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Hunter raised a brow. “Something you’re not telling me, sweetheart?”
“Mitch kissed me when I dropped him home.”
Hunter scowled. “Right.”
“He was quite inebriated, I doubt he remembers it. But shortly after that, Freddy”—I couldn’t help a shiver—“made his appearance.”
Wheeling around to me again, Hunter threw an arm round my shoulders. “I’m sorry, man.”
I looked at him hard and long before nodding. “Me too.”
Something painful flickered in Hunter’s eyes as he glanced to his legs. He quickly dismissed it, dropping his arms. “So, is Mitch a good kisser then?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out for yourself.”
“If he comes.”
I checked my watch. Mitch should have been here twenty minutes ago. “I’m sure he has a good reason to be late.”
Hunter laughed and thumped the arms of his chair. “I’m sure he has.”
It seemed ages passed before Hunter tore his gaze away from the edge of the table and turned to me. He reached out and gently pried my pen from me. “Enough clicking. You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m here with you, right?” Dragging my notebook to him, he found a fresh page and started writing. “How about we work together on finding The Raven?”
“How’d you know I want to find him?”
“Because I do too.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to his camera. “I don’t want to expose him, but I wouldn’t mind getting some great shots of him in action. So, what do you say?”
“I say let’s do it. Let’s work on this together.”
“Great.” He slapped the table as if he carried a gavel, and then wheeled himself toward the exit. Looking over his shoulder, he beckoned me to catch up. “Every minute I spend sitting in here is like pouring more salt in the fucking wound.”
“I thought you’d be a slob,” I said, peeking around the corner into Quinn’s man-cave. Clothes lay strewn on the floor, the closed red curtains gave the room a ruby glow, and the air was thick and tepid. “Guess I was right about that.”
Quinn shifted under his blankets, one big shivering lump.
He coughed, rough and raw, and feebly lifted a pillow and tossed it toward me.
The cream pillow made it only halfway, landing on Quinn’s jeans that still clung to the leather belt threading through the loops.
I pushed up my glasses, rubbing at the bridge of my nose. “I wrote down your schedule in my calendar, and unless I got it wrong, you have a class at eight.”
A muffled groan. “I’m not feeling well.” He cleared his throat of what sounded like a tough bit of phlegm. I stepped back.
“Wait—you put my schedule into your calendar?” Quinn asked.
I nodded, although he couldn’t see me the way he was hunched over. “Of course. If for any reason I need to get in touch with you, I’ll have an idea where you are. For that matter, if you have any emergency contacts you’d like me to know about, I’m preparing a list.”
Another coughing bout followed by a mumbled curse. “I have a paper due today. I’m not finished. God, my throat burns.”
I glanced down at my watch. I should have rushed for class ten minutes ago. What was I meant to do with a sick roommate? Could he be left alone?
I glanced toward the door, to my literature lectures and my meeting with the chief.
What would a friend do? I wasn’t willing to mess this possible friendship up over a trifling cold!
Quinn squirmed, snaking his arm out from the sheets to reach a bottle of water.
The bottle toppled over and out of his grasp.
With pitiable effort, Quinn lodged himself over the edge of the bed and snagged it.
Anyone who looked that pathetic probably needed some help.
I backed away from the room and moved to the couch, perching myself on the end of it as I rummaged through my messenger bag, took out my phone, and made a couple of calls.
When I was done, a pale-faced Quinn shuffled through the living room draped in his thick bedding. He gave me a cursory, runny-nosed nod, and slumped his way to the bathroom.
Cough! Cough!
Right. Sitting here wasn’t helping him any.
I held my breath and darted into his room to grab his laptop.
I hurried back into the living room, plugged the laptop in, and opened it up. Of course it was password-protected. I stared at the ceiling as if it might provide some inspiration.
Instead, it provided the sobering fact that I still knew so little about Quinn. I couldn’t even conjure an obvious password, like his favorite pet’s name or his birthday. The laptop hummed, warming my thighs.
Quinn emerged freshly showered but still moving with that pitiful slump. He trudged to the armchair coddled in a blanket—no doubt a sweat-drenched blanket. I shifted a few inches to escape the path of his contaminated breathing.
“What are you doing with my laptop?” He rested his head like I just had and closed his eyes.
