Quinn and I announced his live-in lover status that very morning, although in not quite as vulgar terms, by sneaking into a snoozing Noah’s room, climbing onto his mattress, and jumping on his bed. If he was still traumatized by the events of yesterday, you wouldn’t know it. Noah rose from a dead sleep to join us in a three-person bounce fest.
And when we made our way into the kitchen for breakfast, he never questioned Quinn’s presence. Not once. Like, how many mornings had we wasted taking his feelings into consideration, when he couldn’t care less? And to top it off, I’d made Quinn a raging caffeine addict for nothing.
When Noah got up to grab something out of the refrigerator, I reached over and cupped Quinn’s cheek, feeling nothing but affection for this man.
“I love you.”
His eyes held me steady. “I love you too.”
Noah slid back into his chair, gripping the milk container, his head shifting from me to Quinn. And then, without a word, he poured the milk into his cereal.
* * *
Quinn was off to the studio early, as usual, and with Noah happily playing his video games, I took the opportunity to check apartment listings. I hadn’t gotten far in the process when a text came in from Andrea.
Have you checked social media, Jess?
No. Why?
You’re trending.
You mean Quinn?
No. You.
Me. Why?
Nick. He posted all about your arrest. Says you’re trying to trick Quinn into marriage. Says he’s trying to warn the McKallister family before it’s too late. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you but I thought you needed to know. Such a shitty thing for him to do.
I dropped my phone and laid my head on the table, the fight beaten out of me.
Victory, once again, went to Nick.
29
Quinn: Eleventh Hour
“Brandon, how many days in a row have you worn that hat?” Matty asked.
During performances, Brandon went au natural, his bleached hair like porcupine quills. But during practice he was never without his black, green, and red Iron MaidenPiece of Mindcap.
“Don’t be hating on my baseball cap. Nicko McBrain, baby,” he said, pointing to the hat. “Only metal’s greatest drummer. And if you disagree, I’ll beat the bloody snot out of you.”
Mike, knowing exactly what buttons to push, said. “What about Tommy…”
“No!” Brandon flicked a drumstick at him.
“Lee,” Mike finished, getting the second drumstick catapulted at him.
“Let me tell you about Tommy Lee,” Brandon said. “Think of it in terms of art. Tommy Lee is equivalent to the painter Thomas Kincaid. Nicko McBrain is Michel Frickin’ Angelo.”
“Who’s that?” Mike asked.
“Michelangelo?” Brandon’s forehead wrinkled. “The guy who painted the Sistine Chapel?”
Mike shrugged. “I’ve heard the name, but don’t know who he is.”
“Seriously? Quinn, please. Help me out here.”
