11. Quinn
CHAPTER 11
QUINN
O kay, so I was horribly wrong.
I’m currently on my second glass of wine—which is really my third because I chugged the other half I started with at my apartment before we left—and stuck sitting between Knox and Slate at Tipsy Canvas, and I am most definitely tipsy.
Why we chose to do this on a Thursday night instead of the actual weekend, I’ll regret tomorrow.
Ace and Rory sit opposite me at the table, their canvases hiding their faces. I can only see them when Ace leans over to whisper something to my best friend or when Rory leans over with a calculating look on her face as she assesses his work. She’s failing to bite back her flirtatious smile and I bring the glass of wine back to my lips as the realization sets in that her crush on Ace might not be as little as I once presumed.
“Hey, let me borrow some of your blue,” Slate says, leaning over me to grab at my palette. We haven’t even begun using that color yet, per the instructor’s tutorial, but somehow the entirety of Slate’s canvas is painted a deep shade of cobalt .
How the hell did he mix that color?
His shoulders are so wide that when I lean back in my chair to avoid him, I almost teeter out of it. Knox is the one that saves me, a firm hand gripping my bicep as I begin to flail. I’m stunned when he rights me and Slate has disappeared from my space, staring at him in shock. His hand is still locked around my arm and Knox looks as confused as I do.
The warmth of his hand on my arm is nice. I can feel every single one of his calloused fingers pressing into my skin, electricity branching from his touch through every nerve in my body.
“Blue,” I blurt, like a total idiot. It snaps him out of whatever stupor he’s in because he removes his hand just as quickly, turning back to his painting. It already looks amazing, the sand of the beach we’re supposed to be dotting in looks like Knox found a cup of it and thrown it at his canvas for effect. I continue sputtering nonsense because I can’t focus on anything but the lingering feeling of his hand on me. “I have to get more blue.”
Stumbling from my seat, I pluck my palette from the table as I spin on my heel, off to retrieve more paint from the counter at the back that’s filled with bottles of it. It’s conveniently placed next to the bar, and I’m clutching my wine glass to my chest, so I may as well get a refill while I’m at it.
Setting my things down on the table, I flip the cap off the bottle of paint, squeezing it a bit too hard when a figure suddenly appears by my side, startling the fuck out of me.
“Hey, Quinn,” Ace says, eyes bugging when the paint squirts out, splattering onto the other colors. The container makes the loudest squelch while there’s a lapse in conversation throughout the class and my cheeks burn bright red. The only sound to be heard is a snort of laughter from Slate, but I don’t dare turn around to see if every single set of eyes is on us right now.
Maybe I can convince the bartender to let me take the entire bottle back to my table.
Ace glances down to my mess of a palette before meeting my gaze. He looks like he doesn’t really know what to say, so I busy myself with capping the paint while he gathers his thoughts.
“Sorry about that,” is what he goes with, taking my palette and trading it with his own. “Here, you can use mine.”
“Thanks, Ace,” I answer sincerely, taking note of how all of his colors are full. He didn’t come over here to get more paint, he came over here to ambush me because I’ve been avoiding him like the plague.
Great.
The chatter of the class picks up again and he glances over to our friends nervously, as if needing reassurance in my presence. He looks embarrassed, almost, as he plays with the blond hair curling at the nape of his neck. His eyebrows are pinched, like whatever is going to come out of his mouth next is as painful to say as it’s going to be for me to hear it.
“I, um, wanted to apologize,” he mutters, and all of a sudden, it’s him that can’t look me in the eyes. A surge of gratification has me standing taller, biting back a smirk because he should feel like an ass for treating me the way that he did at the art supply shop weeks ago. “For, you know…”
I raise a brow, waiting. He may be taller than me, but I feel a whole lot more confident right now, even more so with the wine flowing through me veins. “No, I don’t.”
Those ocean eyes meet mine and I can tell he wants to sigh in frustration. But he knows that he’s going to have to work for my forgiveness if he wants to continue pursuing my best friend like he so blatantly is doing .
“I’m sorry for being a dick.”
“Which time?” I ask, cocking my head to the side and feigning confusion. That’s right, I’m going to play this apology out for as long as I can so I don’t have to go back to sitting next to Knox.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Ace’s gaze grows sharper, but it’s not quite a glare yet. He studies me like he’s looking at the exact same girl who’d gone blow for blow with him at the art shop. In a way, I suppose he is. I’m still annoyed about the situation and he’s acting like I’m the one that owes him something, not the other way around.
“I’m sorry I called you grumpy,” he relents, shoulders slumping a bit with the movement. He doesn’t seem all that rushed to get back to his seat, but that’s probably because he and Rory are miles ahead of the class, being the painting majors they are.
“And?”
“And?” Ace echoes, incredulously. His eyes are wide and if he and I were better friends, his surprise would make me laugh. I watch him scramble for something to say, puffing out an amused breath when he answers, a very unsure lilt to his voice, “And I’m an asshole?”
Slate appears suddenly beside us, reaching between Ace and I for that damned tube of blue paint. For someone so large, I’m not sure how he moves so silently.
I startle back a step and run into a solid frame behind me. Peering over my shoulder, I swallow harshly when Knox’s intent green gaze locks on mine.
Great, it’s a party over here now.
“I would’ve said dickhead, but that’s just me,” Slate supplies, overhearing the tail end of our conversation. Ace rolls his eyes and I laugh as I shift subtly away from Knox, accepting Ace’s apology with a nod and a soft smile in return. It feels nice to be on the good side of two of my neighbors. Now I just need to find common ground with Knox and half of my worries will be gone.
Ace snatches our palettes as I grab my wine glass for something to hold onto. Knox’s abrupt appearance has unsettled me. All we’re missing is Rory and?—
There she is, grabbing my hand with a tipsy grin and dragging me over to the bar. My saving grace, this girl, and she doesn’t even know it. I’m sure we’re all about three seconds from getting kicked out of this class if we don’t return to our seats, but I don’t think any of us care all that much.
Glancing over my shoulder once more, I find Knox’s eyes still on me while Ace and Slate turn to make their way back to their seats.
I can’t fight the shiver that crawls up my spine at his piercing gaze.
I register the ding of my phone in the distance and I groan, reaching out blindly for it. It must be nearby if the alert had been that loud, slicing through my unconsciousness like a hot blade through butter.
My knuckles rap against the edge of the coffee table and I grunt, clutching my aching fingers to my chest. Peeling my eyes open, I blink blearily until my living room comes into focus.
I must have fallen asleep sometime between Rory leaving for her study group and after Knox’s music had started up again next door. It’s less loud than it would be if I was in my room, but the song strums a much lighter tune than his usual playlist. It must have helped lull me into a slumber, my hangover from last night still vignetting the corners of my mind.
Somehow, after my nap, I feel both better and worse. Less like I got hit by a truck and more like maybe it was only my foot that had been run over instead.
Or, my knuckles.
My phone dings again and this time, I’m able to reach it without injuring myself. There aren’t many new notifications; one from Slate who tagged me in a picture on Instagram, and by the thumbnail in the corner of the notification I don’t even want to open that. There’s an excess number of messages from Ace, who, after I accepted his apology, thought it necessary to request to add me on every social media platform he could find me on.
I roll my eyes at that.
There’s also a message from my dad, another handy-dandy YouTube link, and he’s telling me to watch this video on how to snake the shower drain. Ew.
Maybe Rory and I can start a new trend of shaved heads instead.
I’d had a surprisingly good time at Tipsy Canvas last night, drinking wine and painting our sad beach scenes. Well, mine wasn’t the worst, but it definitely wasn’t the best with two painting majors in our group. Even Knox’s had looked amazing. Slate’s and mine looked like we spent most of our time drinking instead of painting, which, in all honesty is the truth, but still.
The final message I see is a text from Reid that says:
Reid:
On my way, be there in 20.
“Fuck,” I grunt, shoving myself up from the couch. I squint through bleary eyes to read the time. 6:45. Only fifteen minutes until Reid said he’d be arriving.
When I stand, I’m thankful that the room doesn’t spin as much as it did this morning when I was getting ready to go to class— total win to have made it out of bed at all— but I still stumble on my way into my room.
I may have been a little ambitious when I told Reid he could come over to my place to work on our projects for drawing class together, but I also hadn’t been four bottles of wine deep with my friends when we initially made the arrangements.
And I’d stupidly told him that I would cook us dinner, which, along with my entire existence, I’m regretting right now.
Muttering reassurance to myself, I rifle through the dresser for something more appropriate than my current garb, a t-shirt two sizes too big and my favorite cotton pants that have more holes in them than Swiss cheese.
It’s a nostalgic save, but these pants have gone through so much with me and I’m comfortable as fuck, so no, I won’t be getting rid of them until they can no longer cover my coochie.
I opt for a pair of comfortable jeans and a plain t-shirt instead, shoving it over my mussed hair as I trip over to my dresser, plucking my hairbrush from the top. I wince as it catches in my locks but I power though it until there are no more knots, twisting it up into a clip as I assess myself in the mirror hanging off of the back of my door.
I look like…hell to put it nicely. There are purple circles beneath my eyes and it looks like my cat nap hasn’t helped. Mascara still lines the bottoms of my lashes from where I hadn’t taken it off properly in my haste to fall into bed last night, and my bright eyes have a dull edge of tiredness to them .
Quickly, I scrub my face clean. I’d rather be late with dinner than look like even more of a mess than I feel. I don’t need my image reflecting what’s surely going to be my project soon, something not as put together as I try to come across as. I’ve already decided to make a simple meal that will hopefully impress Reid, and I’m sure with how nice he is, he won’t mind or mention otherwise.
A few swipes of mascara and blush later, I’m running to the door, flipping the lock so Reid can let himself in when he arrives. I’ve forewarned him about the blasted elevator and he laughed at the time, but he’ll find out soon just how dreaded it is.
It will give me a few extra minutes to work with, and I send a quick prayer that he does decide to take it.
Setting a pot of water on the stove for pasta, I slide over to the cabinets, pulling out the ingredients I need. A cutting board, knife, garlic, and onion follow. Slowing down so as not to cut my fingers, I chop the onion and slide it into the skillet with some butter. The sizzle fills the otherwise quiet apartment, and it’s now that I realize Knox’s music has stopped playing while I was napping.
I toss in the freshly chopped garlic after a few minutes, along with salt and pepper. My stomach growls as the savory aroma begins to fill the air.
Of course, just when everything seems to be going well, it all starts taking a turn.
Puncturing the tube of tomato paste, I go to squeeze it into the pan and it explodes all over my shirt.
Fucking fuck.
“Why wouldn’t it fucking explode,” I growl, lowering the flame as I carelessly wipe at the mess on my shirt. It’s already ruined, and there’s no saving it, unless I ask my father for another YouTube video, so what do I care? Abandoning the red-smeared paper towel, I shove the shirt up and over my head as I aim for the laundry, careful not to get any remnants of the red paste on my face. Thankfully, I have a fresh load of clean laundry in the dryer from yesterday.
In my haste to shove my dirty shirt into the washing machine, I don’t hear the door creaking open until I slam the washer shut and raise my hand to get to the dryer. Someone’s whistle makes me jump.
Not someone. Someones. As in, Knox and Slate, standing wide-eyed in the door as they stare at me, shirtless.
I freeze like a goddamn deer in headlights, gawking right back at them. My heart thumps heavily in my chest as I watch Knox’s jade eyes shift darker as they raze down the length of my body in a motion that burns me all the way through.
Something between my legs tingles and I like it entirely too much.
Slate, of course, is the first to break the charged silence. “Don’t stop on our account.”
It snaps me right the hell out of my staring contest with Knox, my cheeks feel like they’re as red as the tomato paste.
“Oh my God! What the fuck are you doing here?” I shriek, scrambling for the dryer. Yep, I’ve gone full into freaking out mode. Great.
The door to the machine gives easily and I snatch the first thing I come in contact with. Thankfully, it’s another t-shirt and there are no cringey graphics or an excess amount of fabric involved. I turn my back on Knox and Slate as I shove it on hastily before spinning back to them and pinning them both with a harsh glare that rivals my mother’s whenever she is angry with me.
Knox still hasn’t said a word. His grip on the doorknob is white-knuckled and he doesn’t look like he could speak right now if he tried. It kind of makes me feel giddy. He’s much too focused on holding my gaze.
Slate’s hands find the air quickly in a display of surrender, almost as fast as the words fumble from his mouth. “We thought it was our apartment, honest! We didn’t mean to walk in on you like that.”
I groan, slapping a hand to my forehead. It makes my head ring a little in the aftermath of my hangover and I grimace. I’m officially embarrassed. “Just get out, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Slate responds, quickly grabbing Knox and shoving him back into the hall. On his way to slam the door shut behind them, Slate pops his head back inside with a final comment. “Oh, one last thing. There’s a pair of panties stuck to your shirt, Quinnie. Nice ones, by the way. Great color.”
He ducks out of the apartment before I can throw the nearest thing I can find at him.
Sighing and completely mortified over what just happened, I pluck the scarlet, lace panties clinging to my shirt and shove them into the front pocket of my jeans.
My concoction on the stove pops, drawing my attention.
“Fuck me, truly,” I sigh, snagging the bottle of vodka off of the counter on my way back to the stove. If I add more alcohol than I should to my sauce, no one needs to know.
And if I take a shot to try and burn away the feeling of Knox’s eyes on my body, no one needs to know that, either.