“You’re too nice to them. They have to learn there are no second chances in life,” the professor droned.
His speech was a flat line, hardly wavering with any emotion, and Quinn fought to parse out if the scold was a gentle reproach or condemnation. Luckily for him, Graham’s face changed, softening back into its normal stiff features.
“Really, Morgan. A deadline is a deadline. They have to keep to it. You shouldn’t give out special compensations just because a girl is pretty and doesn’t wear a bra when she asks you for more time.”
“A bra? The bra’s the least of it. She should have worn a jacket. It’s cold enough to lose body parts out here,” he snorted, finishing up his notes. “I didn’t really give her an extension. Any student can turn a paper in a week late and take the dock. They’ve just got to tell me. She probably forgot.”
“I….” Graham sighed. “Are you heading straight home? Or do you have time for a pint? The Goose and Pig is having a reading in an hour. If you’re free.”
“Damn, I would, but I have a family thing.” His mind chased down where he needed to be, lost in what was waiting for him across the bridge. If he was lucky, traffic on the 80 and across the Oakland Bridge would be light. A second later, he remembered he needed to respond better, slap on a smear of normal to the flat answer he’d given Graham. “Brother’s boyfriend is reopening his coffee shop. It’s an all-Morgans-on-deck thing. Next time?”
“Definitely family first.” Graham’s nose twitched, a flare of nostrils at odds with the tiny smile on his thin lips. “I’ll see you on Monday if you come in. Remind me to give you that book if I forget. It’s in my office.”
Quinn was halfway across the quad before it dawned on him to ask Graham to join him. Looking back over his shoulder, he muttered a quick curse when he saw the other professor was nowhere to be found.
“Fuck. Invite. People want to be invited. Shit.” A bit of shame rolled over him, a guilt born of knowing he’d fucked up. It burned a hot roll of sand over his thoughts, prickling at his mind. “Hell. Fuck.”
Envy was a silly thing, but he had it in spades. Con and Kane socialized like it was as easy as breathing, and Quinn loathed the awkward starts and fits he had when interacting with people. Every conversation was a minefield, filled with nuances and trip wires he couldn’t see and quicksand deep enough to suck him straight down and drown him in situations he didn’t understand.
“No, that’s not right,” he muttered to himself as he approached his car. “Quicksand doesn’t suck people down. Not usually. It’d have to be pretty deep. And depends on where it is. Sand to water ratio—and how the hell did I get to that? God, how many times has Da said, pull your brain up, Quinn boy. Fecking hell, but ah, here you are. How are you, love?”
He’d found the love of his life—or at least bought it. Gleaming black and low, the R8 was a stupid expense in the scheme of things, an impractical sports car with sleek lines and a wicked smile, and Quinn’d wanted it as soon as he’d seen it. He had no regrets. The money was there to be used, and even as his siblings gave him a lot of crap for buying what was basically an engine and two seats, he stood by his choice. Unlike his brothers and one sister, he didn’t need a vehicle sturdy enough to be used as a tank in case police action was needed. What he needed was something comfortable, fast, and aggressive to make the drive from his townhouse in the city to his alma mater and back. If he’d been smart, he would have parked the Audi out in the sun instead of in the structure, but a quick flick of the heater, and Quinn was on his way to being warmed up.
If only the hot air could reach the cold kernel of fear lodged in his belly, because no matter how comfortable a drive it was going to be to Marshall’s Amp, he was going there not only to celebrate Forest’s reopening of his inherited coffee shop but also to face the biggest mistake Quinn’d ever made in his life.
Rafe Andrade.
God, he was going to have to face Rafe Andrade.
QUINN MADE it off the bridge in record time. Normally he would have taken his time driving past the hulking structures, their metal forms an inspiration for AT-ATs everywhere. He liked driving through to the city, and the Audi was like handling hot butter on a sharp knife. Coming off of the 80, the Audi hugged the road, and Quinn let it drift up into the oncoming curve, taking the swell a bit high. Steering the car down was easy, its engine growling and responsive when he pulled it back into the loop. The Audi responded.