Caught (16 page)

Bottom of the 3
rd

Quinn

I booked it out of Chace’s dorm room as fast as I could without seeming too abnormally hormonal. No need to make Finley question more than she already has. I just hate her nagging and acting like she’s owed so much. No one takes into consideration how I feel or what I’m going through.

But I guess that’s my fault. How can they be considerate of things they are unaware of? Well, Chace should be fully aware of things, but guys are freaking oblivious to shifts in moods and the way girls operate. How we act fine even when we are withering within.

“Yo, Quinn,” I hear yelled from the distance, but I don’t stop. I’m not going back and reasoning with anyone. I just need out. I don’t even care what’s going to be said about me and my devious decision to keep everyone out of the loop. I don’t need to be present for them to talk about me and my life.

The sound of feet pounding the ground gets louder and louder until Greg is walking beside me. I don’t stop my bitching to take his presence into consideration. I’m too annoyed, and if he wants to follow me around, so be it. He can listen to me rant.

“Who does she think she is? My fuckin’ mom? I don’t have to run down my every life decision past her. God, that’s exactly why I made the decision,” I seethe, picking up the pace as I turn the corner down the brightly lit sidewalk. He mumbles something along the lines of asking if it was her that I was mad at. I give him a death glare before spouting off again.

“Of course. Who else could I possibly be pissed at?” I let out a sarcastic huff.

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe the guy you were trying to get away from.”

I stop dead in my tracks and turn to him, striking him in the chest with the tip of my finger. “Look,” I start, wanting to unleash my wrath on him for voicing what he thinks, even though he’s right. It’s not fair to him, but I have no one else that can take the heat.

The pounding of the music seeps out through the double glass doors and suddenly what I was going to say slips away. I glance over, reading the name of the place.

The Crooked Screw. Catchy.

Ohhh. And karaoke tonight. That’s exactly what I need. Singing has always been my antidote. Why wouldn’t it work now?

“Karaoke?” I take the finger I had just been jabbing in Greg’s chest and point to the sign.

“It’s on.” He gives me a devious grin as he rubs his hands together. “Muwahahahaha.”

Greg lets out the worst Dr. Evil-like imitation ever.

We make our way in and find a little two-seater round top table close to the stage. Two girls are up on the stage singing a choppy and screwed up version of Salt-N-Pepa’s
What a Man
. And that’s putting it nicely.

“I’m gonna go flip through the song selection. Wait here. I want whatever I pick to be a surprise.” I push my feet against the floor, sliding my chair back.

“Sure thing, boss lady.” Greg gives me a salute.

I flip open the binder and start scanning through songs and artists, snickering and scrunching my nose up along the way. The selection is hideous and spectacular all in one. Tonight is definitely going to get interesting. Once my finger stops, I know without a doubt it’s the song I have to sing. I don’t even have to look any further. I check out the list that is about halfway full and jot my name down. And then write Greg’s after.

I prance back over to our table with a grin I couldn’t contain even if I wanted to—which I don’t want to.

“Go pick out a song,” I sing with amusement.

“I don’t need to,” he replies before taking a gulp from his drink. I open my straw and stick it into the soda Greg has ordered for me. He eyes me as I take a long sip of my drink, making me wonder what song he could possibly want to sing. An unexpected taste hits the back of my throat, and I contemplate spitting it out, telling him my drink is jacked.

“Too strong?” He smirks, taking another gulp of his.

“Did you roofie me?” I tease, taking another sip now that I know what to expect.

He laughs. “Like I’d need to drug you to get into your pants.” His face turns serious, and I know all joking is momentarily aside. I squirm a bit in my seat, not knowing what to say. Greg just shakes his head and sighs before finishing off his drink.

“I need a refill,” he says, pushing his chair back. “You good?” He motions with a nod towards my more than halfway full drink.

I smile. “Yeah, I’m good.” And it’s the truth. In this moment, all might be right in my world. I have my amazing friend, music, soon to be singing, and the spiked soda only adds to it.

The DJ begins calling off names, and no one walks to the stage. Apparently the posse that was listed before my name has all left. No sweat off my back. I’m stoked to get this party going sooner than planned. My name is called, and I scoot my chair back and head for the stage.

“Thank God,” I hear the DJ mumble as I make my way towards him. I lean over his booth and tell him the song I want to sing, and then walk back to the microphone. No one is paying attention to me, and it eases a bit of the nerves I’m starting to feel. Greg’s making his way back to the table, and lets out a cat call that makes me grin.

“Get em’, Q.”                            

The drumming to
Flagpole Sitta
by Harvey Danger begins, and I can’t keep still. There’s just something about this song that will make you move, even if it’s just nodding your head to the beat. When the chorus begins I start jumping up and down, and Greg does the same as he stands in front of the stage, doing his crazy dancing that he always does. He’s very theatrical with this song, and I have to look away from him to keep from laughing.

The song slows down, and I drop to my knees and close my eyes, zoning out with the music. I stand up right before the drums come back full force. I open my eyes and see the area in front of the stage has filled up and it’s no longer just Greg and I jumping up and down.

The song ends, and the bar erupts in claps and whistles. Greg jumps on stage and wraps his beastly arms around me, lifting me high in the air.

“You were made to be on a stage,” he whispers in my ear before slowly letting me slide down his body. “Seriously, though. Your singing could give me an orgasm.”

“And I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.” I laugh.

“Most definitely. Anything that can get me off is special in my book.”

“So which of your hands is special?” I joke, and Greg’s face turns stern for a minute before easing back to his carefree self.

“Both.” He shrugs.

I shake my head and turn to walk off the stage to let him do his thing, but he grabs my hand, spinning me back around. He grabs the other mic and taps on it a few times.

“Ahem. Ladies and gents, this song that I’m about to sing I’d like to dedicate to the most bodacious babe I know. If you know her, you’re lucky. If you don’t, sorry ‘bout your loss.” He looks my way and gives me his golden boy grin.

The guitar hits the speakers, and I start giggling before Greg even lets out the first word to
Miserable
by Lit. Should’ve known. He begins strutting his way to me while singing, and I start shaking my head back and forth, swaying to the music. I close the distance, placing my back at his side as I begin dancing down his body. When the chorus begins I can’t keep myself from singing the back-up part with him.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The solo guitar part begins, and in true Greg fashion he breaks out the most epic air guitar impression ever. The girls in front of the stage start to hoot and holler, and I know he’s eating it up. This guy was made to be in the limelight—doesn’t even matter what type it is. If it’s attention grabbing, it’s for him. 

The song is near the end, and I glance over at my friend and smile. He didn’t have to follow me out of Chace’s, but he did. He didn’t come to town to see me – hell; he didn’t even know I was here. But he didn’t want me to be alone. Friendships like this are the unbreakable kind. Friends like this are the irreplaceable kind.

Top of the 4
th  

Chace

My phone dings, and I glance down at a sleeping Finley, hoping that she doesn’t wake up.  She had been pissed when they up and left.  It had taken me a lot of cuddling and coaxing to get her to chill out.  We popped in a movie and within minutes she was softly snoring in the crook of my arm.  I’m still staring down at her when my phone goes off for a second time.  She sighs and rolls over as I click open the incoming message on my screen.

              Greg: yo, Fuckass! 

Greg: Why aren’t you down here watching your girl?

              I shake my head and quickly type out my reply. 

             
Me: Because I’m here…watching my girl.

              The three little dots show up at the bottom of the message immediately, letting me know that he’s not wasting any time in responding. 

             
Greg: Nah, lezbehonest.  That’s just your side piece.  And if you were here you’d be pitching a tent.  Your girl’s voice is f’n sexy.  Imma ‘bout to have to rub one out.

              I laugh through my nose, attempting to keep myself quiet.  Finley can be a bear when she wakes up, and to be honest, I don’t really feel like dealing with her at the moment.  My thoughts are problematic enough.

             
Me: She’s not my girl.  And keep your dick in check.

              Greg: You can lie to yourself-you both can, but I know what I see.  And right now I see the f’n sexiest chick I know on stage singing her heart out.

              Here I thought we were fooling everyone.  That we were somehow managing to keep everyone in the dark.  That they wouldn’t notice the electric charge between us.  Of all people it would have to be that big idiot that noticed.

Pressing my hand to my forehead, I take a deep breath.  The walls seem to be closing in on me, and my heart starts to race.  Greg is right.  I should be there.  I’ve seen Quinn sing.  A lot.  She is amazing.  Suddenly stir crazy, I slide my arm carefully out from underneath Finley’s head.  Her blonde hair fans out against the pillow, and I prop myself above her, watching her intently to see any signs of her being awake.  Instead she slaps her tongue against the roof of her mouth and groans before lightly snoring again.

I carefully push myself up and out of bed, continuously looking over my shoulder at her as I make my way across the room.  I slip my feet into my sneakers and quickly slide out the door before gently latching it closed behind me.

My eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden increase of light, and I find myself pulling my phone up in front of my face.  I slide my thumbs across the screen and shoot a text back to Greg.

             
Me: Where are you?

              Instantly the three little dots pop up again.  I smile.  Asshole knew what he was doing all along.  He knew the right things to say, and I had just ousted myself to him. 

              I walk down the hall before my phone dings again. 

             
Gregg:  Ha.  Knew it.  You are so fucked.

              Slightly pissed that he’s not going to just let this go, I slam my body against the main door.  The cool air instantly hits my face, and I find my heartbeat leveling out.

             
Me: Just tell me where the hell you are.

              Greg: Place called the Crooked Screw.  It wasn’t far from the dorm.

              I know exactly what place he is talking about.  I have walked by that little hole in the wall a few times already since I’ve been here.  The name caught my attention, but I never really knew what it was.  Well, now I do.  I stuff my cell phone and both my hands into my pockets and start walking in the direction of the place before my phone goes off again.  I look down.

              Greg:  So are you coming?

              Looking around at where I am, I wonder what the hell I’m doing.  I should be in bed, with Finley.  This shouldn’t be so hard for me.  But knowing that Quinn is there, singing, and more than likely surrounded by drooling guys drives me insane.  I carefully consider how to answer his question.  He already seems to think he knows what’s going on, but in actuality he doesn’t have a clue. No one does, and I’d like to keep it that way.

             
Me: No.  I’m going to bed.

              It doesn’t feel good to lie.  Although I seem to be doing it a lot these days, I don’t enjoy how it makes me feel. Lying to a friend is one of the worst feelings in the world.  Right up there with betrayal.  But this isn’t about Greg.  Hell, it isn’t really even about Quinn.  It’s about me being a gluttonous son of a bitch.  Not only wanting the damn cake, but eating the whole thing in addition to the pie on the neighbor’s window sill.

I just don’t need Greg to continuously harass me about this.  He’ll give me shit all night if he knows I’m there, and that will be just the beginning.  Then it’ll only be a matter of time before others start to find out, and then what?  I shake my head to myself as I approach the Crooked Screw.  I can hear the noise from inside spilling out onto the street.

Without a doubt, I recognize Quinn’s voice. It’s hard to make out through the chorus of cat calls and hoots and hollers.  I open the door and am met by a bouncer.  I hand him a ten-dollar bill without making eye contact with him, my eyes already glued to the stage.  Quinn and Greg are both on stage making complete fools of themselves.  Are they seriously singing the Hot Potato song?  I shake my head.  Those two are out of control.

They finish and take a bow.  I step back against the wall, hoping that the darkness will surround me.  I don’t need to be seen.  That isn’t what this is about.  In fact, I’m not really sure what this is about. 

Greg wraps his arms around Quinn in a bear hug before lifting her off the ground.   Setting her down, he leans forward to one of the microphones.  “How about my girl here?”

The guys in the bar answer with a rousing round of cheers.  My stomach flops over itself and I clench my fists together. 

“I’m gonna let her do one on her own for you,” Greg says loudly.  “She doesn’t need me mucking it up.”  The bar erupts again with cheers and clapping before Greg kisses Quinn on the cheek and hops down from the stage.  She turns and says something to the guy behind the DJ booth before the music kicks up again.  It starts slow and quiet, and Quinn immediately closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel the music.

She starts pacing back and forth, her voice softly singing along.  I immediately recognize the song as
Linger
by The Cranberries. It’s one I’ve heard her sing before.  But this time it’s different.  Sticking to the back wall, I find an empty table and sit down as I continue to watch her.  Unable to take my eyes off her as she feels her way through the song, I listen intently to the words coming straight from her heart.  Hearing the words of the chorus suddenly slam right into my chest.  The guy, while present, wanes.  He keeps in control by feeding off the girl’s emotions.  Being unavailable while keeping her wrapped around his finger.  The words aren’t just speaking directly to me.  They’re telling a different story now than they had any time I heard them before.  No, they’re telling her story.  Her feelings for me.  And suddenly I’m not the good guy anymore.  I bite the inside of my cheek.  I’m the antagonist.