Chaste (12 page)

“I think Mike messed with your head,” he says.

“I thought you liked Mike.”

He sits beside me, knocks his knee into mine. “You’ve lost your faith in men. Like Quinn—”

I punch him in the shoulder. “Don’t talk about Quinn!” I guzzle my Pepsi, smash the plastic cup on the table, and then change my mind and throw it across the room.

“I don’t care if you’re mad. You’ll listen, Kat. Mike sweet-talked you into sleeping with him. Then he treated you like shit. Now you plan to do the same thing to Quinn.”

“You make me sound like a heartless bitch,” I say, crossing my arms over my stomach. If I’m going to hurt someone, it might as well be Quinn. He’s played me for a fool.

“This scheme is going to blow up in your face.” John wiggles his eyebrows. “Come on, admit it. You like him.”

Quinn’s a lying prick. “I need him for the bet, that’s all.”

John flashes me one of his smug smiles. So I know he’s about to assert his unwelcome opinion. He puts his plastic cup on the table.

“Is there a reason you always lie to yourself, Kat? Because I see how you look at him. Hell, the whole school sees it. And just for the record, Mike and Quinn are nothing alike.”

I want to punch him in the face. Instead I dig my nails into my palms, squint at the lights and look away from John. He’s right about one thing. Mike and Quinn are nothing alike. Mike has wicked, hungry eyes, whereas Quinn has open sky-blue ones that make you believe he’s totally innocent. Will they look like that when I touch his—

Damn
. What am I thinking? If it weren’t for my camera, I’d stay as far from Quinn Walker as humanly possible. He lied to me. So why can’t I get him out of my head? I need a distraction. Now.

Through the maze of people, I see Mike talking to Tasha. She’s flipping back her long blond hair, batting her lashes and leaning toward him. He’s leaning away, yawning, and stealing glances at me.
Hmmm, a distraction.

Before I can change my mind, I cross the room and snake my arms around Mike’s waist. He turns and looks down at me, a gleam of triumph in those wicked, dark eyes. My emotions may be fogging up my brain, but dark is familiar. Light is changeable and scary, but dark is honest about its nature. It wraps me in its arms and lifts me off my feet, claims me with searing lips, a hungry tongue, a groping hand.

It helps me forget about light, about the face I can’t get out of my head. So what if I let him swallow me a few months ago, engulf my heart, plunge me into hopelessness? I’m wiser now; I know better than to trust him.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m lying on the roof with the stars gleaming down at me. They make me think about becoming an astronaut, walking on Mars, floating in space. Not that this will ever happen, at least not while I’m sitting on a roof. But the thought is still appealing. There’d be no stupid physics project, no messed up parents, nobody with light eyes looking down his nose at me.

A face, round like the moon, blocks my view of the sky. “Why so quiet, Alley Kat?”

“I’d like to be an astronaut,” I whisper to the heavenly body that just called me by my old pet name.

The moon puts his hand under my shirt, cups my breasts, kisses my neck. I know it’s dangerous kissing a floating rock without a heart, but I don’t care. I make a rasping sound in the back of my throat because it feels good.

“Okay,” he laughs, low and dirty. “If you’re an astronaut, I’m the planet you explore.”

Ironic, since he’s the one doing the exploring. Did he just unhook my bra?

“Mike!” I snap, noticing the dark-eyed moon has managed to push my skirt up to my waist. That my panties are on displayed for the stars and any curious eyes that might look through the window.

“Relax,” he says and kisses me.

I have to admit it feels good, even with the slight angle of the roof and the shingles against my bare legs. That’s the thing about the moon. He fills my head with fog and makes me forget. He molds my body with his hands, pushes himself against me and I let my hands roam under his shirt, over his chest, my fingers tracing the jagged scar on his stomach. He moans and I imagine it’s Quinn moaning.

Damn! I take a peek over my shoulder. The window is open, music is blaring and people are laughing. “Mike is the man!” I hear someone whoop. Humiliation washes over me. My face prickles with the wrong kind of heat. Have I gone insane?

I take my hands out from under the moon’s shirt and hold my fingers up like a talisman between us.

“No more,” I say firmly, taking a breath. I fix my skirt, sit up and refasten the clasp of my bra. Mike helps me to my feet. We climb through the window.

Once inside, I rest against a wall, but my ex has other plans. He loops an arm around my waist, brings me to his chest and puts a possessive hand on my ass. It’s as if he can take me or leave me whenever he chooses, like now I belong to him. Does he really think I want this? The walls come closer until I can’t breathe.

“I hate you!” Tasha screams from across the dim room.

Her eyes are bloodshot as she storms toward us. Her teeth glow and her hair stands up straight. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d been struck by lightning.

“You!” She points at me with shaking fingers. “You think every man on earth should bow at your feet. You’re a whore, a thief, a backstabbing little bitch!”

With every hateful word she flings in my face, I smell beer. She didn’t attack me twenty minutes ago when I lured Mike away. Tasha’s an angry drunk.

I frown up at my Mike. This is his chance to show what he’s worth. Fling himself in front of me and tell Tasha to calm down. Instead he laughs like this is funny.

I shoot him a dirty look and he kisses me. Hard.

“You’ll win this one, Kat. I know you will,” he says, pushing me toward Tasha.

There is no more light, only darkness. No friendship, only betrayal. I squeeze my hands into white-knuckled fists, move back and forth on the balls of my feet, duck when she tries to claw at my face and take aim at Tasha’s perfect nose.

19

Quinn

My dad gave Elijah a blessing earlier. I watched as he put a dab of olive oil in my nephew’s hair and consecrated the anointing in the name of God.

If I were eighteen, I’d have the Melchizedek priesthood instead of the Aaronic. Then I could have helped my dad with the blessing instead of helplessly standing between Amy and Molly as my father called Elijah by his full name and asked God to take away his fever.

Hours later I pace the small square of Elijah’s hospital room as I wait for Amy and Molly to come back with food. Elijah’s fever still hasn’t broken, and my dad knows I’ll likely stay here tonight. He doesn’t expect me home any time soon. But Molly has been pressuring me, insisting I need sleep, saying Amy has it covered and I should go home.

My redheaded friend walks into the room and hands me an egg salad sandwich, a Snickers bar and a plastic bottle of orange juice. Classic vending machine fare.

“Where’s Amy?” I ask.

“Talking to the nurses.”

I nod. “Thanks for the food.”

I sit in the rock-hard chair in the corner and take a bite of the Snickers bar. While I’m chewing, Molly asserts her opinion.

“I don’t like your sister, or your mother,” she says. “They’re both using you.”

I clench the Snickers bar between my fingers. How dare she insult my family! Rushing to swallow the candy, a piece gets stuck in my throat. I drop it and grab my orange juice, twisting off the top.

“Your mother should be here,” she says. “She left you guys to fend for yourselves so she could go to Europe and play. Your father hardly lifts a finger, and Amy … Amy …”

Her voice has gotten louder; her face is growing redder too. It almost matches her hair. “She should have put it up for adoption!”

Lifting the orange juice bottle to my mouth, I guzzle it down in four gulps. Now that the candy piece is gone, I can speak my mind.

“Elijah’s not an it!” I snap.

She waves away my response with her hand. “It’s obvious Amy can’t do it alone. She needs help, and you have a life. How selfish can your mother be? She should get on the first plane back and come ho—”

“She’s paid her dues as a stay-at-home mom,” I cut in. “All her married life she’s been doing laundry, washing dishes, kissing boo boos. She gave up her career for eighteen years to raise Amy and me. It isn’t like she woke up one day and said ‘Amy’s pregnant! Time to go to Europe.’”

I ball up the candy bar wrapper and fling it into the trash. Molly has no right to insult my mother.

“Her timing sucks!”

“She shouldn’t have to put her life on hold because Amy can’t keep it together,” I say, knowing the statement is true despite my own resentments.

I still remember how my mother used to lie in bed the year before she went back to work. At first it didn’t bother me. So what if I had to wake her to fix dinner when I got home from school? So what if I had to do laundry on my own? Work builds character and my mother needed me to do it. I was a good son, so I did. Then I realized she wasn’t happy, because every time she ruffled my hair she’d cry. When she watched TV, when she stood in the sun, even when she looked out the window she’d cry. My mother went to a psychiatrist. She tried Prozac but, the medicine made her sick to her stomach. Then and only then did she decide to go back to work.

“She should put her family first,” Molly says, hands on her hips. “Your sister needs her. You need her. And Amy—”

“Amy what?” My sister says, coming through the door with a soda in her hand.

“Molly was just leaving,” I cut in.

“But I need to give you a ride,” Molly says. “You’re tired. Amy’s here and Elijah’s her
son. Let me take you home. Come on, Quinn. I’m tired too!”

Whoa! Well, she’s certainly inconvenienced, isn’t she?

“I’ll go when Amy goes. You go home,” I say, glancing at my watch. “You have, what, half an hour before you have to deliver
The Washington Post
? Guess I’m not the only one who lets their family use them.”

The words roll off my tongue like acid. I know they hurt when I see her wince. Yep, she visibly takes a step back and instead of regretting it, I feel vindicated.

I picture my mother shaking her head. She would not be happy with what I just said. She’d tell me to stand my ground without attacking others. She’d tell me to be a man. And it occurs to me now that I’m not a very good man. That maybe I never will be because Molly has been supportive today. She’s stayed for hours at the hospital. And I should be grateful. Instead I’m angry.

“You want me to leave? Fine, I’ll leave!” Molly grabs her brown leather purse and marches out the door.

“Why didn’t you let her take you home?” My sister raises one puzzled eyebrow.

“Elijah’s fever still hasn’t broken,” I point out.

When I shut my eyes, the floor tilts. My body sways as I try to keep my balance. This must be what it feels like to sleep on your feet. Snapping my eyes open, I focus on the closed curtains behind Amy and the corner chair.

They’re sage green, one shade lighter than Kat’s eyes.

Have I lost my mind? Why am I thinking about Kat? I try to wipe her from my brain, but her face keeps coming back. I remember her pouting lips, her saucy words, her gorgeous eyelashes. I’ve said my share of insulting things to Kat, but for some reason, she still talks to me. Suddenly, what I said to Molly doesn’t seem so terrible.

I brace my hand on the wall in an attempt to rest without actually resting, to sleep without lying down. My eyelids feel like they’ve been coated in sand.

“I’m going on a walk,” I tell Amy. “I need air.”

If I’d thought it through instead of lashing out, maybe I’d have taken that ride home from Molly. Amy can’t leave, my dad took the other car and now I’m stuck here without any place to sleep, which wouldn’t be so bad if my body didn’t feel like it might collapse at any moment. The halls of the hospital look unnaturally dim as I pass a man in a wheelchair, a nurse with a clipboard, a patient holding the back of his paper gown shut.

I hate the alcohol and iodine smell of hospitals, the smell of stale air and stale food. I hate that I didn’t practice my cello today, that I have to choose between my music and Elijah, that nothing I do is good enough.

When I walk into the elevator, I push the button marked
L
. Fairfax Hospital is huge. The first time I came here I got lost. Now that I’ve been here far too long, I know it like the back of my hand.

Double doors open onto the lobby, and I feel carpet under my shoes. Tall, frond-covered plants are set up every few feet. Light pink walls sway around me as I walk toward a floral-patterned couch. It’s not very masculine, but at this point, I don’t care. Give me a bed, a couch, anyplace comfortable where I can sleep.

“Quinn?” It’s Kat’s voice.

Am I hallucinating? I look up at the fluorescent lights with the hope they’ll slap me awake and make the room stop spinning. Everything around me blurs into a swirling ball of light. Yep, I’m definitely hallucinating.

Without taking my eyes off the lights, I stagger forward and catch myself on the arm of a chair. At least, I think it’s the arm of a chair. My eyes drift down. No chair, a person’s naked arm.

“Are you okay?”

I look down into clear green eyes. Kat’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” I mumble, thinking how odd I must look staggering around in the middle of the lobby.

I’m shocked when she grasps my forearms. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.”

It isn’t falling that scares me. It’s failure. Failure to be the man I should be.

“What are you, drunk?” She guides me to the couch, pushing me down by the arms until I land on a cushion.

When she lets go, I lean my head back as far as possible. The cushion next to me sinks. Her knees bump up against mine.

“I don’t drink.”

“Sure you don’t,” Kat says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just like you don’t go out with bad girls, sleep around, or get anyone pregnant.”

Did she just accuse of me of drinking and sleeping around in the same breath? No way. Though I know it will likely only result in falling asleep, I let my eyes close. Anything to keep the room from spinning.