Liam Davis & The Raven

by Anyta Sunday

  “Yeah, you don’t say.”

  A bizarre and irrational urge to poke my tongue out at him came over me, but I managed to keep my decorum. “I don’t pay rent on the place, so I don’t expect you to either.”

  “No rent?” he asked.

  The surprised look on his face startled me into a jerky movement, and I splashed water down Quinn’s front, soaking him. I must have handed him the glass a little faster than I should have. He yelped and plucked his T-shirt away from his stomach as the cold liquid soaked to his skin.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Misjudged that one completely.”

  “Just a little.” Quinn reached over his shoulder and pulled off the shirt. He balled it up and rested it on the counter, then walked slowly toward the bag he’d dumped at the entrance. “Good thing I have my sports stuff here.”

  “Sports stuff?” I hummed.

  Without the loose T-shirt, Quinn looked like a superhero. His toned stomach tapered gently to his hips, and he had a lot more hair on his chest than I had.

  I pushed my glasses up.

  Fascinating how the slight chill in the air pebbled goosebumps all down his stomach, disappearing at the waistband of his jeans.

  Similar to my irrational tingling whenever the word examination was mentioned, I got goosebumps just looking at Quinn.

  He shifted into a crouch, laughing softly as he unzipped his bag. “Like what you see?”

  I lifted my gaze to his. “Yes, I do.”

  He stopped mid-chuckle. “Um, Liam? You do?”

  I nodded. “I’m an observer. It’s in my nature.”

  “In your nature,” he repeated, glancing at his stomach. He bit down what looked like a retort, and he ruffled through his sports bag.

  His bleached hair glinted under the light.

  “What is your natural color?” I asked. I’d been curious about that. Was it the same light brown as his chest hair?

  Quinn pulled on a large white shirt. When his head popped through, he stared at me for a moment, his lips wobbling into a grin as he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s an unremarkable mousy brown.”

  I cocked my head, trying to imagine the color on him. Somehow, in my imagination at least, it made him look paler and less . . . Quinn. “Hmm. Probably should keep dying it then.”

  He murmured something under his breath, and chased it with a shake of the head. Coming back to the kitchen, he said in a rustier version of his voice, “Back to no rent. I can’t freeload, I just . . . that doesn’t work for me.”

  Didn’t work for him?

  What type of person didn’t take up the offer of free accommodations? He could save his money for important things like university fees, traveling, savings . . . but instead he insisted on paying for something he didn’t have to?

  “I have to pitch in somehow,” he said, picking a rotting apple from the fruit bowl and walking it to the bin. He pressed his foot on the pedal and dropped the apple in. Then, grabbing two fresher ones, he moved around me and washed them.

  How easily he made this place home. How foreign it was to have someone in my kitchen cutting apples into wedges.

  Quinn rummaged for a plate while I distractedly thought of a way he could pitch in.

  “Apple?” he said, putting the plate between us and taking a wedge to his lips.

  I took one. “It doesn’t seem practical insisting to pay for something you could have for free.”

  He was standing so close to me I almost felt his shrug brush against my side. “Sometimes, Liam, it’s not about being practical or even logical.” He crunched on his apple. “It’s about doing what you feel is right.”

  I used my apple to push up my glasses before taking a bite. “Well, I don’t get it, but okay. How about you pay for my daily newspapers? That’s about three or four dollars a day.”

  “That’s it? No, no, I’ve got to do more.”

  It took me another two slices of apple before I had an idea that might work. “Actually, I do have a thought.”

  “What’s that?” He twisted toward me, his hip leaning against the counter. He wiped his sticky fingers against his jeans.

  I lingered on that stomach of his. “I could use a man with the body of a superhero.”

  Quinn hooked a finger under my chin and lifted my face. He raised a slow, questioning brow. “Liam, if I didn’t already have some idea how your brain works, you’d be flat on your back right now. Please tell me what you mean.”

  I shook my head. “I mean, since the night I was attacked, I’ve been more than skittish going to parties. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I went with someone who knew how to fight. At least until I learn how to defend myself.”

  “Are you saying you want me to go with you to parties for rent?”

  “Would that be a problem?”

  He laughed, and his fresh breath burst in little bouts against my temple. “Not if you refer to me as your superhero from time to time. My ego could get used to that.”

  I stepped away from the goosebump-inducing Quinn. For whatever reason, whenever he spoke or laughed or moved around, the room didn’t seem to echo him. It was like he soaked everything up and added warmth to the room that had been missing since I’d moved in.

  “Do we have a deal, then?” I asked.

  He folded his arms, but his head was practically nodding in answer. “I’m getting the best end of the bargain here.”

  “As long as I can quote you on that if anyone tries to throw a fist at you.”

  “Deal.”

  Quinn moved in the next morning. I insisted he come early so I could let him in before disappearing to the office. Monday, I’d cut him a key so he wouldn’t have to wait around for me.

  He came ten minutes later than our eight o’clock arrangement.

  I yanked the door open to a wet and tired-looking Quinn and company. Quinn stood holding a large box, his hair matted with rain that dripped onto the box. He looked like he might still be asleep.

  Behind him, carrying a box in each hand, Shannon gave me a dimpled grin and swept a blue strand of hair off her face with a flick of her head.

  Hunter was the first to speak, rolling past Quinn and into my apartment balancing a suitcase on his chair. “Let’s dump this before your bed and other shit starts elevator surfing.”

  He dropped the suitcase at the side of the door, and slapped my ass on his way back into the hall. I jumped at the contact, letting out a noise that seemed to snap the rest of the guys into motion. They all piled in. Shannon rested her boxes to the side and pecked my cheek before following Hunter. Quinn zombied the distance between us and pushed his box into my arms.

  “Thanks for the help,” he murmured, and then followed it up with a yawn.

  The damp cardboard against my chest had me simultaneously grabbing the box to hold it away from me and shaking my head. I’d already removed an entire shelf of books for him and dusted the desk. “Actually, I really have to get to university. I’ve got a column to look over and some studying for—”

  Quinn blinked, resembling a live human for a moment. Sort of. “Dude,” he said, “it’s the crack of dawn.”

  “Not really. Technically, dawn would be—”

  He reached out and pinched my lips shut with his thumb and forefinger. The pads of his fingers weren’t very soft or smooth but rather calloused. His fingertip tickled my lip in a way that gave me the shivers. “It’s eight on a freaking Sunday. Ten o’clock would still be dawn to me.”

  My grip tightened on the weighty box. What was in here? Bricks?

  “Be that as it may,” I tried to say around his fingers, but it came out more a vibration than anything. My voice must have tunneled over Quinn’s hand because he jerked his hand back. Suddenly he looked like someone had poured ice water over him.

  “Is this work urgent?” he asked.

  “The deadline is Tuesday, but—”

  “Tuesday. Right. Then this is how it’s going to work, Liam. You’re going to suffer through a quick move for may
be an hour or so, and then I will take us all out for brunch to say thanks, man. After that, you can go to uni and type to your heart’s content, okay?”

  I shifted, changing my grip to the underside of the box. “I’m not a fan of moving. It really bores me.”

  Quinn veered around me and held open the study door for me. “You’re not the only one.”

  I trudged into the room and lowered the box to the floor. Quinn had a point—if I’d been the one moving in, I guess I’d have appreciated the help. “What do you want me to do? Keep in mind, I’m allergic to power tools.”

  Well, not allergic per se, but I couldn’t use one without hurting myself or getting shocked, so allergic seemed an appropriate description.

  “Not keen on them myself. But don’t worry”—he pointed to the box—“I thought you could help me with my books.”

  I snapped to attention, already nodding and moving toward some empty shelves in the bookcase. “Now that I can handle.”

  The chuckle Quinn left me with bubbled around the room, and a sudden burst of sunlight escaped a gap in the clouds and flowed into the study.

  I soaked in it a moment before busying myself with Quinn’s . . . comic books. They held a familiar weight. I leafed through a couple as I did with the Scribe. They were in pristine condition, no dog-eared corners, no coffee stains, no sticky pages.

  Fanning a few dozen, I organized the issues before carefully stacking them onto the shelf.

  Each new comic conjured more images of The Raven. Inky blue, graceful, face shadowed by his hood . . . part of my desire to go to the university today was to find more names of people who had seen or heard about The Raven.

  Hearing Quinn in the background, I stilled, my fingers splayed over a series of Superman issues. What did Quinn know about the vigilante? I hadn’t forgotten the night after the hospital, how he’d stiffened at the mention of someone saving me . . .

  Hunter rolled into the back of my legs and yanked me down onto his lap. A comic book flew out of my grasp and clattered against the shelf before slumping to the floor.

  “What was that for?” I asked, trying to pull myself off him and reach the comic before it bent for good. His grip tightened around my waist.

  “Don’t mess with the hummingbirds, man,” he said with a grin and a flex of his arms. “They’ll win. Look, you have to help me.”

  Over my shoulder, I asked, “With what?”

  “Mitch, of course. He’s . . . he’s a dream, and I want it to come true.”

  “How am I supposed to help?”

  “I told him you work for Scribe and that you wanted him to come say hi sometime.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, Mitch is . . . a bit unsure about this.” Hunter tapped the arms of the chair and then prodded my back. “I want you to figure out what part bothers him.”

  “Why don’t you just ask yourself?”

  “Because I don’t want to scare him off or make him uncomfortable. And I think it’s the same for him. He might be worried he’ll say the wrong thing or . . . ” He sighed. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone else about it, you know?”

  “I’m sure he has friends he’s doing that with—”

  “Yeah.” The distinct sound of a smile lingered in his voice and a quick glance proved it to be true. “But I’m all about making my luck, aren’t I? For that, I need to get inside his head, and you”—he gently pushed me off him—“are my mole.”

  “And what if the answer’s not something you want to hear?”

  When I faced him, he shrugged. “And what if it is?”

  Quinn and Shannon stumbled in, struggling with the base of Quinn’s bed. They dropped it with a heavy thunk in the middle of the room.

  Hunter, holding my gaze, rolled out of the room. “I’ve got to get to basketball. Shan, are you good to get home on your own?”

  Shannon smiled. “No problem, Travis. Do you want me to come with you? I could—”

  Hunter raised his hand. “Sis, just don’t. I can handle it.”

  Hunter left and for a few moments the aftertaste of awkwardness lingered in the air. Swiveling from box to bookcase, I concentrated on stacking the DC comic books below the Marvel ones.

  Shannon and Quinn ducked out again, but they returned with large trash bags filled with clothes and sheets. Shannon plunked her load onto the floor. “That’s the last of it.”

  Quinn cheered, took out his phone and played some music. His croaky singing voice sounded like murder—the murder of crows squawking in a summer breeze. He swung his hips to his ill-timed chorus singing, and I forgot about the comics for a moment and enjoyed the show.

  “This is really awesome of you, Liam.” Shannon startled me out of my Quinn-induced reverie. I nodded, taking out the hundredth comic from the box and arranging it by issue. She added, “I couldn’t have stood the guy a day longer.”

  Quinn’s singing halted. He pulled a pillow out of a box and tossed it at her. “Hey! You know you love me at your place.”

  “Nuh-uh. You promised no Pringles in bed.”

  “I was grieving. Besides, I didn’t do it while you were in there.”

  “Yeah,” Shannon drawled. “That makes it so much better.”

  Quinn leaped over his thick gray blankets and a bunch of clothes to engulf Shannon in a hug that made her burst into a shriek. She twisted in his grip and pushed him until suddenly Quinn was flat on his back, lying on his blankets. She pinned him down, and the guy roared in an uncensored laughter that seemed to make the rain on the windows glow with silver light. As if his laugh were magic, the true meaning of a silver lining.

  “I am gonna miss your hugs,” she said as she clambered off him. “Guess Liam will be the one getting most of them now.”

  Quinn sat up and pushed to his feet, glancing over my way and grinning. “Yeah, and he really needs them too.”

  “Me?” I fervently shook my head. “I don’t—”

  Damp arms curled around me and the air left my lungs as—in one bound—Quinn crushed me to his warm chest.

  “Yeah, you do,” he whispered in my ear.

  The unfamiliar sensation froze me for a second. I pulled against Quinn, but then his warmth molded against me, supportive and comfortable.

  Slowly, he released his grip, pulling back to shrug at me. “If you really hate it, I won’t, of course.”

  I didn’t really hate it. “There are worse roommates out there than ones that hug.” I bent to pick up another comic with a slight tremble in my fingers. “Now when you said you had books, I thought you meant real ones.”

  “Uh-oh,” Shannon said, an evil grin quirking her lip, “I wouldn’t insult his comic stuff. He’s quite the sensitive man-boy when it comes to them.”

  “Comic stuff, Shannon? Really?” Quinn folded him arms and pouted.

  “See what I mean?” she said, brushing a blue strand of hair from her eyes.

  I looked from Quinn to Shannon. They were such good friends and so . . . close. If I’d focused on finding friends instead of working non-stop, would I have had a friendship like this by now? Would it have made me a better writer for the party page? Would I have known Jack and Jill were such dicks?

  Quinn said, “Our Liam here is thinking, Shan. You can tell by the clicking.”

  I dropped the pen I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding, and drew my hand out of my pocket.

  “What are you thinking about?” Shannon asked, and before I could stumble over an answer, she moved out of the room carrying a potted Aloe Vera.

  If I hadn’t peeked at Quinn, I might not have had to answer at all. But his not-so-subtle eyebrow raise forced me to answer.

  “I . . .” I grabbed another comic and slipped it onto the correct shelf. “Who’s your favorite character?” I asked him.

  “I like Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. I like them most without their costumes on.”

  “That’s a bit too much information.”

  Quinn flushed. “I meant their superhero costume
s. I like them with their clothes on.”

  I nodded and pushed up my glasses. “It’s okay, Quinn. I’m not going to freak out, remember?” I picked up a comic and flipped through it. “I’ve never read comics much, but maybe I could take one to look at?”

  “You can take as many as you like. Even”—Quinn plucked out a comic sealed in a Ziploc bag—“my most prized.” He held it out, but when I reached for it, he pulled it back a fraction. “Just, please, no food or drink around it.”

  I jerked my head up. “Ohh, I like you.”

  Quinn’s brow rose, and his gaze sparkled with a repressed laugh. “That’s the reason you like me?”

  “Books should never be disrespected.”

  A comic featuring Booster Gold caught my eye. “This guy sort of looks like you. I think I have to read this one too.”

  “He gets shirtless in that issue quite a bit.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder and said, just before he pushed away to find Shannon, “You’ll like it. There’s a lot to . . . observe.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Tuesday evening, I came home to the delicious smell of stew and Quinn draped over the couch chatting with Shannon over the phone. He wagged his eyebrows in hello and pointed to the stove. “Help yourself,” he mouthed. He switched the phone to his other hand. Into the mouthpiece, he said, “No shit? Seriously?”

  I peeled off my parka—

  Wait. What was with the bandage peeking out from under Quinn’s sleeve? I tried to get a better look as I shuffled into the kitchen, but I banged into the corner of the bar.

  “Ouch,” I yelped, quickly steering around the sharp corner and into the actual kitchen.

  “Got to go, Shan. Lunch tomorrow? . . . Sweet.”

  I rubbed my side and took one of the clean bowls from the dish rack.

  “You all right?” Quinn asked, coming up to the stove and stirring the stew with a ladle.

  “Swell.”

  With a snort, Quinn grabbed my bowl and filled it with stew. “Eat up.”

  I took it to the table, grabbed a spoon and dug in. The hot, meaty gravy hit my tongue with an explosion of flavor and comfort. Quinn was perched on the end of the table, fiddling his thumbs.