Page 36 of Kitty Season
I’d heard enough of him that morning, and the one before that, and the one before that. Quinn, too. Lord did I hear her … and those whimpers and sighs. Their mixed audible pleasure was made all the worse by Troye’s obvious affection for her. Despite all of his ‘we’re not a couple’ bullshit, it’s clear that he’s as mad for her as I am.Andis actually kind of sweet when he thinks no one is watching. That in and of itself is an issue. One that makes me feel … well … something I’m not ready to acknowledge. Now or ever.
Not even to myself.
“Earth to Brades.” Large hockey calloused fingers click in front of my eyes, and I blink myself back to reality.
“Sorry, what?”
“I’ve called you like twenty times, bro. Malkovich can’t remember where he parked. Do you?”
“Quinn three,” I recite before my brain can catch up with my mouth. “Shit. I mean, Q three. Q for Queen. Section Q three. Quinn, I mean Queen three.”
As I would have done should situations be reversed, myfriendsswoop. “Pretty sure I heard Quinn 3,” Cory says. “What about you, Cap?”
Smiling like a fucking idiot, Noah slaps me on the shoulder, knocking me forward a step before grasping to steady me. “Sorry kid, but it definitely sounded like Quinn three. If only Troye was here to confirm. I know. Why don’t you call him, say it again, and see what he thinks?”
“Yeah, well.” I huff, struggling to free myself from his grip. “Why don’t you go get fucked.”
“Ohhh, touchy.” The taunting continues all the way to the car, parked in Q three, which of course, leads to intensified taunting that only ends when Noah pushes past me to claim shotgun.
“Hey, no fair,” I bitch. “I’m almost three inches taller. You should be squeezed in the back.”
“Squeezed, you say?” Cory laughs. “Squeezed. How do you spell that again, Noah?”
“Ahh, I think it’s S for Sexy, Q for Quinn?—”
Fuck, this is going to be a long day. Narrowing my eyes, I try my hardest to glare at my supposed best friend. “Why did I miss you?”
“Because I’m wonderful and you love me. Not as much as Quinn, I know, but still.”
Resigned to my fate, I climb in the back of the first model Prius and pray the traffic becomes the first thing to be kind to me today.
Guess what? After twenty minutes we’re still somewhere within the airport grounds, and the trek only slides down hill from there.
The first face I see as we finally, thank fuck, pull into the pebbled drive of Noah’s mansion, is Troye’s. “It’s not a mansion,” Noah states when I refer to it as such. “It’s a super large apartment. One I will one day replace with a mansion so big, Lotte will never run out of walls to paint.” With that, he’s un-clipping his belt and jumping from the still moving vehicle.
Troye, who is lingering by the front door, arm slung around Quinn’s waist, is utterly ignored because Lotte is there too, Noah’s #13 jersey enveloping her frame as she bops on the balls of her feet. “Little D. You are a sight for sore eye—” His words are swallowed by Lotte who takes three strides then leaps, melding her lips to his, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.
Their never-ending passion for one another would be beautiful, should it not be so gross and … graphic.
“Maybe we should leave.” Cory, who’s shielding his eyes and still in the driver’s seat, suggests. “Troye,” he yells out the window. “Do you have your gear here? Brades and mine are in the trunk. Maybe you can ride with us. We’re getting some food before we head to Conte.”
Mumbling under my breath, I close my eyes and pray.
“Sure do. I call shotgun.”
For fuck’s sake.
I don’t knowwhere the hell Malkovich is taking us, but our drive was long enough for me to drift off. Beyond glum and hazy from my nap, my unrepentant headache thuds and my left hand searches an empty pocket for Poppy.
Man, I miss that troll.
Beside me in the back is Quinn, awkwardly shuffling in her seat when she notices I’m conscious, before pretending she didn’t and turning away to stare out through the window.
Upfront rides her boyfriend, spewing his usual amount of shit that no doubt continued while I was out of it. “So, Cubby my boy. I’ve heard some of the lads call you Spidey. Why is that?”
“Why are you talking to him like you’re a fifty year old leprechaun?” My croaky grumpiness earns a giggle from Quinn, but is ignored by its intended audience.
“Promise you won’t give me shit?” Cory whispers loud enough for us to hear, his cheeks aflame.
