Fractured

Chapter 49

QUINN

Two. I lasted two whole days before I started having withdrawals and it's damn pathetic, I swear.

One night, I was completely hypnotized by a rerun of a true crime investigative documentary. The one I watched with Cash a while back, to be precise. And guess what? The old lady killed the neighbor. I was right and that shifty asshat didn't even tell me!

In my complete state of shock and betrayal, I turned to smack his arm and scold him for keeping this very important, life altering, information from me. But he wasn't there. I was quite confused when the back of my hand hit the soft fabric of a throw pillow instead.

Ten minutes were spent apologizing to it to make sure it doesn't turn on me like the rest of this demonic apartment has.

The next day? Yeah, I didn't focus on a damn thing during class except the lack of notifications on my phone. Every few minutes, I swear it would vibrate. But then, when I picked it up, nothing.

I showed up at the club the next night during a moment of weakness, just to find that Cash wasn't there. Gio tried to wave me over to the bar, but I went to Rita instead. I'm not mad at him, but I'm certainly choosing to blame him for my state of deprivation.

Okay, so I know I could have just texted him, but it appears my fingers wouldn't cooperate with my brain. Brain would keep saying "Do it! Text him!" and fingers were all like "No! We don't work for you!"

It was exhausting just listening to them go back and forth. I've concluded that my fingers aren't team players. I should really look into replacing them if they aren't willing to go above and beyond for the greater good.

My Friday class was a blur of awkward glances from Ethan and polite smiles from Angie, the girl who saved me from snotting all over myself that one time by supplying a tissue. Did you know the glands in our noses and throats produce four to eight cups of mucus every day? We swallow most of it. Humans are friggin gross.

Found out Angie isn't a big fan of Oreos, but she does like oatmeal raisin cookies. That pretty much makes her a terrorist, but we all have our flaws, so I'm choosing to overlook it. The good she did for me outweighs the evil residing in her tastebud's soul.

After class, I drag myself along the sidewalk on the way home, my bookbag feeling ten pounds heavier than usual. I'm so fixated on counting the cracks in the concrete that I almost miss the state Hot Mama is in as I pass by her. I halt mid-step and almost trip as I try to turn around.

"Cash!" I squeal while jogging toward him, my arms wrapping around his waist from behind before he gets a chance to react.

I guess I came in a little too hot because his body jolts forward and he makes an oomph sound before his head bounces off the hood of the car he was hunched under.

"Shit." He hisses, his hand flying up to shield his skull from further damage.

Slowly, he turns around to face me. His lips are pulled back in a grimace and his eye is squinted like he's trying to grit through the pain I caused. There's a bit of blood gathering around his sutures. Guess I maaay have reopened the wound just a little, so I allow my guilt to force me back a step.

"Sorry." I mumble, staring down at my untied shoelace.

"All good."

He reaches out and wraps his hand around the back of my head, gradually drawing me in closer to him. I manage to meet his unreadable gaze and take a minute to admire the shades the good lord painted his irises with. A walking masterpiece if I've ever seen one.