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It didn’t matter anyway. She’d read his hesitation, or maybe she’d just read the look in his eyes. She turned away.
Shit.
“Quinn. Quinn, stop—”
She whirled. Her hand flew.
She didn’t slap him. She punched him. Hard.
Before he could get it together, she was shoving her key into the door at the top of the steps and then slamming it in his face.
And Nick stood there staring at the wood, wishing he could call her back.
And what would he say? It’s not you. It’s me.
Yeah. Right.
But at least in this case it was true. It had nothing to do with not wanting Quinn.
And everything to do with not wanting any girl.
Quinn just wanted to go to her room, throw her bag down, and crawl into bed.
Unfortunately, Jake was in there.
And he was entertaining. The door was locked. Quinn could hear female giggling and smell pot.
In her room.
Tears bit at her eyes. It was almost enough to make her turn on her heel and go after Nick.
On the opposite side of the hallway, her parents’ bedroom door clicked open. Her mother stood there in rumpled pajamas. She looked about as happy as Quinn felt, that is, not at all.
She’d also obviously been drinking. That scent, sickly sweet, was battling with the marijuana wafting under Quinn’s door.
“Do you know what time it is?” her mother hissed.
“I don’t know why you’re whispering,” Quinn said, sniffing back the tears. “Jake’s obviously not sleeping.”
“Well, at least he has the decency to be quiet about it.”
“I’m standing in the hallway! You’re the one who came out here to talk to me.”
Her mother threw her hands up. “I’m not starting this again.”
“Whatever.” Quinn turned away. “I guess I’ll just make up my bed on the couch.” She tossed a glare over her shoulder. “You know he’s smoking pot in there.”
Her mother’s lips pursed. “Your brother is home from college. I’m not an idiot, Quinn.”
It wasn’t worth getting her mom riled up when she was lit, but Quinn was already fired up from the argument in the stairway, and she just couldn’t keep the rage confined in her chest. “You’re the one allowing illegal activity in your home.”
“Oh, and I’m sure you were out late working the soup kitchen? Maybe you could cut the attitude.”
Her mother’s voice was devolving into mockery—with a bite. Her voice always gained this cruel edge, as if, when drunk, her sole mission in life was to eliminate any shred of dignity Quinn might be able to cling to.
Quinn wished she had somewhere she could storm off to. At least their house had a basement and a backyard; this itty-bitty condo wasn’t doing anyone any favors. “I wasn’t breaking the law,” she said.
“Oh, who knows what you’re doing anymore, Quinn?”
