Page 29 of The Late Hit
“I want to become a grief counselor because, five years ago, my twin brother was killed. Not only did my twin die but, along with him, I lost two other people I was extremely close with. No one was there for me. No one cared about my grief. I was alone. I want to be there for someone who, unfortunately, has to go through what I did but, unlike me, they won’t be alone. And if that’s all,” I pause, throwing my backpack over my shoulder. “I have to catch a flight to honor my brother and friend in a memorial tonight. Thanks for the humiliation, Prof.”
And with that, I hightail it out of the hall, working hard to keep the moisture pooling in my eyes from spilling over.
At quarter to one, I’m packing the last of my bags. After getting back to my room, I decided to take a nice, long soak in the bathtub, since I had extra time, thanks to storming out of my class. It might have been childish and immature, but my mind is all over the place today.
Every year, I struggle with the anniversary of my brother’s death, but this year, I’m going to be home. I haven’t been home around the anniversary date in three years. Pushing the thoughts out of my mind for now, I wheel my suitcase down the stairs. My roommates aren’t home. I grab a piece of paper and write out a quick note for them and leave it on the counter. Making sure I have everything, I head to the front door. Just as I approach the door, there’s a knock.
When I open the door, my eyes widen in surprise to see Quinton standing on the other side. He’s standing there with his hand in the pocket of his dark wash jeans. A tight athletic shirt stretches tightly across his broad, muscular chest. The black ink from his eagle tattoo barely peaks out from the neckline. His dark-brown eyes grow darker as he watches my perusal of his body.
Mouth going dry, I find myself needing water.
He clears his throat and I snap my gaze back up to him. Quinton’s eyes are waiting for me, a smirk stretching across his lips. That perfect dimple makes its appearance.
“Hey, I thought I was picking you up?”
“JP is going to take us,” Quinton answers, gesturing over his shoulder toward Jeremiah’s black, crew cab, pickup truck that’s parked out front.
“Oh awesome, thanks,” I say, wheeling my suitcase to the door.
Looking behind me, I grab my backpack purse that’s doubling as my carry-on, and step onto the stoop with my suitcase. Quinton reaches down and picks up my suitcase while I shut and lock the front door.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be,” I mutter as we head down the steps.
Quinton leads me to the passenger door, but before he gets a chance to open the door, I stop him.
“You sit up front, I’ll sit in the back.”
He gives me a look before opening up the door behind him. Him sitting up front while I sit in the back goes against every chivalrous bone in his body. Climbing up in the back seat, I toss my backpack next to me. Glancing up in the rearview mirror, I find JP’s eyes waiting on mine, concern lacing his gaze.
“Thanks for the ride, Jer,” I say with a smile while Quinton loads my suitcase into the covered truck bed.
Jeremiah gives me a small, knowing smile. All of my friends here know that I hate going home. They might not have the whole story, but they know that I rarely make the flight home.
“There’s a little something in the cup holder for you,” he says, as Quinton climbs into his seat.
Quinton snaps his head in my direction before directing his attention back to Jeremiah. His eyes bore daggers into the side of Jeremiah’s face. As Jeremiah pulls out of the parking lot, I reach for the cup holder. A cold, skinny pen brushes my hand. I pull it out and see a plant sticker on it. Holding the device in my hand, I look up to find Jeremiah watching me. With a slight nod of his head, I know what kind of pen it is. I mean, I could’ve figured it out based on the sticker, but his nod confirms my hunch. He rolls down my window for me as I bring the pen to my lips. Leaning my head back on the headrest, I take a nice long drag from the weed pen and my eyes fall close as I inhale. Holding my inhale, I let my mind relax before exhaling the plume of vapor out the window.
One long drag is all I take.
A little something to take the edge off. A little something to get me through the next few hours. A little something to forget that I’m going home—a home that hasn’t felt like home in what feels like forever.
Twenty minutes later, Quinton and I are wheeling our suitcases into a busy Austin-Bergstrom International. Making our way through security, we find our terminal, which is chaotic. Everyone must be heading to Chicago. Most of the chairs are occupied, but we manage to find two empty seats, collapsing next to each other. My head drops to his shoulder as I inhale a deep breath. His hand finds my knee, and he squeezes. His touch is all I need. It’s calming and comforting. But this time when he squeezes, I feel flutters in my stomach trailing lower.
Well, that’s new.
“Have I ever told you about the time I snuck into the Dallas cheerleaders’ locker room?” Q asks.
I shoot up, eyes turning into saucers at his random comment.
A low, rumbling chuckle escapes his lips before he continues. “Dad was playing for Dallas when I was ten. I thought I was going into the football team's locker room, but I got turned around. Turns out I was in the wrong wing. I walked right into the locker room that was designated for the cheerleaders. They were all in the process of changing.” He pauses, adding drama to his story. “Tits everywhere.”
A cackle bursts from my lips before I have a chance to stop it. Heads turn toward us from the surrounding people. There was just something about the way he said “tits everywhere” as if it’s just another everyday occurrence to Quinton. Hell, it might be.
“Oh my god, Q. So ten is when your fascination with tits began?”
“Shit, B, it was probably sooner, but damn, seeing those ladies with their tits out in those tiny cheerleading shorts. I was in fucking heaven.” He laughs, eyes rolling up to build up the sexual encounter. “I just stood there staring at headlights. Dallas cheerleaders are every boy's wet dream, and here I was, in their damn locker room.”
