Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Quinn
Decode
Paramore
The day goes wrong in quiet ways first. The kind you don’t notice until they pile up and then suddenly, you’re standing in the middle of your office, smiling too tightly, wondering when you started holding your breath.
It’s a teen I’ve been working with since the day I got here. Fifteen. Smart, but closed off. Angry in the way that makes adults uncomfortable and easy to dismiss. I don’t dismiss him. I listen. I show up. I believe him when he tells me he’s trying. Today, it doesn’t matter.
He explodes over something small, something I can’t even remember now, and when I try to redirect, to ground him, to de-escalate, he shoves back the chair he’s in, raises it over his head and throws it across my desk, one of the legs slamming into my cheek before I even have time to react. It scared the absolute shit out of me.
Security showed up in less than thirty seconds.
Administration stepped in. Protocols were followed.
The incident is documented. I’m told I handled it well, but next time maybe I should escalate sooner.
Protect myself. Protect the institution.
Tell that to the bruise now thumping with its own heartbeat on my cheek.
No one asks how it feels to fail someone you were trying to reach. By the time I leave work, my chest feels tight and hollow at the same time, like something caved in but didn’t fully collapse.
I don’t go straight home. I stop at a liquor store instead.
I tell myself it’s the weekend. That I’ll just have a glass.
That it’s not a big deal. The lie is thin even to myself.
When I unlock the door to Mikey’s apartment, it’s quiet.
Not empty, just still. The kind of still that makes it too easy to hear your own thoughts.
I kick off my shoes, drop my bag by the counter, and head straight for the kitchen. I don’t pour a full glass at first. Just enough to take the edge off. I sit on the couch, staring at nothing, and drink it faster than I intend to. The second glass tastes less sharp. The third tastes like relief.
By the time I hear the door open, the bottle is almost empty and my emotions are no longer neatly packed away behind competence and logic. I hate how scared I was when that chair came across the desk at me. I should have been stronger. More in control.
Mikey steps inside, keys still in his hand. He clocks the scene instantly, me curled on the couch, wine glass in my hand, bottle on the table, my shoes abandoned where I dropped them.
His jaw tightens when his gaze lands on my face. And it’s not in anger, it’s concern, and it cracks something inside of me wide open.
“Quinn?” He takes three long strides and crouches in front of me. “What the hell happened? Were you mugged? Are you okay?”
I try to answer. I really do. But my throat closes around the words, and instead of an explanation, a sound escapes me that’s too close to a sob for comfort. His arms wrap around me immediately. I don’t pull away. Not even a little. And that, that says more than anything I could explain.
“Talk to me,” he demands quietly. “You’re scaring me.”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Really bad day.”
“That’s kind of obvious.” He nods as he leans back to look at me. “A black eye doesn’t usually happen on good days.”
And that’s when the dam cracks. “I’m so tired,” I whisper. “I try so hard to do everything right. To help those kids. Let them know I’m there. And it still isn’t enough.”
Mikey sits on the edge of the couch now, releasing me, but staying close enough that I can feel his warmth without being touched. “You do help,” he insists.
I shake my head. “Not today. I failed him.”
“One of your kids did this to you?” His brow furrowing.
“Failed him.” I nod and point to my face. “Case in point.”
His voice stays steady. “I’m sure you didn’t.”
I laugh again, tears burning now. “You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he replies. “And I know what it looks like when someone carries more than they should.”
That does it. The tears come even faster now, messy and uncontained.
I cover my face, mortified, but Mikey’s hand comes up, hesitant, asking, and when I don’t pull away, he rests it gently on my knee, grounding me.
“I don’t want to feel this,” I admit through my fingers.
“I don’t want to think. I don’t want to be strong tonight. ”
His hand stills. The air changes. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t pull me into him. His voice lowers, careful and serious. I drop my hands and look at him. Really look at him. The restraint in his posture. The concern in his eyes.
“Just make me forget,” I whisper, practically begging.
Something shifts in his expression. Not temptation. Not hesitation. Decision. His breath leaves him slowly, like he’s bracing himself, then he stands, pulling me with him. “Come on.” He points to my discarded shoes. “Put those on.”
“What?” Confusion sets in because shouldn’t he be taking off my clothes? I’ve definitely had too much wine.
“Put your shoes on.” His repeats, his tone firm as he grabs my sweater off the back of the chair and waits for me to put my arms in the sleeves. I do as he asks and slide my feet into my flats.
“What are you doing?” I’m a little wobbly from the wine, and lean into him fully this time. Not careful. Not measured. Just, needing something solid. And he doesn’t flinch.
“I’m going to make you feel better. Trust me.” He guides me toward the door.
I stay pressed against him all the way down the stairs, out the front door, and onto the sidewalk. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He gestures with his free hand to point in front of us. “It’s just a couple blocks ahead.”
“Going to your bedroom would have been so much easier.” I mumble in my alcohol-infused state.
“Yeah, until tomorrow.” He grumbles back. “Just keep walking Q. I’m trying really hard to be the good guy right now.”
“I thought you were the fun one.” I huff out, finding it hard not to pout just a little.
“Oh, you’re going to have fun.”
He steers me into an alley, and I stop walking, turning to face him. “Are you planning on murdering me?”
“Don’t be dumb.” His hand wraps around mine as he tugs me forward. “There’s a door right there.” He grabs the door handle to pull it open and motions for me to enter. “Go on. It’s safe. I promise.”
I step warily through the entrance and glance around, my nose crinkling as I spin back around to face him. “You brought me to a dive bar?”
“Not a dive bar.” He leads me further inside, then chuckles. “Well, okay, it is a little bit, but they’re good to me here. Let me do what I want.”
“Hey Mikey!” As if on cue, a tall guy behind the bar calls out a greeting. “Who you got there?”
His hand tightens around mine when I stumble slightly. Not possessive. Just steady. Like he’s making sure I don’t fall apart in more ways than one. He guides me toward the bar, stopping when we reach it. “Hey Joe, this is Quinn. We’re going to bang around a bit if you don’t mind.”
“Have at it.” He kicks his chin in the direction of a small stage, his eyes staying locked on my eye and cheek, but is kind enough not to ask about it. “Too early yet for the guys to go on.” He shares instead; I think more to me than Mikey. “You want a drink?”
“I’ll have my regular. She’ll take an ice water.” Mikey rattles off without asking me what I want.
“Hey, what if I want a regular?” A frown creasing between my brow as I swing my gaze to his.
“You need a water.” He swipes the bottle off the counter, twisting the top off before handing it to me. “Then we’ll see about a regular.” I watch as he lifts a shot glass of clear liquid to his lips and downs it in one swallow.
“Not fair.” I pout again.
“Drunk Q is adorable, but I don’t feel like cleaning up puke later.
” He teases, his hand sliding against the small of my back as he guides me over to a small stage.
There’s a setup for a band; a couple guitars sitting next to amps, a lone mic, and a set of drums. Before I can ask what we’re doing, his hands are under my arms and lifting me onto the stage.
He’s beside me a second later as he jumps up.
“Okay, come here.” He crooks his finger, and because, damn he looks cute doing that, I follow him, confusion setting in when he points to the stool behind the drums. “Sit.”
“Aren’t you the drummer?” I quip, taking a swig of the water.
“Not tonight.” His hands are on my waist a second later, gripping me lightly as he plops me down on the seat. “Here, take these.” He pulls a pair of drumsticks out of his back pocket, how did I not notice those, and hands them to me.
I stare at him, the sticks, and then him again. “Say what?”
“Give me your water.” He grabs it out of my fingers before I have a chance to respond to his order, and then he slaps the two sticks into my palm. “Play.”
“I-” I stutter, gaping up at him. “I don’t know how.”
He places the water on the ground, then moves behind me, wrapping his arms around mine, arranging the sticks in each one of my hands. “Now just hit the fucking drums.”
His breath is hot against my ear as he leans into me, shivers racing down my spine, the same time a surge of heat travels between my legs. Holy shit. “Do it Q.” He orders. “Bang the shit out of them. I promise, it will feel amazing.”
I hesitate for half a second. Long enough to feel stupid. Long enough to remember I don’t know what I’m doing. Then I lift the sticks and bring them down. The crack of wood on drum skin explodes through the room. It startles me. Then, it thrills me.
“Again.” His breath warm against my ear.
So, I hit them again. Harder this time. The vibration travels up my arms, into my shoulders, rattling loose something that’s been wedged tight inside my chest all day.
“Harder,” he urges.
I swing. The sound is messy. Off-beat. Chaotic but exactly what I need. “Don’t think. Just hit.” Mikey’s hands slide down my forearms, guiding without restraining. “I’ve got you.” And I believe him.
I slam the sticks down again and again, the noise filling the empty bar, ricocheting off brick and wood and neon signs. It’s ugly. It’s uneven. It’s not music. It’s fury.
The boy’s face flashes in my mind. The chair crashing across my desk. The words he screamed at me. My arms come down harder.
“Yeah,” Mikey encourages me. “That’s it.”
My vision blurs. The next strike lands off-center and the stick slips slightly in my hand. My chest caves in around the edges. “I tried,” I choke out, barely audible over the ringing echo. “I really tried.”
Mikey doesn’t tell me to stop. He just presses his forehead lightly to the side of my head, still behind me, still steady. “I know you did.” And his voice is right there. Close. Certain. Like there was never a question.
The tears come again, but this time I don’t fold in on myself. I keep hitting. Sloppy. Desperate. Over and over until my arms burn and my breathing turns ragged. I slam the sticks down one final time and then they fall from my fingers, clattering against the drums before rolling to the floor.
Silence crashes down around us. I’m shaking. Not from the wine anymore. From release. Mikey’s hands move to my waist, firm and grounding. “You feel that?”
I shrug, swiping at my cheeks. “What?”
“That’s it leaving you,” he explains. “Not everything. But enough.”
I sag back into him fully this time. No hesitation. No second-guessing. My head tipping slightly toward his shoulder. And he lets me. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t make it something it’s not. He just, holds steady.
Joe whistles low from the bar. “Damn, Quinn. You ever think about joining the band?”
I let out a watery laugh. Mikey finally steps around to face me, crouching in front of me like he did earlier in the apartment. His hands land on my knees, steady. “You didn’t fail him,” he assures me, looking me in the eyes. “You showed up. That matters more than you think.”
My throat tightens again but softer this time. The way he says it, like it’s a fact, not comfort, undoes me in a completely different way.
He doesn’t rush me off the stage. He waits until I stand on my own, but stays close enough that I know, if I need him, he’s right there. “Come on,” he prods gently. “Let’s get you home.”