by Ava O'Shay
“Hey,” a small voice interrupted his daydreaming.
Assad glanced up briefly, then did a double take. Leaning against the receptionist’s desk was a girl with Quill’s eyes.
“Hey, yourself.” He tried to smile, but her eyes reminded him too much of Quill, and he felt his pulse quicken.
“Ren. Quill’s sister.” She pointed at herself.
“Oh. Yeah. I didn’t recognize you. You thinking of joining our department?” “I cut my hair—and—well, I changed,” she stuttered.
Assad got up from the desk the department had pushed into a partitioned area. Each partition only came up to his waist so it was easy to see over into the reception area of the Psychology Department.
“I’ve never seen you here before.” She let out a breathy laugh. “Or I have but didn’t know it was you.”
“Probably the latter if you came by around this time.” Assad glanced down at his watch. “These are my office hours. Or cubicle hours,” he tried to laugh.
Her expression seemed confused, then it must have clicked. A glint entered her eyes and she stepped over to his office space, glancing back to see if anyone was watching them. “You’re a professor?” she whispered. “Do they know about you and the club? Do they know about you and my brother?”
He felt his cover being blown and took her by the elbow around the corner and into an empty meeting room. “I’m not a professor. I am a grad student, and they know I play for a band but the Profs around here don’t hang out at The Warehouse. My students come by every once in a while but most don’t recognize me. And no, I don’t advertise my personal life around campus.” He took a breath. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t either.”
Ren nodded. “Not a problem. Lips are sealed.”
“Thank you.” Assad leaned back to sit on the table. “You look very different.”
Ren looked at her feet. “I was trying to meet my boyfriend half-way on something and kind of took it all the way over the top.”
She looked clean cut and put together, but the fidgeting she did made it obvious it was just a costume.
“I liked the old you, but this is nice, too.” Assad tried to smile reassuringly, but her expressions were identical to her brothers and were unnerving him.
“My counselor.” She flipped her hand back toward the door. “She suggested I try a different look. I thought my boyfriend wanted someone like this.” Ren shrugged.
Assad wanted to reach out and hug Ren. She was tall, thin, and had the same look of a lost soul that her brother did. “Did it work?” Assad asked.
“No. I broke up with him before I did it and I haven’t seen him since.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you a counselor? Quill doesn’t know you’re here does he?”
Now it was Assad’s turn to avoid her stare. “No. We didn’t really get into a lot of conversation the night at your place.”
“He’s scared.”
Ren’s words surprised him.
“I know I was pretty vague when we talked the last time. Quill and I don’t really talk about our past.” Ren picked at her hands while she shifted nervously. “Well I’m trying to, but Quill is a sealed tomb. We had a rough time of it, and our grandma died last year. Quill didn’t get a lot of hugs. He doesn’t understand comforting, and he uses unconventional methods to keep his feelings under control.”
“I’m aware of a few of those.”
Ren looked up at him. He’d been wrong to say they were Quill’s eyes. They weren’t.
Hers had hope where Quill’s did not.
“He is the sweetest, most caring person I have ever met. He would—no, he did sacrifice himself for me and would for anyone else for that matter, to protect them. He doesn’t believe he deserves happiness. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and takes responsibility for things out of his control.” She took a deep breath. “He’s not himself lately, and I can only blame it on you.” The corner of her mouth turned up. “He’s worth every bit of the trouble he brings, if you’re willing to fight. But if you can’t handle a shit load of a past, walk away and leave him alone.”
“Noted.” Assad nodded his head.
Ren turned to leave. “I better go. Got some of my own shit to hash out with the counselor.” She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “My boyfriend tried, but I cut him loose. Too much to deal with when you’re only nineteen. But you look like you might be up for it. Quill won’t think you are, just like I didn’t think my guy was. Someday someone has to step up and let him know he’s worthy of being loved. Who knows—maybe it’s you.” She opened the door and left Assad standing in the empty conference room.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, running both hands over his head.
.twenty-one
Quill Diaz
October 20
7:00 p.m.
“I want to take you to a party.” Missy was sprawled on the couch in his apartment, her head on his lap while they watched a movie.
“What kind of party?’ Quill didn’t want to go to a party. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to be sitting in his apartment with her, but Missy’s presence kept him from thinking twenty-four/seven about Assad, and right now that was what he needed. It didn’t matter if he was happy. She didn’t ask about his past and didn’t seem to care about much except when he would pound her again. It was an empty relationship, and it was all Quill felt he deserved. Somewhere through the last month, he had actually started trying to avoid having sex. Any connection he thought they had was stripped away as easily as their clothes when they went at it. Quill hadn’t thought he could feel emptier than he had after nights with nameless women in the bar, but time with Missy proved he could.
“My house is having a mixer. I have to go, and I want you to come.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She sat up to face him. “You’re my boyfriend.”
Quill tried not to cringe at the label. He knew that was probably what they were but wasn’t use to actually hearing the term out loud.
Missy’s eyes drew together. “Aren’t you?” “Yeah. Sure. I guess,” he stuttered.
This was not going well.
“We’ve hung out for a month. Go to class together and have sex. What would you call it, Quill?”
He wanted to call it a mistake but knew that was the wrong answer. So he decided to try Assad’s take on life. “I don’t really like labels.”
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” He tried to keep his face neutral.
“Well, I like labels, and I want you to go to the mixer with me as my boyfriend.” “What exactly is a mixer?”
“Fraternities and Sororities work together to put on a dance. They’re fun. You are my current fuck, so I want you there.”
“Your current fuck?” he repeated.
She shrugged. “If you aren’t my boyfriend, then that’s what you are.”
Quill rubbed his chin. That about covered it for him but hearing her say it kind of hurt his feelings. “You think it’s a good plan for me to show up at a function when I’m not part of the system?”
“It is if you’re my boyfriend.”
Damn, she was really going to peg that label on him.
“I’ll go, but if it gets weird, I’m bailing.” He was on the quest for normal, and attending one of her sorority functions was normal. Although he wasn’t sure how normal was working for him. Normal seemed to be synonymous with bored out of his mind. He liked her fine—most of the time. And most of the time their sex was good, well maybe okay was a better description. If he was honest with himself, it took a few drinks, some weed, or a memory of Assad’s hands on him to get it to the level of good.
Quill had learned to cum from a man grabbing his dick. He was watching a grown man cum before he even could. His first attempt at sex was with a woman guiding his hips into her with little actual participation of his own. He never learned to achieve an orgasm without the element of forbidden meetings in dark corners or a shit load of substances to dull
his brain, His brain had linked the feeling of ejaculating with nightmares and forbidden actions that were on a loop in his head ready to take over in any minute.
Each time Missy and him were together, he had this feeling of needing more. More stimulation, more intensity—more emotion? His need to search out a girl at a bar and take her against the wall or hard against the pallets outside a diner were becoming more intense. Missy was up for hard and fast, but she wasn’t the random fucks—the hard, fast, no-connection kind he was used to, and he had to wonder if that was what he needed. Quill felt like he was on a constant search for something, and the only time he felt like he found it was when Assad had touched him. But he wasn’t sure he could get over his past. And he was sure he could ask Assad to go on that journey with him.
-oOo-
The fraternity was packed. People were spilling out the doors and filling the yard the members had encircled with long sheets of black plastic made into a make shift fence taller than Quill. The guy assigned to monitor the narrow entrance of the barrier was as drunk as the rest of the party goers and only seemed to be successful at keeping the ratio of girls to men at least five to one.
Quill knew the night was not going to end without a fight. Either a fight between him and Missy, or a fight between him and one of the hundred frat boys at the party. Mixer was a fancy word for all out orgy with blaring music.
He stood out like a sore thumb with his motorcycle boots, tattoos, and piercings. The looks he got from the men were full of disdain for the guy who would be washing their beamers in the future. The girls were a different story. They looked at him with desire. He represented a fuck you to the society of expectations their families put on them. He was the secret they all wanted. The pool boy they would keep as their secret affair while the husband was away making millions. He was the fuck they all wanted but couldn’t get from the pretty boys of their social circles. He was dangerous.
Missy had her claws in him and a grin on her face that told him where he thought they stood in the relationship he chose not to label as a relationship. It was apparent this was a little less of a relationship and more of a ‘look at what I got and you don’t.’
He tried to release her vice grip hold, but she wasn’t letting go. “I want a beer,” he leaned in and said in her ear. The alcohol was the main draw of this shindig.
She led him to the kitchen area of the house where a large bar had been set up. “Nice,” he muttered to himself when he saw a line of tequila shots. He could get drunk a lot faster with hard stuff.
“Dude, you in?” asked a guy in a blue polo. “No. He’s with me,” Missy piped up.
Quill glanced down at her. She was getting a bit possessive. “In for what?” “Quill, don’t. They’re trying to take your money.” Missy tugged at him. “In for what?” Quill asked again.
The guy thumbed toward the line of tequila shots. “There are five shots in a line.
Twenty bucks to get in. Everyone puts a twenty down and the one who gets through them first wins the lot.” Preppy boy smiled a challenging grin at him.
“Seriously?” Quill laughed at the simple game. He’d played shot games since the week he’d spent at his mom’s in Junior High. His stomach clenched at the memory.
“Come on, Quilly, it isn’t that bad. Open your throat up and pour it down.” The lady laughed as he had his hands on his knees in a coughing fit. Someone in the room made a rude comment about open throats, and the lady swore a blue streak in their direction.
Quill used the back of his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. He was embarrassed that he’d spewed the foul tasting alcohol down the front of his shirt and wiped at it. He didn’t want the lady to see him as a little boy. He could be a man. It had hurt his feelings when after she’d taken him in her mouth, she’d shooed him out of the room on shaky legs and brought the smelly man with the beard in, locking the door after.
Quill didn’t like being alone, and he didn’t like her treating him like a little boy. He was a man.
He pulled himself together. “If I drink all of these, will you take me in the bedroom next time”?
“Oh, that’s cute baby boy.” “I’m not a baby,” he spat.
Her expression softened as much as a drunk middle aged woman’s could. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I want to stay with you,” he insisted. He didn’t know what he was asking for, but he knew the men didn’t want him anymore. His mom didn’t want him here, and it seemed the only one that did was this lady. He wanted whatever it was that happened in the bedroom after he left if it meant he didn’t have to be alone.
He’d drank five shots of tequila, had his first lesson at intercourse, and thrown up all over the bed after.
“I’m in.” Quill slammed a twenty on the counter.
Missy huffed off.
It took ten seconds for Quill to be a hundred dollars richer and well on his way to drunk off his ass. What better way to seal the deal than to do double or nothing.
“Ten shots, two hundred bucks, or I give it all back.” Quill licked his numbing lips. “We don’t want the tequila back.” One of the preppy’s laughed.
Quill joined in. Fifteen shots in less than five minutes, and he would blowing chunks later for sure, but he bet if he could get Missy in a dark corner he’d have some excellent sex first.
With the idea of some good pussy on his mind, he downed the drinks, collected his winnings, and headed out to find Missy. Unfortunately, he didn’t find her as quickly as he should have.
“Hey there hot stuff.” A girl in a barely there tank top shimmied up to him. “Hey.” He nodded and looked over her head for Missy’s blonde hair.
The girl put her hands on his chest, sending a shiver through him. “Missy isn’t out there.” He glanced down, trying to focus through the tequila chasing his soberness away.
“She went upstairs with her ex.”
Quill growled and shoved the girl aside. What the hell? She’d brought him here knowing her ex was here? By the time Quill reached the top of the stairs, he’d figured Missy had been using him to get her boyfriend back and tonight was the grand finale. So when he burst through the door of the first bedroom he came to, and saw the guy’s white ass, pounding his dick into Missy, Quill lost all common sense. Instead of doing what he knew he should have… and walked away… good riddance… he grabbed the guy by the hair, dislodging their tangled bodies and punched him in the face.
“What the hell, Quill!” Missy started screaming.
“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled at her. “Get fucking dressed.”
Missy started screaming a bunch of stuff about how he was a loser and bad in bed and a drunk, druggy, but none of it registered in his brain. All he knew was this prick was sticking his dick where it didn’t belong. The guy hit the wall, but hadn’t gone down, and Quill had to give him props for squaring up on him in all his naked glory. If he had been sober, a lot of thoughts about the intelligence of fighting a naked guy in a house full of his fraternity brothers would have flooded his brain, but intelligence wasn’t currently in abundance.
Naked guy didn’t need to worry about being naked because before Quill could lay another punch he was taken down by a wave of guys. They had Quill down the stairs and into the backyard before the guy had his jeans buttoned. Quill got in a few good hits, but was outnumbered.
With a final kick to his ribs, the ex-boyfriend spit on him, and the group went back to the party. Quill groaned and rose up to his knees, spitting blood onto the ground. On wobbly legs, he made his way to his car. He was only a little surprised when the girl from the party showed up beside him.
“I can’t let you drive. You’re way too drunk.” Quill blinked at her.
“Give me your keys. I’ll take you home.” Quill dangled his keys in front of her.
-oOo-
Quill’s head pounded, and he had no idea where he was when the morning light jabbed daggers into his eyes.
He buried his head into the unfa
miliar pillow and searched for some memory of the night. His cheek hurt like a bitch, and his teeth were sore. He raised his head carefully, examining the pillow. Small dots of blood covered it. He stuck his tongue out, tasting the rawness of the cut on his lip. He scrunched his eyes closed.
A fight.
Missy’s naked body with the guy.
She’d screwed him over. But did he care?
Quill raised himself up on his elbows and the memory of the shots came with the sour taste in his mouth and the headache.
But where the hell was he?
He looked next to him. A brown mass of hair was on the pillow, attached to a girl he didn’t remember; but remembering wasn’t necessary when he was naked in bed with a used condom still on his dick.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered before pulling himself out of bed in search of his clothes.
Gathering them in a smelly pile, he found a small bathroom. Removed the sticky condom, relieved himself, and assessed the damage. He looked like death warmed over. His cheek was cut, his jaw bruised, and a disturbing looking purple and black blemish marred his side. Touching it lightly, he grimaced. He was pretty sure his ribs were cracked if not broken. How had a night at a Sorority mixer with his self-proclaimed girlfriend turned into a brawl and him in bed with a girl he’d never seen before? He splashed some water on his face. Found some toothpaste and squirted a healthy amount into his mouth, hoping it would kill the taste of whatever had found its way into it last night.
He returned to find the girl sitting up, rubbing her forehead. She looked up when he stood by the edge of the bed.
“Got to go.” was all he said before making a quick exit.
.twenty-two
Quill Diaz
October 27
3:00 p.m.
“You seem awfully quiet today.” Don had a dust rag in his hand and slid it past a magazine Quill had spread out on the counter. “Haven’t been playing much.”
“I practice with Cori after work,” Quill said absently. “But you aren’t working on any of your own stuff.”