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“He’snice,” Frog insists. “I met him at the tattoo shop. I was thinking about getting something done to represent my aunt, and we got to talking about life and Philly during the sketch session.”
I ask her, “You didn’t wanna come to me?” I frown. “I would’ve given you a friend’s discount.”
Frog wiggles her straw. “You’ve been busy. I didn’t want to take you away from what’s going on with…”Luna.“She needs you, and youbetterbe there for her.” The heat in her eyes makes me smile.
“Said like her Number One Protector,” I say.
Frog nods, but uncertainty stiffens her posture. Her position on the team as Luna’s bodyguard is more up in the air since Luna’s threat level has increased, and I haven’t heard if she’s being transferred yet.
To all of us, Frog decrees, “You might not like Scooter, butIdo. It feels good being heard, you know? And he listens.”
It brings me back to the crime scene. The cratered dead-end road. The rain. How Frog turned to me for comfort and I brushed her off—and she hasn’t tried to come to me again. Instead, she’s now seeking refuge in a complete stranger.
I’m lost in this thought, not even noticing Quinn approaching me and Oscar. Frog and Gabe are bickering in the corner about Scooter’s hygiene and oat milk.
“What’s a thirty-four-year-old dude doing with aneighteen-year-old girl?” Quinn whispers to us. “Tell me you both think it’s weird.”
Maybe not weird.I like weird, and I don’t like Scooter hanging around Frog after she just witnessed something traumatic.
“Sus for sure,” I say casually, then look to Oscar.
He’s observing Frog while she gesticulates with her iced coffee at Gabe. He tells us, “We might need an SFO come-together about what happened.”
I heargroup therapy.Not excited, but I try not to show it. “Only if there’s muffins.”
Quinn sighs, pushing up his sleeves in a heated huff. I spot a bruise on his forearm, and my gut drops. Looks like fingerprintmarks.
“What’s that?” I ask, but as soon as I catch him, he quickly tugs down the sleeve.
“What’swhat?” Oscar’s attention veers over to his little brother.
“A bruise,” Quinn says. “I ran into a fucking door. You want me to take a picture and sign it for you?”
“You want some ice to cool the fuck off, bro?” Oscar says, eyeing him skeptically.
“I’mfine,” Quinn retorts.
I tell him, “No one said you weren’t.”
“You two havethatface.”
“I’ve got the face of an angel,” I say easily, trying to get him off the defense. “I don’t think I look anything like your big bro.”
Oscar is still trying to solve this Quinn equation, and it’s making him appear too intense and constipated.
“You know what, leave me the fuck alone,” Quinn states.
“Whoa, how’d we go from zero to two-hundred?” Oscar questions, hands up in surrender. “No one is coming at you, Quinn—Quinn!” He’s already distancing himself from everyone, taking a seat near the fireplace and stewing alone.
“What’d I do?” Oscar asks me, concerned.
Nothing.I have this uneasy feeling Nessa, Quinn’s girlfriend, is to blame for the bruise. If her gerbil died, maybe she blamed Quinn and physically took her anger out on him.
But it could just be all in my head. I’ve been trudging up my childhood, the past with my mom, and that’s making me a paranoid fucker. The bruise might not even be a handprint. I saw it for a split second.
Didn’t get that good of a look.
I glance to Oscar. “I think he just wants us to stay out of his shit.”
