Page 3 of The Barn: Frost and Q
That what? He was safe now? That the son of a bitch who’d shot him wasn’t going to come back? Was that what he was going to have to convince Q of?
Suddenly, he didn’t even want to go up to the floor. He didn’t want to see Q. He didn’t want to see the wheelchair or the crutches or the walker.
Any of it.
This whole thing was his fault, and he just couldn’t face that.
But he had to. Q needed to eat. And no one knew how to stand over the damn man in his hideaway aerie and make him like Frost. So up he would go, and he would take every tempting treat he could find in the kitchen, and he would?—
Be all husbandy. Because he was the one who wouldn’t even look at the damn divorce papers that Q had waved in his face one night when they were both stupid drunk and he’d tried to storm the castle and take back the damn love of his life.
Talk about killing the mood.
He texted the chef on duty and let him know he was coming.
Taking a shower, but then I’ll stop by to grab a tray to take up to Q
I’ll make cinnamon roll pancakes. I have batter in fridge
Thx
That he might be able to get Quentin to eat. And if he couldn’t, well, he’d just worked off a thousand calories chopping wood.
He could always eat two damn plates of pancakes and bacon on his own.
Two
“You’re a fucker, and if you tattletale on me one more time, I’m not going to let you play backgammon with me ever again. I’m going to take your palm print off the door and make you grovel to get in here.” Quentin couldn’t believe that Boone had ratted him out to Frostagain. “What is your fucking problem, man?”
“I have this irrational fear of walking up there one morning to play chess and finding you dead in your wheelchair. Mummified and just sort of sitting there with crows plucking your eyeballs out.” Boone could really mother hen. Even on the phone.
“Okay, well, that was relatively specific…” Cool, sort of, in a sick, sad sort of way, but incredibly specific. He wheeled over to the window and peered down, disappointed to discover that Frost wasn’t still out there. The son of a bitch was hotter than a two-dollar pistol when he was chopping wood. It was unnatural, how studly his husband was. “I’m not starving to death. I have an entire fridge up here.”
“Uh-huh. What’s in it? Wait, don’t tell me. I know! It’s got Dr Peppers, a block of cheese, and one tub of weird-assed, probably moldy by now, chocolate pudding.” Quentin could almost seeBoone roll his eyes. “And if it’s not moldy by now, it’s only because it’s ninety percent plastic.”
Asshole. “You peeked. I also have Cool Whip.”
“That’s like one molecule away from plastic.”
“Still not starving. I don’t need Frost up here riding my ass.” Although that was exactly what he needed, in a very practical sort of way. It was just too fucking bad that Frost wasn’t into him anymore. He hated to admit it, but when Frost looked at him now, it was with pity and sorrow in his gaze. There were tears and regret, and it was just…nauseating. Nauseating was what it was.
A man got shot in the head, and all of a sudden, it was like he wasn’t desirable anymore.
“Regardless, don’t worry, I swear I’m not starving. I’ll eat with you tomorrow, okay? When you come up to play. Now do you want to have our meeting?” That was way more useful than bashing their heads against bullshit that wasn’t going to change.
“Sure, Q. I’m ready. Bring it on.”
He rolled back to his bank of computers and screens, settling in at the place that was the closest he had to home. “Everything is set up for the party, and security-wise, all’s well. One of the little Doms—one of the new guys, uh—” He shuffled through his notes. “Nathan. Nathan Barre. He hasn’t come out of his cabin, not once, and no one went in with him, so possibly a welfare check might be the way to go? You have a food order coming in today, it looks like, so you’ll need to make sure the kitchen’s ready for it. You’ve got two lights down at the beach that are out. Oh, and it looks like you’ve got some kind of owl-nesting situation that’s happening on the top of cabin four.” He had to grin. “I vote that we leave it. However, someone could get attacked coming in or going out, so any guests need to sign a waiver.”
“A…rabid owl waiver?”
Q rolled his eyes. “Something like a wildlife preservation waiver. The Barn is not responsible for acts of bears and birds of prey.” Quentin loved waivers.
“And owls.”
“Owls are birds of prey, dumbass.”
“Owls are cute,” Boone murmured.
