Page 64 of The Barn: Frost and Q
“I don’t need this shit, guys, seriously. I have a lot to do, so tell me what it is you want me to know and then get the hell out so I can get to work.”
“The problem is that you’re not doing anything but working,” Boone said. “You didn’t even order food in yesterday.”
Because he was supposed to order in food when his man was on the ground eating MRE’s and figuring out how not to get killed in a flashover.
Something was wrong.
He knew it unequivocally. He could see where Frost was with the team. He had the topographic maps. He had the weather. He knew what the wind was supposed to be doing and what it wasn’t. Something was wrong.
“You’ve got to get some sleep, man.” Boone stared at him, shaking his head. “When’s the last time you had a bath? You’re obsessing over him. He’s a professional. He knows what he’s doing.”
“So am I,” he snapped. “I’m good at this.”
“You can’t do it anymore.”
“Shit.” He whipped around in his chair and got all up in Carson’s grill. “What did you say to me? Do you think that for a second the fact that my legs are not steady affects my ability to decide whether or not the guys are safe? Seriously?” Was he screaming? He thought he might be screaming.
He was absolutely screaming.
“You’re obsessing. You’ve got to stop.”
“I have to do a lot of shit,” Quentin snapped. “I have to get out of bed. I have to function. I have to run our fucking security systems. I have to check the weather patterns over where my husband is. I’ve got to order inventory. I have got to feed my motherfucking dog.” He got that some of the twinks here, some of the subs here were on a twenty-four/seven fucking lifestyle. He got that some people craved submission all the time.
Whatever submission he had? Every bit of it belonged to Frost and Frost alone, and he would do whatever the fuck he wanted to, because he was one-fifth owner of this goddamnmotherfucking building, which meant that, together, he and Frost owned forty, and they were controlling owners.
“We’re just worried about you. That’s all.”
“Go you and your bad self. Be worried. But don’t tell me what I can do and what I can’t do. Because that doesn’t belong to you.”
Fuck. His head hurt.
Boone stared at him. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m not trying to be all down on you and shit. I’m your friend; I’m worried about you. You’re starting to look a little bit like a ghost. And you kind of stink. Like, seriously. Whoa.”
“Yeah. Look, take a shower. Get cleaned up, have some dinner, and then you can get right back to it. We won’t even need you to take a nap.” Carson winked at him. “But you know, basic hygiene is important.”
He flipped Carson off. “Fine, I’ll go take a shower and shit, but come on, guys—” He glanced back over to the screens, something catching his eye. “What are they doing?”
“Who?”
“Frost and them.” He frowned.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re walking right into a death trap.” He grabbed his headphones. “Frost, Frost, you gotta talk to me, man. You gotta talk to me. You gotta turn around.”
“What?” There was some crackle and shit online.
“Listen to me. You gotta turn round. You gotta turn, turn, turn. You gotta listen to me and turn your men around!”
“Cap says we’ve got to get up this side and control this burn.”
“You’re fixing to have an eruption. It’s fixing to go. The VOCs are too high. You’ve got an upslope wind. That son of a bitch is climbing up on the back of you. Turn around, go, go, go!”
The crackling on the line just got worse, and he heard Frost grunt. “Fuck me. We got to turn around, turn around, Chauncey! Back it up, back it up, team! Back it up.”
The phone went dead about the time that the screams started.
Q whipped around and stared at them. “I told you something was wrong, you fuckers.”
