Liam Davis & The Raven (22 page)

The Buck Boozer was exactly what it sounded like: a party selling beer for one dollar per polystyrene cup. Quinn, who rarely drank at parties, gave me a funny frown as he shared the backdoor step with me. “Drinking beer now?”

“It tastes horrible,” I said and
took another bitter sip. “I thought you were hanging with Shannon.”

“Yes, well
 . . .”

We stared into the dark yard
, toward a large maple with a couple draped over a tire swing.

“She’s that upset with you?”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling on his ear. “I wish she’d let me talk. I’m afraid I’ve really disappointed her.”

“Sorry. I’m sure she’ll come around.”
I twisted the beer cup in my hand, and drained the last drip of beer.

“
Have any cash I could borrow?”

I felt for my wallet in my jacket pocket and handed it to him. “Take as much as you need.”

He opened to the flap where I kept my bills, slipped all twenty-five dollars out, and crammed them into his pocket. “Great,” he said. He handed me back my wallet, as empty now as I was feeling.

Huh. “What do you need it for?”

“Insurance.”

“I’m sorry?”

Quinn steered his gaze toward me, half his face shadowed by the night, the other side glowing dimly in the light that seeped through the fogged window of the back door. “Insurance against you getting drunk because you’re upset at something.”

Oh. Well, in that case, perhaps he had good foresight. Not that I planned to get intoxicated, but
 I didn’t care about how the night turned out. I hadn’t even written any notes for my column.

“So, what’s going on, Liam?”

“Just a bit off today.” I counted the swings of the tire as it swung in our direction, and when it stopped swinging, I tried to map out the branches of the maple—darker blotches against an inky sky.

Quinn inched nearer
. Axe and toffee wafted over me. “Blue days suck,” he said.

I stopped counting branches and started counting how many times Quinn blinked. His eyelashes lowered as he dropped his gaze to my mouth
, as if wanting to kiss me. Or perhaps waiting for me to respond. Maybe both.

My lips parted and my heavy breath slipped out, making a sigh. I followed it up with a shrug, and pulled out my notebook. “They are not fun, no.”

Quinn pinched the end of my notebook. “Can I help you come up with an angle?”

I handed him the pen.
Tonight, it was just too much effort. “Go for it.”

He took my pen and scribbled a quick note in the margin, which I read over his shoulder.
Sorry about the BCA results
, it read.

“Hunter’s
a bigger mouth than I thought.” But I was glad he talked to Quinn. Maybe it meant they’d be fine.

Quinn b
umped his shoulder against mine and stared out into the night again, tapping my pen to the notebook. “That’s Hunter, he’s the epitome of selflessness, even at the cost of being a big mouth.”

“I like it.”

“Me too.” He pushed to his feet, and cocked his head toward the back door vibrating with music. “Now let’s get your angle.”

Chapter 17

Quinn and I sat at opposite ends of the dinner table
, both plugged in to our laptops. It was Monday evening, and I was wrapping up my party page column, ready to draft up my feature article. I curled my bare feet around the chair’s legs.

“Yes!” Quinn pumped a hand in the air, looking over at me with a wide grin as he sank triumphant
ly against his chair. “Done.”

I fished around for specif
ics. “Your essay? Or is this a
Dungeons and Dragons
thing?”

He cut a glare. “My essay.
”

In that case, maybe he shouldn’t be cheering
quite yet. I saw his last essay. All of those stray and completely absent commas tampered my nod of approval. “Send it my way,” I said, closing my document. “I’ll proofread.”

Quinn shifted, lips poised to comment, and then he shook his head and rapidly started pounding at his keyboard.

A few minutes later, his email and attached essay popped into my inbox.

You’re fucking gorgeous sitting there, grinning away as you work. Makes me want to sweep our laptops off the table and have you on it.

Q.

P.S. What about Thanksgiving? Going to come with me?

P.P
.S. I damn well know I have a problem with commas. Your constant choice in grammar-oriented T-shirts has not been subtle.

I replied:

Give me an hour on your essay, and then I will carefully remove my laptop from the table. After which, you can ravage me as you please. But don’t mistake it for anything more than sex.

Liam

P.S. Too much to do this weekend, I’m going to pass.

P.P.S. It must be working. The grammar in your mail was spot
-on.

Quinn bit his lip, which didn’t hide his flushed cheeks. He typed something, then lurched up and disappeared to the bathroom.

I refocused my attention on his essay. Certainly the grammar had improved since the last one. But improved didn’t mean great.

A few minutes later another mail came into my inbox, and Quinn was back, squirming in his chair.

Re. Ravaging. Only sex. Got it. (For now.)

Then this
is how it’s going to go and not to worry: it’ll be a laptop-friendly pillaging:

I’m going to start by stealing under the table and taking your big toe into my mouth. I’ll suck it hard and good as I slide my hand to your crotch and rub through the taut material of those slacks you’re wearing. You’ll sag at the sensation, and I’ll take my opportunity, sliding you under the table with me, where you will beg me to get you off. A warning, I’m going to make it slow. I’m going to make sure every scrap of clothing is off both of us
, and then I’m going to lather our dicks in lube, then lie on top of you, hard and solid. I want to feel you arch and rut against me. I want to hear you pant. I want to watch you come. Afterward, I’m going to kiss you until we’re stuck together, right? And then I’m going to ask again if you’ll come for Thanksgiving.

“Quinn, I really do have too much to do—” I looked up, and Quinn was gone.

A shuffle came from under the table.

A hand latched around my foot, and a hot wet mouth engulfed my toe . . .

Wednesday
morning, before Quinn, Hunter, and Shannon left for their Thanksgiving weekend, I stole Hunter away for a quick coffee. We met at our usual spot, Crazy Mocha Coffee.

“You sure you’re not coming back with us?” Hunter asked, arms folded, the hummingbirds at his wrist
s peeking out from under his cuffs.

“Not this time,”
I said, picking up my bag and searching for my first draft on how the internet and mass media support student involvement in environmental protection. The printed pages were a smooth weight in my hands, and I slid them over to Hunter.

“Would you do something for me?”

“Why not this time?”

I gestured to the pages.
“This needs rewriting in parts. After you’ve read it, give me your honest thoughts.”

Hunter rais
ed a brow. I added, “Would you mind?”

Hunter
glanced at the title and scanned the first page, and then he rested it on the table again. “I can tell you my honest thoughts on this already.”

He’d barely read a quarter of it. I s
ank lower into my chair. I’d listen to the criticism, let it soak in, and then do whatever was necessary to strengthen it over the long weekend. “Go ahead.”

His index finger played at the top corner of the pages, bowing the paper.
“It’s smart as hell, but I think you should write about something else.”

A dry laugh left me hollow.
He was kidding. Had to be. This was a feature article—correction,
the
feature article. I couldn’t whip up anything with the quality I needed in only a week. Not if I wanted to do the proper research and interviews—no one was around this weekend. It’d leave me only Monday to Thursday, with Friday to write it.

Then again, that was the world of journalism.
Tight deadlines and the pressure to make every report perfect. I could do it. Of course I could.

So long as I had an angle worth exploring.

Tentatively, shifting in my seat, I asked,
“What, exactly?”

He scratched his upper arm
, sleeve shifting to show the wings of the turquoise hummingbird at his wrist. With a tap of his fingers on the arm of his chair, he said, “Write about me.”

I leaned in to comment, and he held up his hand.

“Let me finish. Not about me, per se, but about my experience. Experiences in general in the dating world as a differently-abled guy. Loads of guys on my basketball team would be open to talking to you about their relationships, successes and failures. Most are gonna be level with you. They’ll tell you all of it. The obvious. The downright scandalous.”

I slid my hand into my pocket, gripping the shaft of my pen, my finger touching the top.
Click. Click.

He continued, “You could make us more approachable, Liam. So many people are afraid of dating us, afraid of saying the wrong thing—afraid of even telling us if they like us because they just don’t know enough. Your readership is wide, man, and I think your writing will have just the right amount of punch to make an impact.”

Hunter held my attention with his level stare and
a shrug.
Click-click-click.

The paper was stained and dented, scrunched at one side. It looked as old and tired as the idea I was forcing onto it.

He was right. The truth didn’t taste pleasant on my tongue, but it was there nevertheless. And hadn’t I in some way wondered the same myself? Why else had I such an urge to show this to Hunter?

I’d wanted his no-bullshit
analysis.

And
I got it. More than that, I got a new idea. A
brilliant
idea, wonderful, and I really wanted to do it. But Quinn intensely disliked it and gave me the cold shoulder when I had tried to use him as an angle before. “I want to do it,” I said to Hunter. “But Quinn wouldn’t want me using you as a means.”

Hunter smiled and shrugged. “
You’re not using me. And even if you were, I know what this features position means to you. I would look the other way. Quinn would too. The question is, does Quinn know why you
really
need this?”

The
café door opened and Quinn entered, Shannon at his heels. Shannon moved stiffly to the counter, and Quinn flipped his keys over his finger as he threaded his way to our table, a dimpled grin lighting his face. “Thought I might find you two in here.”

Quinn
, between Hunter and I, braced a hand on the back of my chair. His thumb casually stroked my back as he told Hunter he should drive his van around to the apartment so they could follow each other.

“Louisville, Kentucky, here we come,” Hunter murmured, glancing toward Shannon balancing two drinks. “So,” he said, “maybe we could change things up? When Shannon or you are driving, one of you could sit with me in the van, right?”

“Miss us already, do you? Or did you want to pry for information about the guy who asked her out on a date?”

“The latter for sure.”

Quinn let go of my chair and dragged another chair over from the neighboring table. He settled himself on it and leaned conspiratorially toward Hunter. A thumb jerked in my direction. “Did you manage to change his mind?”

Hunter laughed. “Better luck next time, Sullivan.”

I picked up the pages from the table and slipped them into my bag, offering my chair to Shannon. She barely looked at me as she nodded and took my place.

I settled my bag strap over my shoulder
and said to Hunter, “Well, I’m not sure if I will take that angle, but it wouldn’t hurt to do some preliminary research.”

Hunter smirked. “Just do it. Quinn will get over it.”

“Get over what?” Quinn asked, looking between us.

“I’ve told him to use me as an angle,” Hunter said, puffing out his chest with
a large breath.

Shannon hummed
, sitting tense in the chair. Hunter glanced at her, as if expecting her to get defensive, but she said nothing.

“Angle?” Quinn’s brow furrowed.

“Yes,” I said as I squeezed out from between Quinn and Shannon. “It bothers me you’re not okay with it, but it really is a good idea, and I am going to do it.”

I clasped
Quinn’s other shoulder and bent down, kissing him quickly on the lips. “I have to get everything I need for the weekend from the office. Drive safely. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Quinn, Hunter, and Shannon blinked at me.

“Oh, and happy Thanksgiving.” I gave them a wave and left, resettling the bag strap on my shoulder.