maybe this is the two of us.
Vacillating in how we feel about each other.
Uncertain of the other’s intentions.
Gently, I extricate myself from his hold.
He reaches for me, mumbling my name, and the sound of it spilling from his lips gives me second thoughts about leaving my bed.
Well, his bed that I’m currently occupying.
It was me he thought of, then.
And it’s me he’s reaching for now.
But there is something vitally important about consent.
I know he got into my bed drunk, which is a violation of my consent, but…
it’s hard to explain why that doesn’t bother me as it should.
Or why I feel that continuing to stay with him when I know that, is a violation of his trust.
I perhaps should feel guiltier than I do for staying as long as I did once I realized he was there.
As I head to the kitchen, I see the trail of his arrival as clearly as if I were a crime scene investigator.
Various clothing items, a belt, a lighter, and a packet of cigarettes adorn the hallway.
His cut is the only thing neatly placed over the back of the chair.
And it strikes me that it’s sweet that the only thing he really took care of was this black leather.
I stroke my fingers over it as I walk by.
On the counter is the sourdough.
It’s been left exposed all night so is now likely harder than a brick.
But I wince at the horrible hack job.
The knife is placed precariously on the edge of the cutting board, and I deposit it to the side of the sink, where I find three of the big rings Smoke wears on his fingers.
They’re big solid brash blocks.
A letter I on one and an O on the other.
The third has a skull.
The morning sun is already high and hot, turning the pine-studded mountains to gold.
There’s a comforting constancy in putting the coffee in the filter and setting it to brew.
The hiss and fizz and bubble are reassuring.
Today, Kinsey is opening the bakery, and I send her a quick note letting her know I’m running late, but that I’ll let her go earlier to make it up to her.
I turn the oven on and then grab a block of butter out of the freezer.
Another trick my mom taught me.
You want a good scone, Quinn, simply freeze, then grate the butter.
I think of her as I do what she taught me.
I cut the little frozen curds into the flour and mix lightly so every chip of butter ends up coated in the flour.
I put it back in the freezer while I zest some lemons and juice them.
Next, I whisk all the wet ingredients together, pausing only when the coffee pot splutters to a halt.
Then, I grab and pour a large mug.
It’s too hot, but I take a gulp anyway.
The rich and bold liquid burns on the way down as it passes through my throat and into my stomach.
The nutty brew and scent of lemons are comforting and familiar.
They bring a calm to my racing thoughts and the way my body responded to waking up in Smoke’s arms.
It felt so good.
So right, and yet wrong.
I can’t decide if I’m contemplating a relationship with him, or I’m simply frustrated by all these inconvenient feelings.
It should be the latter.
Right?
Especially when we haven’t even talked about what happened in the aftermath of Melody’s disappearance.
I force myself to focus back on the bowl in front of me.
The final step for the recipe is to mix in the blueberries and combine everything to form the dough for the scones.
Habit kicks in as I mindlessly turn the bowl and scrape the spatula against it.
It helps me fight the growing knots in my stomach.
The bowl spins faster as the mixture comes together.
Then, I throw some flour down onto the marble counter and grab the dough out of the bowl before slamming it down.
“You always this angry when you bake?” Smoke asks.
His voice is raw and throaty and catches me off-guard.
I jump in surprise before I force myself to look at him.
Maybe a miracle will happen, and he won’t be able to read my thoughts, which are likely written all over my face.
He’s shirtless and barefoot.
With the jeans unzipped, I can see the way a narrow trail of hair dips from his belly button before disappearing just below the zipper.
His abs are defined, yet part of them is wrapped in dressing.
“I got it,” Smoke says.
“The ingredients pissed you off.”
I shake my head.
“Sometimes, you just need to get it finished fast. Someone made a mess of the bread.”
Smoke comes and sits on the other side of the kitchen island.
He takes my coffee cup and sips from it, a truly intimate thing to do, and I imagine a future where the two of us wake on a Monday morning, my day off, and set about a ritual just like this together.
Maybe I bake, and he makes the coffee.
Or perhaps it’s winter, and he goes outside and shovels the drive before lighting a fire so we can enjoy the coffee and sweet treats together.
“Are they going to be sweet?” he asks.
I shrug. “Maybe. Depends on who’s tasting them.”
The dough is cold beneath my fingers as I move quickly to shape it into a circle.
“I don’t like sweet,” Smoke says, and I stop my movements.
“You don’t have to eat them.”
I don’t know why, but I sense we aren’t talking about the lemon blueberry scones anymore.
Smoke inhales. I see the way his shoulders rise and fall.
Unspoken words hang between us, anchoring us in one place.
My breath stalls.
The oven dings, telling me it reached temperature.
When I reach for the handle of the knife, my hand shakes a little, and I have to work to control it as I cut the dough into ten triangles.
I lay them out onto the baking sheet and slide them into the oven before setting a timer.
“What do you really want to say?” I’m not sure where the moment of bravery has sprung from, but I roll with it.
It’s better than the silence.
“Sorry. For climbing into your bed. Don’t remember it. I was so drunk, I could barely stand. Next thing I know, I wake up in your bed and the spot next to me is warm, like you just left it.”
The admission, one I’d already surmised from the way the bread was cut, and the way his clothes were dumped, and the smell of alcohol on his breath, still hurts.
“Want to know what the trick to making scones is?” I ask.
Smoke eyes me for a second.
If he knows I’m dodging his apology, he doesn’t say anything.
“I’ve a feeling you’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not.”
He’s right.
I am. “The butter must be ice cold. It means it doesn’t melt easily in the baking. It causes air pockets and steam that make them fluffy. It’s the only way to make sure you get a crumbly exterior that has bite, and an interior that’s cooked but flaky.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
I put my palms on the counter.
“Because it’s the combination of cold and hot that makes it special. I’m starting to see you, Smoke. And you’re a better man than I ever understood when you thaw a little.”
I pull out a clean bowl and begin to make the icing for the lemon drizzle over the scones.
He reaches for my hand to stop me, loosely holding my wrist in his grip.
“You need to leave, Quinn. I’ll beef up security at the bakery for you. Make sure you have some early warning system if doors or windows are messed with. But you and me, we need to get off this path we’re on. The kiss, last night…it was all a mistake.”
My stomach flips.
I don’t want to go. I think about walking up the stairs to the apartment at night.
When it’s dark and I’m alone.
But this is not my house.
And I’ve already overstayed my welcome.
I don’t want to leave, but I know I must.
“I can go tomorrow,” I say, more bravely than I feel.
“I need to pack this evening, after work, and will go tomorrow.”
Smoke nods.
“Okay. I’ll send someone to beef up security today.”
I dump the lemon juice into the powdered sugar and stir quickly until the combination turns to an icing.
“That’s good of you.” I force the words from my lips.
“Thank you.”
Smoke sighs.
“Not sure I’m ever gonna smell lemons and not think of you.”
I look up at him, and my heart suddenly aches that I might be the only one at risk of catching feelings here.
“Aren’t you tired of being frozen?” Tears sting.
“Because I am. I’m exhausted by it, Smoke.”
The first tear slips past my defenses, over my eyelashes.
I can feel its cool trickle over my cheek.
“Then find someone who’ll help you thaw too.” Smoke cups my cheek gently, using his thumb to sweep the tear away.
Then he sticks his thumb into his mouth.
“If you need someone to get your things home, I can help in the morning.”
His indifference stings.
Feeling cruel, needing to stab at him, I use the only tool at my disposal.
“I’ve seen you trying to unload a truck. I’ll find someone else.”
It’s a low blow.
But I find it hard to say anything when he turns on his heel and leaves the room.
I reach for the coffee cup on the counter, and then I tug it to my chest, holding it in both hands while I take a deep breath to settle my rattled nerves.
The doorway remains empty, and I wish for him to return through it, even though there’s nothing left to say.
My phone vibrates on the edge of the kitchen counter.
A message from Ember.
Ember: There’s a barbecue at the club tonight.
Come with me?
I think about my answer for a moment.
I want to stay close to the club for a little while longer.
Maybe I can get Smoke to admit that we’re something more than two people caught up in something they don’t want to be. Me: I’d love to.