Quinn Bailey Must Die

2

Sam's bed is shaking when she wakes.

She has a fan plugged into the wall. Military grade earplugs. A white noise machine.

And yet, every morning, she wakes to the sound of a squeaking mattress and you moaning like you're on a casting couch for a bad 60s porno.

Aggravated, she sits up. Launches a pillow at the wall in the hope it will quell your happy groans.

It doesn't.

"Tara, YN!" She yells, more than fed up, "Shut up! Shut the fuck up."

You hear Tara groan through the walls. A quiet shush. The bed stops shaking. Sam slumps back into her pillows, content.

Tara has never cared, but at least you can be shamed into silence.

She closes her eyes, snuggles back into her pillows for a couple more hours of precious sleep.

A few minutes go by, and just as Sam is on the cusp of unconsciousness, she hears you let out another, loud moan.

"Oh, Tara-"

Sam sits up.

Fuck this, she thinks as she grouchily shimmies back into an old hoodie, I'll sleep outside.

-

When Sam returns to the kitchen - after seventy minutes of tossing and turning with a pillow and a blanket in the apartment hallway - Tara has the audacity to look pleased with herself.

She's wearing one of your old t-shirts, absent-mindedly stroking your hair as she sips on a cup of coffee. As if her bedroom activities hadn't driven Sam out of hers.

Sam is fuming. Her cheeks are red as she slams her bedding onto the couch.

You turn at the same time Tara does.

"What's up, Sam?" Asks Tara, like she doesn't know the answer, "You look like you've just been dragged through a bush backwards."

"You know what's up," Sam growls. She snatches a mug from the kitchen counter and pours herself a healthy helping of coffee, "How many times do I have to tell you-"

"Relax, Sam," Tara says with a roll of her eyes, "We didn't realize you were awake. We're sorry-"

"I wasn't awake until you woke me," Sam says, jabbing a finger towards her nonplussed sister, "This is ridiculous. It's the third time this week. If you two can't respect my boundaries-"

Your face is a little hot. You shoot an apologetic look towards Sam, "We're sorry, Sam," You say, "We get... carried away sometimes."

But Tara looks annoyed.

"This is our home," Says Tara, "If we want to fuck, we will. You don't have to stay if you don't want to-"

Sam slams her hand to the counter, making you jump.

"You asked me to come here," She growls. She looks a little wild; red cheek, hair messy and ruffled, dark, tired eyes, "You asked me to pitch in. If you want me to go, I'm taking my share of the rent with me."

Tara crosses her arms, unhappily.

"I'm doing the two of you a favor by being here. You think I can afford to pay New York City rent and California rent? The least you can do is not have loud sex at six AM-" Continues Sam, voice strained.

"You're right, we're sorry, Sam," You interject, eyebrows pinched, "Right, babe? We'll be quieter."

Tara's quiet for a moment, but Sam knows her sister. She knows the things Tara's thinking in her head, and none of them are favorable.