Remember All the Things You Don't Want to Forget: The Prequels: Quinn, Ellis, and Amory (Southern Scandal Book 4)

by Julia McBryant

  Julia McBryant

  Remember All The Things You Don’t Want to Forget: Prequels

  Southern Scandal #4

  Copyright © 2019 by Julia McBryant

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Julia McBryant asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Julia McBryant has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

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  For Daniel

  Contents

  Preface

  Grabbing Bubbles: Quinn

  Taking the Dare: Ellis

  Recompense: Amory

  About the Author

  Also by Julia McBryant

  Preface

  These impressionistic shorts take place before the events in I Wish I Were Special and Beautiful Boys, and should be read in the context of those two novels.

  1

  Grabbing Bubbles: Quinn

  “MOM!” Darcy was yelling and oh no, she caught him. “QUINN STOLE MY NAIL POLISH AGAIN AND HE LEFT IT OPEN AND NOW IT’S ALL OVER THE BATHROOM!”

  “Goddammit, Quinn.” His mother stalked in, black hair trailing behind her. “Quinn Rutledge, what have I told you about nail polish?”

  Quinn looked at the floor.

  “Quinn.” Her voice had a warning in it and he was going to get smacked if he didn’t answer.

  “Nail polish is for girls and I don’t touch anyone else’s anyway.”

  “Exactly. Apologize to your sister.”

  “I’m sorry, Darcy.” He hated Darcy and he was not sorry.

  “Darcy, go get the nail polish remover. Quinn, what goddamn color did you use this time?”

  He swallowed. This would make it so much worse. “Purple. And Pink.”

  “He thinks he’s a unicorn. I heard him playing My Little Pony with Isabel again.”

  “Quinn there’s a line and there’s a line and I will not have a boy in this house who thinks he can play unicorns, do you hear me? Horses are one thing. Unicorns are another. Darcy, after you get me the nail polish remover, get me his My Little Ponies.”

  “NO! MOTHER, NO!”

  “You’re seven. You don’t need them anymore.”

  “Mother, no, please, please don’t get rid of my My Little Ponies.” Quinn tried to stop the tears, but they pricked at his eyes and they’d spill if he turned his head too fast.

  “You can keep your Breyer horses.”

  “But I like —”

  Darcy handed her the polish remover. Mother dragged him into the bathroom and started scrubbing at his nails while he sat on the toilet seat. “You’re ridiculous. Why can’t you act like your brothers? Tristan never steals nail polish. Alexander and Thomas never played with My Little Ponies. Christ. Go play with Wills and Henry instead of Isabel.”

  Quinn started to cry.

  “And you cry at everything. What a baby. I babied you too much.”

  “Where should I put his My Little Ponies, Mother?”

  “With the other things to go to Goodwill.”

  Late that night, Quinn sneaked downstairs. He stole back his very favorite pony, a purple unicorn with a rainbow mane and tail. He hid it under his bed. He hated his sister and he hated his mother and one day he wouldn’t live here anymore. He would live on his own, all alone, away from all of them and their stupid meanness, and he would have all the ponies he wanted and no one would ever stop him. Quinn hugged his bear. No one would ever stop him from doing anything.

  The twins were sixteen and could drive, so they’d brought Quinn to their house — god knew his mother couldn’t bestir herself to take him to the pony club meeting. Quinn and Henry sat next to each other on hay bales: pony club made them clean their own saddles and bridles. Wills had finished his and gone up to the house. Quinn was aware of Henry next to him, of every movement he made. Quinn wanted to move closer but god, this was Henry, they’d gone to each other’s fifth birthday parties. Their thighs nearly touched. The horses munched hay; the barn smelled of alfalfa, of the Neet’s Foot Oil they rubbed into the leather.

  Henry stared at his bridle. Quinn watched him from the corner of his eye. “I kissed someone at Scout camp.” He said it suddenly, out of nowhere, no preamble or lead-up.

  Quinn kept his eyes down. “Aren’t there only guys at Scout camp?”

  “‘S why I thought I could tell you. Because you’re — y’know.”

  Quinn felt himself reddening. Oh shit. He’d never known Henry — never thought he might have a chance — “But I thought you liked girls.”

  “I do. But I guess I also …” He trailed off. “Don’t tell.”

  “I won’t.”

  Quinn sneaked a glance. Henry wasn’t scrubbing his bridle anymore. He sort of held it in his hands and looked at the floor. The air had become somehow electric; Quinn seemed to stand on the edge of something. He had gotten stiff in his breeches and carefully held the bridle over them so Henry couldn’t see.

  He sneaked a look. Henry was holding his bridle the same way.

  Fuck it. Quinn decided to ask. “What do we do now?”

  Henry actually laughed. “I don’t fucking know.”

  “Do you like, kiss me or something?” Quinn made himself laugh too, so Henry had an out in case he didn’t want to.

  “Um, I think so.” Henry looked up. His eyes were so dark in the dim, yellow barn light.

  Ohgod. Henry Culliver wanted to kiss him. He wasn’t like, in love with Henry or anything, but he liked him a whole lot, and if Quinn had to name his best friends, he’d name Calhoun and Henry and Isa. And no one kissed Quinn, no one ever kissed Quinn; Quinn couldn’t name the last time anyone had given him so much as a peck on the cheek.

  Henry leaned down, and Quinn stretched up. Their lips met. Henry’s were soft; Quinn’s felt dry against them. Henry tipped his mouth to the side like Quinn had seen in movies and Quinn opened his mouth like he’d seen happen next. Then Henry opened his mouth, and their mouths sort of moved on each other. Their tongues touched. Henry rested his hand on Quinn’s face and Quinn wrapped his arms around Henry’s neck. They kept at it for a while, trying to get it right, Quinn worrying he was breathing wrong, or his nose was in the way, or he was moving his tongue wrong or holding his lips wrong or something.


  It wasn’t that hot. Quinn’s heart hammered and he couldn’t stop thinking he was screwing something up. But touching someone, touching them and being touched: that part was good. That part was best of all.

  Quinn flopped back onto Calhoun’s bed. Their briefs were sticky but what the fuck ever, he’d borrow a pair of his best friend’s to wear home. Calhoun laid next to him. They both looked at the ceiling because that’s what they did afterwards: they looked at the ceiling. They didn’t cuddle or anything because it wasn’t like that. Quinn had cuddled once with Bastian and it had been really nice, but Bastian was Bastian and Calhoun was Calhoun.

  But Quinn wished they did, even though they weren’t, like, in love or together. Calhoun always felt good against him, warm and safe, his body something sure and concrete and beautiful. Quinn wondered what would happen if he did sort of lay on Calhoun, but no, that would be weird, and Calhoun might think Quinn was in love with him or something, and everything would go to hell. He only had a few more months left at St. Albert’s. He needed Calhoun to make it.

  “Did Doug do that thing again today?” Calhoun spoke to the ceiling instead of to Quinn.

  “You mean the thing where he flips out and swears I looked at his dick? He does that every day we change for fucking gym class.” That hard, swollen feeling started in the back of Quinn’s throat, and he couldn’t swallow. His friends weren’t always around to stop people. And half the time, they picked at his friends, too. God knows Thor, big as he was, got it almost as bad as Quinn, and just because he was quiet. They only stayed away from Wills and Henry because the twins were huge, but W and H C. suck cock still showed up in the boys’ bathroom.

  “What’d you do?”

  “I got in his face and told him if I wanted to see dick it sure as fuck wouldn’t be his.”

  Calhoun laughed. Quinn flipped on his side and curled toward him. He closed his eyes. He wished he could lay his head on Calhoun’s chest. It would be hard and sort of bony but it would be good. When he and Calhoun found their way around each other, when they touched and stroked and pressed together, the pleasure of it all pushed back at the pain.

  “You always get in their faces, Quinnie.”

  “If they see me cry I’m dead.”

  Quinn tried to remember his name afterwards. He tried to remember his face, but even that shifted, blurred. In the morning, sitting alone in his big apartment, drinking a cup of coffee, sorting through the previous night, Quinn mostly recalled the guy’s words: Take it. You like that, don’t you, little twink? You gonna take this whole big cock? Yeah, you’re tight, aren’t you, you baby bitch? Imma give you this whole thing and you’re gonna take it and you’re gonna love it, tell me how much you love it. He had said more words, and Quinn had said more words, too: yeah I want it give it to me, you’re so big oh my god I wanna take the whole thing, gimme the whole thing, gimme your big thick cock I’ll be such a good little boy for you if you just gimme that cock. And maybe he had gone slow with Quinn and maybe he hadn’t. Quinn didn’t have a basis for comparison.

  But either way it had hurt. Well, it hadn’t hurt then. Then it had been mostly just words and swirling lights. But it sure as hell hurt now, sitting cotton-mouthed and head-pounding the morning after. A hangover while you were coming down from an acid trip and had just lost your virginity, probably not very gently, either: not recommended.

  Well, at least he’d gotten that over and done with.

  At least it was finished.

  He laid on his stomach and played video games all morning. His cousin Delia called him eventually and asked if he wanted to go to a party with her and Isa. He thought about it. Hot art school guys, why the hell not? He said he’d come over to their place early and let Isa twink him out. She loved to do his makeup. Quinn loved to let her. He’d sit patiently in her bathroom while she gave him very serious, scoldy directions: Look up. Now look down. Tilt your head this way. Don’t blink. She’d straighten his hair and he’d straighten hers.

  Maybe Quinn wouldn’t pick up a guy. Maybe he’d just go home with Isa and Delia. He’d get to sleep in Isa’s bed. She’d be warm and they could cuddle up together. Isa always understood Quinn.

  Quinn slept in Isa’s bed all the time. Sometimes he imagined sleeping with a guy, a guy bigger than him. Quinn would be the little spoon to someone wrapped around him. He would like someone older than him: someone who could — the words rose up to him, and he grasped at them, like a child grabbing bubbles in the air, bubbles that popped when he touched them — who could keep him safe. Yes. Someone who would keep him safe. Someone who would who hold him, who wouldn’t let go, who wouldn’t hurt him, someone whose face he would remember.

  Quinn wanted to remember his face.

  2

  Taking the Dare: Ellis

  Ellis didn’t remember a time without knowing. No realization slammed him, no bolt from the blue, no sudden moment that struck him like Paul on the road to Tarsus. It came neither as a gathering storm nor a rising tide. It merely was, like the moon in the sky or the ground under his feet, changeable but ever-present, waxing and waning, rising and falling, but reliably, infallibly there.

  He dated girls. Girls liked Ellis a lot. Ellis liked girls too, he just liked guys more. The girls swore to him something about his green eyes and good grades did it. So he took them out and used the manners his mother had drummed into him and they swooned. Violet Summerfield swooned the most, Violet with the dark hair and the pretty brown eyes. Ellis wanted her. He wanted her brother Keenan more, one year younger and slight as his sister, with her pretty lips and eyes, but he contented himself with Violet. He took her to prom, corsage, black tux, black dress, her hair upswept. Keenan took another senior.

  They went to a house party afterwards. Violet got drunk and passed out on a couch. So did Keenan’s date. In some roundabout way, luck of the alcohol, the Irish, the young and infatuated, he found himself sharing a joint with Keenan out back. The full moon shone down in silvered streaks, throwing strange shadows in the formal garden, and they shared a wooden porch swing hidden amid a riot of Savannah greenery.

  “Thanks for the weed.” Keenan took a long drag. The smoke curled in the moonlight.

  “Welcome.” Ellis shrugged. God, Keenan had pretty lips, and sharing a joint was sort of like sharing a kiss, but not.

  Keenan pushed some hair from his forehead. It looked black in the dark. He examined Ellis. “How fucked up are you?”

  “Pretty fucked up.” Ellis took another hit and blew it out in smoke rings. It looked cool and impressed people.

  “Fucked up enough to remember everything in the morning?” Keenan took the joint back.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. What about you?”

  “Hell. I don’t think I’ll remember shit, son.” He pumped his legs a little and set the swing going, then moved closer to Ellis. “I don’t think I’ll remember a damn thing at all.”

  Ellis’s heart began hammering.

  “I’ve seen you look. C’mon. Do it.” Keenan twisted those pretty lips at him.

  Ellis threw Keenan his haughtiest look. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. And I dare you, Livingston. I fucking dare you.”

  “Dare me to what?” Ellis glared.

  “You wanna shotgun?”

  Ellis snorted. His stomach flipped, somersaulted. “Why would I shotgun from a guy?”

  Keenan took a hard hit, held it, put his hand on Ellis’s cheek, and tipped his chin to him. Ellis’s lips opened automatically, and he inhaled the smoke Keenan breathed into his lungs. He held it as long as he could, held Keenan’s lips on his, until he felt himself drowning, until he had to pull back, to exhale and gasp.

  Keenan smirked. “Because you were too goddamn pussy to kiss him, that’s why you’d shotgun from a guy.”

  Fuck that. Ellis grabbed the back of Keenan’s neck, much more roughly than he’d grab a girl’s, and crushed his lips down on the dark-haired guy’s. Keenan sighed into his
mouth and wrapped his arms around Ellis’s neck. Ellis kissed him hard; he bit Keenan’s lip and pushed his tongue into his mouth, then pulled his goddamn hair. He nipped at Keenan one last time, took the joint from his fingers, where he’d been holding it far away from the two of them, hit it, and exhaled. Keenan stared with big eyes and kiss-swollen lips. Ellis moved up to his ear. “Not such a pussy now, Summerfield.”

  He told his parents the Thanksgiving during his freshman year of college, amid the wreckage of turkey and cranberry sauce and oyster casserole. Just the three of them, as usual, dinner ordered from somewhere else, his maternal great-grandmother’s china and his paternal great-grandfather’s silver, the serving utensils like medieval weaponry. His father had too much brandy, of course his father had too much brandy. His mother looked down her nose at him and sipped at port.

  Ellis didn’t speak much. He never spoke much. His mother had already harangued him about his hair touching his collar, oh god just wait until she heard what he had to say next. He straightened his tie, no sense in looking unkempt when he said it. He waited until the pie, they liked the pie best of all. He shifted in his seat and stopped. Ellis had to do this thing as if he were talking about the weather, as if there were nothing wrong, nothing off, nothing strange or different. “Mother, Dad, I have something to tell you.”

  “What is it, Elliston?” His mother heaved a sigh. “Are you failing something?”

  “No. I’m bisexual, and I prefer men.”

  “What?!” She gaped. “Do you mean to tell me you — you do things with men?”

  “Yes.” Ellis said it as if discussing his sex life at the dinner table were the most natural thing in the world. He had to. He kept his face carefully blank, though his stomach flipped and nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Get out.”

  “Excuse me, Mother?” Ellis used his most polite voice. Manners, manners, manners.