Liam Davis & The Raven Page 9

  I pointed my spoon toward him. “What happened to your wrist?”

  Quinn yanked his sleeve further down. “Nothing much. Light sprain is all. Happens teaching self-defense sometimes. It’ll be fine in a day or so.” He slid off the table, grabbed his laptop from the glass coffee table in front of the couch and settled on the couch to work.

  As soon as I’d licked my bowl clean, I rinsed it and quietly snuck into my bedroom. It was strange constantly sharing the same space with someone, and I wasn’t yet sure where the line was drawn when it came to encroaching on Quinn’s privacy.

  I tucked myself into bed with my laptop and emailed a student named Garret, who’d been rescued by The Raven last year. After that, I sent Mom a quick update on my roommate, and then I swapped the laptop for my English Literature readings.

  Alone in my room was fine. It was normal, and it . . . well, there was something comforting about knowing there was someone in the next room.

  Dum-da-da-dum-dum came a knock at my door.

  I straightened. “Yes?”

  Quinn opened the door and let himself in, swinging his arms into a clap. “See, the thing is,” he said and jumped onto the bed, pinning one of my feet. I wedged it free. “You don’t have a TV.”

  “It’s not my thing,” I said, slipping a bookmark into my book and resting it on the second pillow.

  “I’ve been bored out of my mind the last few nights,” he said as he laid himself on his side and propped his head up with his elbow.

  “Don’t you have studying to do?”

  “I can’t be studying all the time, I’d go nuts.”

  I glanced at my required reading. “You could invite someone over if you like. I won’t disturb you.”

  “Don’t have anyone I want to invite over right now.”

  “Not Shannon? Hunter?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head sadly. “Shannon is taking Hunter out to dinner tonight.”

  “Is there something wrong with that?” I asked.

  “No. It’s just . . . she tries too hard sometimes. Not that she’d ever listen to me when it comes to Hunter.”

  I thought back to the moment at Crazy Mocha Coffee. “She’s very protective of him. I’m sure that’s normal for a sibling.”

  Quinn plucked at the blankets close to my toes. “Yeah, sometimes.” He pinched my foot. “Let’s play some cards or something. Game?”

  I hesitated a moment and then pointed toward the small bookshelf I had in the corner next to the dresser.

  “Third shelf from the top. And Quinn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m good at cards.”

  Chief Benedict leaned back in his chair and gazed at each of us sitting around the oval table. I sat at the perfect angle—the Cathedral of Learning looked like an extension of his prominence.

  I shifted on the hard seat, my fingers gripping my pen, poised to take more notes. After an hour in the room, surely we were close to winding down.

  “Last delegations,” Chief said, focusing on Jack, who sat next to Jill with crossed arms. He jerked a thumb behind him toward the cathedral. “Write a report on the reopening of the 32nd floor. The rest of you, BCA placements twenty-five through fifty come out the beginning of November. I’ll hang a list on the noticeboard.”

  Chief stroked the spine of his frayed leather binder. “One last thing before you go.” He cleared his throat. “I am pleased at the results I am getting from you. I’m proud of this team, and I look forward to reading more of your skilled work. Thank you.”

  Jill slumped further in his seat, and both he and Jack sent me a withering glance—one I happily reciprocated.

  “Well? What are you all still sitting here for? Get back to work. Liam, hang on a moment.”

  I waited until the others left before I approached Chief Benedict. “Yes, chief?”

  He stood from his chair, coming to a stand in front of me. “How’s it going?”

  “As well as can be expected. I am assuming you held me back for a reason?”

  He let out an amused huff. “About your party page pieces . . .”

  My fingers itched for my pen as I waited for him to continue.

  Chief stroked his beard. “They’re solid, and they’ll do, but I think you might be missing the point.”

  I folded my arms. “And what point is that?”

  “To diversify your style. To get you to jump into the shoes of others.” The chief glanced over my shoulder at the thrum of the office behind us. “What you are giving me is the same in tone as your politics articles. I want to see you challenge yourself by pitching your writing to your target audience.”

  I had nothing to say to that, so I gave him a sharp nod. I wasn’t expecting his hand to clasp my shoulder, but when it did, the awful tightness in my throat made it difficult to swallow.

  “I truly just want to help you become a better writer,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “Yes, sir. I want that position we talked about.”

  “You know it won’t be the end of your career if you don’t get it, right?”

  I did know that. There would be other jobs out there for me, but I wanted the apprenticeship, and maybe . . . maybe there was a part that wondered what it would be like to have my father’s approval. “I’m going to land the position.”

  The chief dropped his hand. “I like your focus, but be prepared for me to say you’re not ready.”

  Dismissed, I went back to my desk and finished jotting down the names from past Scribe issues that had anything to do with The Raven.

  Hannah looked over her desk at me and gave a shy smile as she picked up an eraser and fiddled with it.

  “You seem like you want to say something,” I said, leaning back in my chair to focus on her.

  In this light, her hair looked less like mahogany and more like sixty-percent chocolate. She tucked a strand behind her ear as she cleared her throat. “Sunday’s only a few days away now . . . ”

  I grabbed my pen and started clicking. “Yes, it is.”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “Liam?” Hannah asked.

  “Yeah, I still need to think. We work together. Things could get awkward—”

  Two things interrupted me at the same time.

  The first was Mitch—clad in a fitted brown T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots—strolling through the door and scanning the room for me.

  The second was my phone ringing. I let it shrill two times as I waved to catch Mitch’s attention before answering it. I mouthed an apology to Hannah, who shrugged and ducked her head.

  “Liam Davis, Scribe.”

  “Hi, this is Garret. I’m calling about the email.”

  “Garret? Yes, yes. I am looking for any information I can get on The Raven.” Just that morning, an anonymous thank-you letter arrived at Scribe, addressed to The Raven. He’d saved again, and at no small cost. The victim worried The Raven had a torn wing.

  Hannah’s head snapped up and she gave me a quizzical look. At the same time, Mitch slowed to a stop at my desk.

  Garret breathed heavily down the line. “I don’t remember much. I was in the hospital for a few days afterward.”

  “Anything you know might help me piece things together.”

  “You want to find him?”

  “Yes.”

  Mitch looked curiously at my stapler, and more specifically at the eyes-and-mouth stickers decorating it. A Jack and Jill prank. Seeing I had no real friends, they’d stuck faces on all my office supplies—coffee cup, paper tray, tape holder. My office friends, they’d said.

  It hadn’t bothered me much.

  Until Mitch jokingly pressed against the end of the stapler as if it could speak. I swallowed an angry lump.

  Mitch would want to know why I’d done it, and when I explained, he might just think me as pathetic and laughable as the rest of campus sniggering over my party page columns.

  “Why?” Garret asked, bringing me back to the call. “This guy saved me, I don’t want to sni
tch and get him into trouble.”

  “I don’t want that either.”

  I might have initially wanted to expose him just so I could feel better about myself and secure the features editor position, but my incentive changed the moment I read the threat at Hannah’s desk.

  The Raven’s gonna lose his wings

  We’ll smile while he sings and sings

  Then we’d love to watch him fly

  Through a deep, dark, angry sky

  I stared at the stack of Scribe magazines on the corner of my desk. From the swirls of colors, the haunting memory of Freddy’s fingers surfaced. I shivered.

  “I only really remember his shit-kickers,” Garret said. “They were black and sort of fitting, and they sort of made me think the guy was gay. Which, hell, I know is a stereotype, but trust me I wouldn’t have minded a jot.”

  “Thank you, Garret,” I said before ending the call.

  Mitch frowned. “Interesting call?”

  I snapped out of my chair. “Yes. Come with me.” I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair and slipped it on. “Let’s go someplace we can talk.”

  Mitch followed after me. “So . . . what’s up with all the stickers?”

  “I’m going to get right to the point,” I said, taking a seat outside with an excellent view of the spot where I’d banged into Hunter the first time. Mitch sat beside me and handed over half the sandwich we’d bought from the cafeteria to share. A light breeze rustled the leaves.

  The sun peeking through the clouds highlighted the copper in Mitch’s hair, which shone perfectly in the early shades of fall. He nibbled on his bread crust, staring toward a pair of squirrels scampering at the base of an oak. “I have Improv Theater soon, so to the point is good.”

  I bit into the sandwich, and a blob of mayonnaise splattered onto the thigh of my tan slacks. Wiping it off, I said, “Are you interested in dating Hunter?”

  Mitch spluttered, and crumbs flew everywhere. The squirrels stopped and took notice. Mitch studied me, biting his bottom lip. “I want to,” he finally said. “But . . . I mean, he’s . . . wow, he’s a charmer.”

  “So what bothers you?”

  His cheeks bloomed the color of the leaves. “It wouldn’t be right. I shouldn’t.”

  Wouldn’t be right? I could honestly say I didn’t know what that meant, let alone how to respond. “Can you explain?”

  “I mean, I . . . I have no idea how to date a guy, let alone one in a wheelchair!”

  “Yes. That’s a pickle.” Hunter had made a bad decision employing me as his mole. How was I supposed to help when I barely knew how to date a girl, let alone a guy, let alone one in a wheelchair?

  “It’s just, you know,” he said, “I question myself over everything. What if I say the wrong thing, like ‘let’s go for a walk’ or something stupid and I offend him?”

  “Okay, stop right there,” I said, swiveling more in his direction. At least I could help on this point. “Granted I’ve only known Hunter a short while, but one thing I’m pretty sure about is that he’s not easily offended. Besides, ‘going for a walk’ is an expression. He’ll get that.”

  “I’m scared. I’ll do something wrong.”

  “And what if you do something right?”

  That had him thinking, and a smallish smile bracketed his mouth. “I do want to see him again. It’s just—”

  “Good. I’ll tell him you said so.”

  “Along with everything else?” he asked, finally taking a proper bite of his sandwich.

  “Yes.” I leaned back and stared at the lightly-clouded sky. Just maybe Hunter was right; I had to make my own luck.

  And I would.

  I’d make real friends.

  I’d wow chief with the best feature article.

  And I’d write the best party page column Scribe had ever seen.

  CHAPTER 8

  I had a third tea. The chamomile and honey running down my throat soothed me, and it sparked just the right energy in me to concentrate on the essay I had to write on the most influential villains in literature.

  I slurped up the last of the tea, catching the gooey honey on my tongue, and got up from the table.

  Quinn, lying on the couch with his knees up, peered over his book, Muscular System. “Sneaking off to your room now?”

  “That was the plan,” I said, setting my cup in the dishwasher. “Like every other evening.”

  He lowered the book to his chest. “Exactly. Like every evening. Don’t you want to spend one evening in the living room with me?”

  “Why? You’d just be a distraction.”

  He grinned, and I was reminded of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. “Oh would I?”

  I wiped my hands on my jeans before picking up the laptop at the end of the table. “Yes, Quinn, you would. And I’d just distract you too.”

  His gaze skipped down the length of my dark flannel pajamas. “Somehow I think I can handle it. C’mon.” He sat up and patted the spot in front of his feet. “Work here for a bit. Hard as it might be, I promise I’ll do my best not to distract you.”

  I allowed a small smile at the waggle of his brows. Well now, I wanted real friends, didn’t I? This was the perfect opportunity to work on that.

  I stepped around the table toward the Quinn-dominated couch. The air was thick with warmth and I had the tingly heat in my cheeks to prove it.

  Darting to the air-conditioning unit for the first time since the end of August, I turned it on. Cooler. That was better.

  When I returned to the couch, Quinn raised his brow gently, as if to ask about the sudden detour. I ignored it and planted myself at the end of the couch, far too close to his navy-socked feet to be entirely comfortable. But it was a small price to pay in the name of friendship.

  Quinn waited until I started my laptop before he resumed his reading. True to his word, he did his best not to distract me. His toes sometimes wiggled and slid against my thigh, but other than that, there was just the sound of my fingers clacking over the keyboard, his chi-lip sound as he turned a page, and our quiet breathing.

  For half an hour, Quinn said nothing, and I barely made a dent in my essay.

  Ten minutes later, I gave up, closing my laptop and laying it on the glass coffee table in front of the couch. Elbows on my knees, I scrubbed my face as I thought of something to say. We were roommates after all, yet I didn’t know much about him.

  I sneaked a peek at him from the corner of my eye and jumped when I found him looking at me.

  “Gah!”

  He shoved a bookmark into his book, shut it, and laid it next to my laptop. “What’s up, Liam?” he asked, tucking his arms behind his head.

  Obviously I hadn’t adjusted the temperature low enough. The air in the room was positively smothering. Or maybe trying to make friends did that to someone.

  My glasses were slipping with the sweat beading out of me. I pushed them up. It was a simple question, so it shouldn’t have been a bother. And yet, somehow this time was much harder than any other time. “Do you want to play cards?”

  I carefully watched every nuance of Quinn’s reaction, the bobbling of his Adam’s apple, the quiver of his lips, the slight angling of his head in my direction, the jiggle of his foot at my side.

  Without realizing it, I’d held my breath, which was now very noticeable as I expelled it and gasped for more.

  Quinn unlocked his hands from behind his head and pushed himself into a sitting position, pulling his feet nearer to him. “No,” he said slowly. “I’d rather not lose again.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Suddenly my bedroom seemed to be calling me. It promised that the air was cooler and I wouldn’t have any problems concentrating on work. And work was better than cards, anyway.

  I sprang off the couch.

  But I didn’t make it a step before Quinn grabbed my hips and tackled me onto the couch. To be more accurate, he landed on the couch, and I landed in his lap. His arms tightened around my waist. “Why on earth are you running away?” he
growled into my ear.

  “You didn’t want to play cards!” I replied, twisting for freedom to no avail.

  “No, I don’t. One, because you’d just win again. And two, I just want an opportunity to chat. Shoot the shit. Share a little.” He released his grip just enough to smooth his hands over my T-shirt and shift me to the couch cushion next to him. Quinn rubbed his forehead with the knuckle of his thumb. “You’re not easy, Liam. You’re always so serious. Blunt. Busy. Unaffected—except, strangely not just now. Now you actually felt something, didn’t you?”

  I swallowed a thick lump in my throat and kept my gaze on my arms, prickling with goosebumps. Jill was spot-on. I couldn’t make a friend if my life depended on it. “I . . . yes. I felt something, okay? It was disappointment.”

  “Good,” Quinn said, and the couch dipped as he swiveled more in my direction. “I like when you show your feelings. Otherwise, you’re too much of a puzzle for me. We’re . . . roommates. I want to understand what makes you tick.”

  He shrugged. “And, maybe you want to know a little more about me too?” He gestured to his textbook. “Like the fact I’m studying to be a physiotherapist. That I scrape by as a C student. That I absolutely hate onions.” He squished up his nose and ran his hands over the edge of the couch. “That I think you have the most comfortable couch ever. That I can be quite a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch. That I still jerk off to the thought of my ex even though he cheated on me. That I love Shannon, but never in the way I know she really wishes I would. That I hate seeing Hunter, because every time I do, I want to fucking cry.”

  That was more information than roommates usually shared, wasn’t it? I tried to formulate an appropriate answer.

  As a reporter, I’d learned to tamper down my feelings so I could focus on delivering facts. And I was good at it, because emotion didn’t come easily to me.

  I lowered my gaze from his, concentrating on his chin and firm lips instead. “I already knew you could be a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch.”

  Quinn leaned against the back of the couch, and when he turned his head toward me, his breath tickled against my temple. “And what about you? Do you ever relax? Jerk off? Because I just can’t in my life imagine you doing that.”