5. Quinn
CHAPTER 5
QUINN
“ A ll I’m saying is that I think he’s pretty cute,” Rory scoffs, defensively.
Since we moved in, it seems as though my entire life revolves around the boys living next door to us.
While I finally managed to get the sleep I deserved last night, something had felt… off. The other side of the wall was almost too quiet as I laid in the darkness, awaiting sleep to take me in its hold, even though my body had been aching for it all weekend. All night, there hadn’t been a peep from the asshole I share my wall with.
I know it’s Knox’s room on the other side, there’s no way in fucking hell that it isn’t, but the lack of music blaring through the plaster was almost like a dream.
I shove the thoughts from my mind. It’s too early in the morning to be squabbling over our neighbors with Rory.
It’s our first day of classes for our sophomore year at VU, and I won’t let them ruin it.
The sun shines brightly on Rory and I as we walk to our first class of the day: Drawing 201. It’s the only one in our schedules this semester that we share. Rory is delving deeper into her major of oil painting this year, but I’m still on the fence about how I’m going to continue my own when drawing has been so unfulfilling. I yearn for that feeling of pride over my work instead of the existential dread of how I’m not good enough that has been haunting me for years.
Rory has her drawing pad tucked under an arm as she walks. Mine is held in a similar fashion; the obnoxiously large pad of paper bigger than my torso nearly slipping from my fingers as I adjust it. Her deep brunette hair is tied back into a loose bun that she makes look effortless but I know takes at least twenty minutes to make sure all of the strands look “perfectly tousled,” according to my roommate. If I were to try to recreate the look, I’d surely resemble a rat with bedhead.
How our conversation shifted to our thunderous neighbors, I’m not entirely sure. We’d seen one of them driving off this morning in his vintage car that somehow always seems to be parked right out front our apartment building. Its cherry paint rusted; the metal rotted through. I wasn’t even sure that the car was in running condition because it looks like it broke down there one day and the owner abandoned it, but the vehicle gave a hefty splutter, black smoke trickling from the tailpipe as he rolled down the street.
It was the roommate who had given the final slam of the door in our faces on that Friday night, the one who looked like he could break through the thin wall separating our apartments just by leaning against it. He wore a fitted emerald shirt, and by fitted, I mean that the seams of the fabric were nearly splitting from the force needed to stretch around his broad body.
He had nodded to the both of us, but that was all we were given before the black puff of fumes wafting from his car made us wrinkle our noses and pick up our pace as we headed for campus. He was the least volatile of the three by far, even if I didn’t feel so inclined to return his morning greeting.
The art building is old, but the classroom is spacious and drab. Concrete floors adorned with paint that hasn’t come off and dried clay chipping into dust show the essence of creativity within the space, the room shared with many different classes working with a vast array of mediums. The white walls keep the room bright, the sun casting through the windows bouncing off of them, creating a well-lit space to work in. The art horses are lined up in a circle surrounding a mattress with a sheet spread across its lumpy surface. The room smells of both paint and graphite, comforting me, settling me; my shoulders relax as I take in a hearty breath.
Accustomed to the setup from last year, I gather that we’re going to be jumping right into the class and will be drawing today. The most memorable moment from last year had been the oldest man I’ve seen serve as the model. Of course, that was the day the professor had chosen a specific close-up of a limb for each student to draw. I’d so luckily gotten to draw his low-hanging, wrinkly nether region. Yuck.
I shudder as the memory resurfaces, following Rory to a seat. Dropping my bag to the floor, I set up my sketchpad, leaning it against the back of the horse as I dig around in my backpack for all of the necessary materials I’ll need.
Rolling my eyes in response to her earlier statement, I finally reply, shuffling through my pencil case for an eraser. “I didn’t say that they weren’t cute, I said that they’re assholes.”
Despite my quiet night last night, I couldn’t help but wonder about Knox. His brooding nature and stupidly charming face plagued my thoughts as I drifted off in the loud silence of my room.
Students trickle into the classroom one by one. A group of girls stride in, laughing about something that happened at a bar over their weekend. Another girl follows, but it’s clear that she isn’t in their clique. She’s pretty, her ice white hair is draped long down her back, the front pushed from her face by the sunglasses sitting atop her head. Her blue eyes flick around the room nervously, searching for a place to sit, and I’m about to call her over because I can use another friend to side with me against Rory over my annoying neighbors when my eyes are drawn to the boy trailing her inside of the classroom.
My jaw almost drops at the sight of him.
Suddenly, I feel like I should have put more effort into getting ready this morning because once again, I’m met with a man who looks like he could stop the world from spinning just by his looks.
He’s much more than handsome. I can’t even formulate the words twisting my thoughts into knots. Maybe, after my creative writing class later today, I’ll be able to describe his sheer beauty. Once again, I wonder what is in the water on this campus. I need to start drinking it down by the gallon because goddammit, how can they all look so yummy?
He has the fluffiest brunet hair I’ve ever seen and it makes me want to stalk right up to him and run my fingers through it. Its soft waves hook around his ears and curl at the nape of his neck like it’s protecting his pale skin from the sun. He’s tall, too, an entire head—or maybe even more, hello— taller than the white-haired girl he’s bounding in behind. His straight nose is flecked with freckles and his fox-shaped features are utterly devastating .
His gaze sweeps around the room before meeting mine briefly. Disappointment sinks my stomach as he continues looking around but suddenly those enticing eyes flicker back to me in a double-take, as if he’s as caught off-guard about me as I was him. My feet turn to lead, pinning me to my seat. One of his eyes is a soft caramel and the other is a bright blue. I want to commit them to memory, stare straight into them until I’ve gotten each hue of his irises perfect. I curse myself for leaving my colored pencils on my desk at home.
He steps towards us and I shoot Rory a look. Internally, I’m screaming ‘holy fuck are you seeing what I’m seeing right now?!’ Her eyes are round and pointed as she returns my sudden crazed look with vigor.
“Hi,” the boy greets, sliding into the unoccupied seat next to me. I have to look up at him, even sitting, because wow, is he tall. “I’m Reid.”
“Quinn,” I respond dumbly, thrown by the fact that he’s sitting beside me right now. This close, he looks even more unreal than he did from the door. I thought you were supposed to be able to see people’s pores and blemishes when they’re close, but Reid has none. He is perfect down to the bone. “And this is Rory,” I introduce, leaning back in my seat so she can wave to him. She’s blushing like a fool and between the both of us, we probably look like a couple of clowns. “Nice to meet you.”
I fumble with my art case as he holds out a hand for me to shake. I smile bashfully, sliding my palm into his. He’s warm, and his hand swallows mine. The longer we touch, the wider his pleasant smile becomes. “You as well,” he responds, then shifts to introduce himself to Rory. With his back to me, I make ‘oh my God, look at how gorgeous he is’ eyes at her and she responds with an elbow pressed into my side when Reid pulls back .
This year is determined to kill me with all of the handsome men I’ve seen so far. Reid even more so, with how polite he is compared to the rest.
I can hardly remember what I was conversing with Rory about before Reid entered the class. I wouldn’t even remember if one of our neighbors waltzed right into the room?—
Fuck.
Of fucking course.
It’s the third roommate—the only one that I haven’t been forced to learn the name of. He’s the one who’d been driving away when Rory and I left for campus this morning. The big, burly, tan one with the biceps made of steel and tribal tattoos adorning his shoulders and arms.
His frame takes up the entire doorway and the room quiets as he waltzes in like he owns the place. It’s incredible, the swagger he has as he scans the class. All of the girls are swooning at his carefree yet confident nature. He oozes masculinity, barrel chested and tall. I wonder if this is his thing. Knox’s is playing obnoxiously loud music, Ace’s is that forked tongue of his, and this one’s thing is filling up any space with his massive body and stealing the attention of everyone in the room.
I didn’t know that he was in this class. When Ace mentioned that they were juniors, I figured they would be in the 300 classes, not the 200s.
Now might be the perfect time to ask, though, because his chocolate gaze sparks in recognition when he glances over at Rory and I, before beelining our way.
“Well, hello there, ladies,” he greets with a seemingly genuine smile that I’m all too weary of. He had been the nicest of the three when Rory and I almost knocked their door clean off of its hinges, but he had also shut the door in our faces. Plus, with my not-so-great track record with his roommates, my body is tense, preparing for the worst. “You’re taking this class?”
Rory takes the bait on this one and I’m well aware that Reid is probably listening in despite the fact that he’s pulled his satchel into his lap and is carefully unloading his own supplies. “Yeah, it’s required for sophomores. Are you in it too?” She asks, way more politely than I would.
The corner of his mouth lifts into a sinful smile. Wolfish, almost. “You could say that,” he drawls, and I open my mouth to speak but he’s already turning towards Reid, his smile broadening into something practically wicked, sticking his hand out to introduce himself. “I’m Slate, man. Nice to meet you.”
“Reid,” my seat neighbor responds, gentlemanly. I don’t miss the grimace on Reid’s face when Slate clenches his fingers in his own. I have to smother the laughter bubbling up my throat because Slate looks like he could break all of the bones in Reid’s hand if he applied even a little bit more pressure.
The trifecta is complete. Knox, Ace, and Slate, although I’m not exactly sure what kind of name ‘Slate’ is. A nickname, perhaps? Or maybe his parents are really into masonry?
Slate returns that easy grin to Rory and I, asking for our names. When my eyes narrow, he leans in closer, right into the space between our seats. I can feel the heat his body is giving off from the few inches of space between us and goosebumps break out on my arms. He smells earthy, like freshly turned dirt and smoked wood. It’s a lovely scent, I’m woman enough to admit that.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” Slate starts, and I nearly recoil. I was expecting him to come in here with the same arrogance his roommates seem to share, not with this sincere politeness dripping from his words. His cocoa-colored eyes are earnest as I inspect him, waiting for the punchline. But his smile softens a touch, and it’s guilty, if anything. “It’s just that, I have to side with my roommates. You can understand that, can’t you?”
I share a look with Rory. If our positions were reversed, I know that I would do anything for her. She is my best friend on the planet, after all.
I guess I can understand, even if I don’t want to.
Upon seeing our reluctance to accept, Slate continues. “It’s not really my place to say, but Knox was having a rough day. And no, that doesn’t excuse his actions, but you did threaten to tow his bike, and he doesn’t take that lightly. But hey, it had nothing really to do with me, so I’m willing to look past the other night if you are.”
I sit in my seat, stunned. This isn’t the apology I expected, but it’s a truce, a peace offering between neighbors. Maybe, if I accept, Slate will be able to pass along the message of ‘shut the fuck up after midnight’ to Knox.
Rory and I contemplate, side-eyeing each other in a silent conversation. It seems as though she’s on the same page as I am, because she smiles up at Slate, agreeing. “We’d love that.”
Slate beams, straightening to his full height. Fuck, he’s huge.
He looks like he might say something more, but the professor enters the room and calls his name. He shoots Rory and I a cheeky grin. “That’s me.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll come grab your numbers after class, if that’s cool. We should hang out sometime, neighbors,” he says, turning on his heel. Before he takes a step, he’s winking over his shoulder and tossing out a, “Try not to enjoy class too much, ladies,” before he’s gliding across the room with an ease someone built like a brick wall should not have.
My gaze follows him as he reaches the professor, all grins and radiant energy. Maybe he isn’t like his brooding, rude roommates. The professor asks him something and Slate nods along as if he’s done this before and is being reminded of what’s expected of him for this class. He roots around in the bag slung over his shoulder and pulls something out as he makes his way towards the door but I can’t see what it is.
“Welcome to Drawing 201,” the professor greets, clapping her hands together to gain the attention of the room. Her dark eyes are bright, her smile welcoming and happy, as if teaching hungover college students how to draw is her life’s passion. I’m thankful, though, because she seems sweeter than honey. “My name is Ms. Woods, but you can call me Beatrice.”
It’s impossible to miss Slate slipping back into the room while Beatrice briefly explains the syllabus and what’s expected of us before shuffling us right into drawing warm ups and best practices for the class.
The charcoal is dry against my fingers, coating them black as I sweep the stick in loose strokes, working on getting Rory’s figure down in the one minute we’re allotted for this exercise. It doesn’t look much like anything, more like a mess of abstract Cheerios that have made it off the conveyer belt in a bunch of mismatched shapes.
The curves of my drawing become more fluid and refined as I fall into the familiar motions of drawing. I never seem to have enough patience and I’m always reminded of it when I’m forced to warm up. The act of letting go and scribbling through warm ups is unsettling to me. I prefer to have a perfect piece as soon as I set my charcoals, pencils, paints to the paper, otherwise I begin overthinking, second guessing my lines, wondering if anything I’m doing is even good enough, if I’m even exploring the right things, if I should even be majoring in art at all…
“What do you think he’s doing here?” Rory asks, nodding at Slate. Her gaze keeps flickering up from her drawing pad to our neighbor, where he’s once again speaking to Beatrice.
I try to shake the dreadful thoughts from my head, focusing my attention to where Slate is leaning down to hear the professor as if he wouldn’t be able to standing at his full height. I mean, sure, Beatrice isn’t that all, but I bet she has a set of lungs on her from teaching as long as she has.
I shrug, studying the lines of Rory’s face as I dig into my paper with the tip of my eraser, pulling out some of the charcoal to create the highlights on her skin from the lights reflecting off of her nose. “You don’t think he’s the?—”
“Class, this is Slate,” Beatrice interrupts, stealing my attention from both Rory and my drawing. It doesn’t really look anything like her yet, but I’m trying my best to trust the process, and the few minutes I’ve used to get something down was nowhere near enough time; which, might be the point, but it leaves me feeling unsettled.
Slate’s no longer wearing his loose jeans and tight t-shirt. Instead, he dons a thick, gray robe. The fabric doesn’t drape down far enough, his gloriously tanned and muscular legs on display for the class to see. There’s an intricate tattoo starting above his knee, creeping up underneath the fabric of the robe, a similar pattern to those on his shoulders. My mouth goes dry at the sight, following the lines of muscle all the way up as Beatrice continues. “He’s going to be our model for the day.”
I’m not the only one who makes a choking noise at this news. Girls and guys alike are blushing in their seats and avoiding eye contact with each other. Slate looks like he can hardly contain the smug smirk threatening to split his face in two, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He winks at Rory and I again when he sees our faces, and we share a wide-eyed look of shock. At my side, Reid scoffs lightly and my jaw snaps shut, heat seeping into my cheeks as well.
Busying myself, I flip to a new page in the large drawing pad propped up in front of me. It’s crisp and creamy, not at all as interesting as I’m trying to make it seem as I steer clear of Slate’s mirth-filled stare. Smoothing out the paper with my hand, I realize it’s shaky with anticipation, a nervous excitement. My new neighbor who has just offered a truce, and I’m already going to see him naked.
Would it be weirder to still be mad at him and stare at his naked form, or now, when a ceasefire has been declared and we’re somewhat on the road to becoming friends? Or would he have used his glorious body to sway us into forgiving him? Because I know that his body is nothing short of a Greek statue.
I admit, that might have worked on me.
I don’t have the chance to think further on the matter because Slate’s moving into the circle towards the long mattress on the floor as Beatrice explains how the rest of the time in class is going to be divided.
There will be a few three-minute sketching sessions where we’re supposed to get down as much of his form as we can, while Slate changes poses every time the clock runs out. Following that exercise, there will be two fifteen-minute sessions, a break, and a final, longer session where we will be focusing on more detail than form.
I can’t wait.
Slate slides out of his shoes and I swallow roughly as he undoes the ties to his robe.
Thankfully, he’s not looking at me, watching how intently my gaze is pinned to his tanned skin. I might be able to pass it off as using my artist’s eye to capture every moment of his body on display, but Slate seems like the kind of guy who can see though obvious lies. He also seems pretty damn comfortable in his own skin, if he’s offering to model nude for the drawing classes.
Or, maybe he just wants everyone to know what he’s packing.
The fabric slides from his broad shoulders, exposing the muscles of his back. I’ve seen his tattoos before, when he hadn’t been wearing his shirt that night he answered his door, but with the bright lighting of the room shining down on him, I realize just how intricate they are. Ink weaving in and out of each other, sharp, complex lines that form a pattern across his shoulders and creep down his arms. I want to lean forward for a better look.
His waist pulls in tight and I have to bite my lip to hold back the noise threatening to break the concentrated silence of the room. His muscles flex as he moves, corded and thick in all of the right places. I can’t help myself, staring unabashed because he’s turned away from me, letting my eyes fall from the inky whorls down to the cavern of muscle lining his spine, all the way to his tight ass.
The entire class seems enraptured with his beauty, as if he’s a god reincarnated. It’s obvious that the boys want to be him and the girls want to be with him.
Two dimples poke in at the base of Slate’s spine that glisten as if he’s spent hours oiling up prior to class. Jesus, Quinn, pull yourself together, I try to remind myself, shifting in my seat and suddenly wishing I’m not currently straddling the drawing horse.
Slate shifts, turning, and his cock is on full display.
The stick of charcoal in my finger’s snaps in half .
I hope I get that facing me for the few hours we’ll be here because holy fucking shit is that a nice cock.
Next to me, Reid tuts under his breath, but even he can’t seem to look away from Slates body any more than I can.
We’re all human, after all.
Beatrice breaks the silence by instructing Slate into his first pose before addressing the class. “Alright. Your time begins now.”
I have no idea how I’m able to focus on anything other than the cock draped so prettily across Slate’s thigh.
He looks as relaxed as ever, splayed out against the gray sheet on the mattress with one arm tucked beneath his head. His eyes are shut in bliss, his breathing even as if he might’ve actually fallen asleep.
With the late nights I know he and his roommates tend to have, I wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.
I lose myself in the quiet of the classroom, nothing but the sounds of chalk against paper, the scratch of quick sharp lines being drawn or the drag of long strokes being etched into drawing pads. There’s the occasional murmur of advice or suggestions from Beatrice as she makes her rounds through the classroom, weaving between students spread throughout the room.
Drawing the contours of Slate’s muscle is no easy feat. Packed layer upon layer from years of hard work spent in the gym, I rub the dark soot into the paper. It’s calming: sweeping the charcoal over the white space to create the shadows the lighting paints across his body.
His tattoos take some effort, even though Beatrice had said not to worry about them, that getting his form down is more important, but I can’t help myself. I’m interested in his tattoos and the stories behind them, the significance or possible lack thereof, despite not having any of my own. I draw them with extra care, trying my best not to make up any reasons of why he might have them. Now that we’re trying to be on friendly terms, maybe I’ll have the chance to ask him about them myself.
Eventually, Beatrice’s timer goes off. It’s the same ringtone I use for my alarm in the mornings and when it shrieks loudly throughout the room my body reacts as if it’s this morning again, my stomach twisting in response to its annoying chirp.
I place my charcoal down as Slate sits up, dusting my fingers off and admiring my work, comparing it to the model once more before he slips back into his robe and covers that glorious body up.
Rory stands to stretch, her back popping as she twists around. I snag my water bottle from my bag, allowing the crisp drink to wet my parched throat, eyes trailing Slate as he leaves the room to change back into his clothes.
Reid leans over, his brunet curls bouncing as he does so. He studies my work and I clam up at his intense gaze.
After I’ve almost drained my water to the dregs, he smirks, blue and caramel eyes lighting with a tease. “You have quite the eye for detail.”
I splutter and he bites his lip, trying to smother his smile. He pastes on the most innocent look he can muster, but he doesn’t know that there’s a retort waiting on the tip of my tongue already, just as soon as I stop choking.
“You sound a little jealous there, Reid.”
Rory giggles as he gasps dramatically, clutching a hand to his chest. “Maybe, a little. ”
I can’t help but to laugh along with them. It’s nice to now have made as many friends as I have enemies, with Slate extending his apologies.
The class packs up around us while we converse, joking around about little things as if the three of us have known each other our entire lives. It comes naturally, and there’s an openness to Reid’s demeanor that makes him easy to talk to.
I stuff my extra sticks of charcoal back into their case, along with the cloth and eraser. I feel confident in the work I’ve done today. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to find my love for drawing again over the summer when I wasn’t too busy testing out new mediums and working with Rory at the art camp our town has. It feels so much easier to create art that the children ooh and ahh at, a simple mask made out of a paper plate and string and colored like a tiger will do just that.
Flipping my art pad shut, I gather Rory’s for her and walk with Reid to the cubbies we’ve been assigned to store our materials in.
“So, are you an art major?” I ask, waiting for the crowd to disperse.
Reid cuts me a suspicious look, but it’s a playful one. “You obviously didn’t get a good look at my drawing, did you? I suppose I can’t blame you with a model looking like that, but what I drew is entirely awful,” he states and I stare up at him in disbelief.
“Surely, it can’t be that bad,” I argue, and his lips thin a little as he flips open his drawing pad just enough for only me to see. It’s…yeah, it’s exactly as bad as he was hinting at and I have to work to keep my face carefully blank.
He puffs out a breathy laugh that eases my shoulders. “I told you it was shit; your face only confirms it!”
There’s no lying my way out of this one, so I decide to play into it instead .
“Okay, so it’s not great, but I’ve definitely seen worse. You should’ve seen my work from last year.”
Reid rolls his eyes, stepping forward in line. “Oh, I’m sure it was nothing like the gorgeous drawing you’ve managed to pull out of your ass in only two hours today,” he scoffs, and my elbow flies gently into his side. I rear back when I realize that we’ve only just met today, but Reid’s laughing nonetheless. “Your drawing literally looks like a photograph!”
It most definitely doesn’t, but my cheeks heat with the compliment anyway.
I brush off his flattering remark. “I might’ve been doing this a little longer than you have,” I defend. Since I could hold a crayon, to be exact.
He huffs, stuffing his pad into a drawer and offering to help me with Rory’s and my own. Reid pulls the drawer open and I slide the sketchpads inside, stepping out of the way so others can crowd him as he closes the drawer and follows me back to our seats.
“Well, you might have to show me the ropes because I thought that taking a few drawing classes would help me with my rendering for architecture, but those are all straight lines and circles and this is all curved strokes and cock.”
I’m unable to hold back my laughter this time, and it comes out in a shocking burst that has a few students glancing my way. I duck down, still giggling as I lean over my chair to pack away the rest of my supplies. Rory’s all ready to go, her bag slung over her shoulder and her face buried in her phone as her fingers fly across the keyboard.
“You know, if you remove yourself from what you’re looking at, this is all just lines and circles too,” I answer Reid when I finally catch my breath.
He slings his satchel over his shoulder, staring down at me with those mesmerizing eyes. “Would you want to explain that further sometime, Quinn? Over coffee, perhaps?”
I’m a little stunned by his bluntness, but I grin and nod nonetheless, sliding my phone from my pocket to snag his number. “I’d like that.”