No surprise there. Storm isn’t the easiest person to get along with.
But Quinn’s not the type to let anything get her down for too long. “I’m sure she’ll be fine in a few days. Just go easy on her. She’s…”
“Crazy?” Storm cuts in. “Dramatic? Annoying as hell?”
“Sensitive.”
He makes a grumbling sound. “Yea—oh, hey, Juvie. Phoenix is on the phone. Wanna say hi?”
A moment later, Quinn’s voice comes over the line. Although there’s no pep in it like usual. “Hi.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Is it okay if I stay with Skylar for a couple of days?”
I don’t have an issue with it, but I want to know why she feels the sudden need to flee the scene. Given she has a history of being a runaway, it’s not a good sign. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she whispers. “I just…I really want to see Skylar.”
“Okay.” I take a sip of my water. “You can stay with Skylar for a couple days. But after I think you should come to Hillcrest.”
“No. I’m fine. I swear,” she says, even though I hear her voice crack.
“Quinn—”
“I have my period,” she blurts out. “And I need to go to the store to buy tampons, but I don’t want to ask Storm to drive me because he gets weird about that stuff.”
That makes two of us. However, this I can handle.
“Hang tight. I got you.”
After disconnecting the call, I pull up my speech-to-text app and order ten boxes of tampons and ten pounds' worth of chocolate to be delivered to my house within the next thirty minutes. I figure that should be enough to hold her over for a while.
It’s nice to actually be able to solve a problem for a goddamn change.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” the waitress asks.
Yeah. My wife.
Because I really fucking miss her.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find Lennon dressed in something other than sweatpants and standing in the kitchen when I get home.
Maybe Mrs. Palma was right, and giving her some space was what she needed.
“Hey.”
My smile falls when I see the bottle of booze in her hand. But then I remind myself that aside from our never have I ever game in high school and the night she and Skylar got trashed, she never drinks.
Hell, she could probably use one.
Bridging the space between us, she folds her arms around my neck and kisses me.
It’s like a shot of epinephrine to the heart. Immediately, my arms find her waist and my tongue parts her lips.
Judging by the alcohol on her breath and the overpowering taste I get of it, she’s had more than one drink.
Giggling, her fingers go to the zipper on my jeans. “Want to have some fun?”
My dick says fuck yes, but my mind says pump the brakes because she’s slurring her words.
“You’re drunk.”
“Drunk and horny.”
Then she drops to her knees.
“Lenn—”
Fuck. And now my cock is in her mouth.
Groaning, I grip the counter, my mind and body on two vastly different trains. I crave her, but something about this feels fucking wrong.
Not for my cock, though, because he’s rock hard and having a great time.
But if Lennon was sober right now, she wouldn’t be sucking me off.
She’d be upstairs in bed crying.
Christ. Sometimes doing the honorable thing really fucking sucks—or in my case doesn’t suck—because I stop her.
“You can blow me when you’re not trashed.”
“You don’t…” She sways—a little too much—because she falls back on her ass and her head hits the oven. “You don’t want me?”
I gesture to my dick. “Does it look like I don’t want you?”
She reaches for me again, but I stop her. “You’re drunk.” I run the pad of my thumb over her cheekbone. “Trust me, if you weren’t, I’d fuck you so good you’d beg me not to stop and so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk for days.”
Her lower lip sticks out in an adorable little pout. “Baby, come on.” She shakes her head emphatically. “I’m not dru—”
And then she pukes. All over my shoes, herself, and the floor.
After tucking my cock away, I ease Lennon to her feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers as I lead her out of the kitchen. “I’m such a mess.”