ELEVEN Quincy #3
Heat inundates my face again. What would it feel like if he dipped his chin? If he whispered in my ear and put a hand on my thigh? Would he praise me? Tease me? Drag out the torture until I couldn’t stand it anymore and begged him to touch me? To let me come?
“Fourteen.” His voice is distant, pulled from another realm, and he comes back into focus. His eyes are cataloging my face, the bridge of my nose. “I’ve always wondered.”
“Wondered what? What are you counting?”
“So many things.” He blinks away the glassiness behind his gaze, but his hand stays put.
I swear his thumb brushes along the inside of my wrist. “The tattoo? It’s stupid.
A drunken souvenir from when I was in DC last year.
I ended up making a friend at the studio, some guy getting his girl’s name tattooed on his chest. And a jersey number?
I could be making that up. He reminded me of this hockey player I like. No way it was him.”
“It’s oddly specific for a drunken souvenir. Do you have a Pinterest board full of weather-related tattoos?”
“I told the artist I was a meteorologist and to interpret that however they wanted. I’d say they did a good job. What about you? Do you have any tattoos?”
“I might.” My hand falls away. I step to my left. “But I’m not telling you where it is.”
“You’re going to let my mind wander? That’s dangerous.” His eyes move from my collarbone to my wrist. A drawn-out, thorough search he could do in a bed. On the edge of this bar. “My brain can be an imaginative place.”
“Imagine all you want. You’re never going to see it.” I’m grateful when the bartender taps my shoulder, bringing over a round of drinks and a large basket of fries. We need a change of subject. Feet of distance between us. “How is living with Cooper while you’re here?”
“Fantastic. I considered renting a long-term Airbnb, but he has the space and offered. We haven’t been roommates since we were twenty years old and rented a shitty bungalow in Orlando.”
“Talk about an upgrade. The place he’s in is nice, isn’t it? That swing that hangs from the tree in the front yard is cute. So is the vegetable garden out back,” I say. “Homey.”
“I thought it would be weird being down the hall from him again. We’re in our thirties, you know?
Half the people we went to high school with are on their second kid.
But I get lonely sometimes. So does he. Long shifts at the station.
Seeing the shit he does. It’s nice to be there when he walks in after a rough night on duty.
” Sebastian points to my table. “You don’t realize how much you miss a night at the bar with your friends until you live in a city that makes you feel insignificant and replaceable. ”
I follow his line of sight, not surprised to find his friends have moved over to join mine. Nate is showing Harlow something on his phone. Cooper is comfortable next to Mia. He nods every few seconds, unbothered while she tells a long-winded story. I smile, glad for the family I’ve built.
“Not possible when you’re here. You’re Sebastian Dunn.”
“Find a way to add that emphasis on my headstone, will ya?”
“Only if I can include ridiculously obnoxious and not at all good-looking under it.” I turn back toward the bar, smiling at a bartender. “Do you have any ketchup?”
“Let me check.” She reaches behind the counter, frowning when she holds up a nearly empty bottle. “Sorry. Looks like that’s all that’s left.”
“No worries. That’ll work. Thank you.” I take the bottle from her and face Sebastian. “You’re like a boulder, Dunn. Can I sneak past you?”
“Of course. But while I have you …” He trails off, digging into the pocket of his shorts. He opens his palm. “Here.”
I stare at the center of his hand then up at his face after looking at the ketchup packets he’s holding for a beat. “I’m confused.”
“When we were at Waffle House, you mentioned putting ketchup on some of your food. Figured we’d be seeing a lot of each other over the next couple of months, so I stocked up. You never know when the bar will be out of ketchup.”
“You … you brought ketchup packets for me?” My vision turns hazy at the edges, realization settling in. “Why?”
“Seems like a good condiment to have nearby.”
“That’s …” My fingers itch to take the half-dozen packets from him, and I reach forward, hesitant. Doing everything I can to avoid the deliberate thrumming of my heart as it trips and sputters over itself. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Want some help carrying all of this back to the table?”
The table.
As if we arrived together, a normal occurrence we do every week.
“Sure. Yeah. That would be nice,” I say.
Sebastian takes Harlow’s glass and the basket of fries, weaving through the crowd and back to our friends. He drops in the seat next to Nate and steals a fry, popping it in his mouth while I squeeze the ketchup he brought me so tightly, it might burst.
“You good, Sebby?” Nate asks him.
“No.” His eyes meet mine from across the table. His mouth quirks, and the thrumming is back, a distracting, undefinable thing. “I’m great.”