QUINN

Mistakes were made.

One: Getting sloppy drunk on a school night, knowing I have class this morning.

Two: Letting Cassius get just close enough to effectively interfere with my brain cells.

Three: Standing on that curb for twenty minutes, waiting for him to come back after I basically treated him like a violent criminal.

Four: Letting Skylar get in my head in the first place.

But hey, at least I'm still functioning well enough to count to four! That's a good sign.

I drag my sorry butt off the couch and hobble over to the shower like an old lady, turning the lever until it reaches the hottest temperature my water heater will allow. It's not depths of hell hot like I'd prefer, but it'll wash away the regret.

When I'm stepping out of the shower, my foot catches on the curtain. And since I'm so damn smart and agile, I decide that hopping will help the situation! It absolutely did not. We can't all be right all the time.

My life flashes before my eyes as the curtain wraps around my ankle and sends me tumbling over the ledge of the tub. I hear each and every plastic ring snap as they break off the shower rod.

I swear this thing has it out for me. I called it a bitch last year and forgot to apologize afterwards. It's been a war zone ever since. I bought a bulk pack of curtain rings when this all started going down, but it's only taken four months for me to blow through them.

Zip ties sound like the better option right now. They won't break as easily. I'll finally have the upper hand in this damn curtain battle.

I find myself laying on my back quite often, and not for sexy reasons. This damn apartment is set on destroying me, no matter how much love I show it. I mean, insulting the curtain was a one-time thing. They should be over it by now. Apparently, it's the master of holding grudges.

With the curtain wrapped around me like a fancy dress, my legs still draped over the ledge of the tub, I try to will the pain away with my mind. My back is killing me, and I swear there's a monkey in my head, slamming cymbals together. It's hard to even think straight.

Maybe I should skip class today. This has to be a bad omen, right? The world sending me signals to just stay inside? There's no way I'll be able to focus on the lecture when I have a raging headache and enough guilt to fill the Pacific Ocean.

Some serious apologies need to be made.

First, to the curtain. Again. Because, obviously, once wasn't enough. But also, the bigger issue at hand. Cash-Money.

Which means I'm going to class because I'd rather stick my head in a blender and rotate through every cycle it offers than face him right now.

I make it downstairs in one piece, only having to go back to check the locks once. While I'm walking through the shop, I hear Tanya, the owner herself, call out to me.

"Quinn, honey! C 'mere!" Her hoarse southern accent travels around the shelves.

Tanya, the legend! She's a seventy-three-year-old vixen with dark chocolate skin, salt and pepper hair, and a voracious sexual appetite. She is everything I want to be when I grow up.

In her younger days, she was a professional plaster-caster. Yeah, she molded penises. How cool is that? Half the toys in this shop are creations of her own two hands.

"What do you need, Miss Tanya?" I ask once I get to the register she's standing behind.

"I got somethin for ya."

She reaches down to the shelf below her and pulls out a small bottle of aspirin and a blue Gatorade. When she slides them to me across the counter, I snatch them up without thinking twice.

After popping two of the pills and chugging the drink, I moan loudly as the cool liquid travels down and coats my throat.

"Don't be makin no sounds like that in here, honey. I don't need the customers thinkin my products are used."

I shoot her a mischievous grin.

"I'm sure there's some people who would pay a little extra for that kind of thing." I tease, winking at her. "Thank you so much for this! I needed it."

"Don't thank me. Some hot piece-a meat stopped by this mornin and dropped it off for ya."

I choke on the Gatorade, and it somehow travels up to my snout, spraying out of my nose. All over poor Tanya's face.

"What?! Oh my god, Tanya, I'm sooo sorry!"

I sprint toward the bathroom in the back to grab some paper towels, shoving them in her hands when I return, still mumbling out apologies. She waves me off while she gingerly pats at her face.

"I'm use-ta things sprayin all over my face, don't you worry."

My face heats up at her brash admission. She's my damn role model.

And then her earlier statement hits me again, making my knees feel weak. I know it was Cash. Who else would think to drop off headache murderers and hydration assistance?

"What did this piece of meat look like?" I ask anyway because my brain doesn't believe the same things I do.

"Big fella, strong arms, kind face. Lucky I didn't tie 'em up and keep 'em hostage til I could make a mold outta his willy." She taps her fingers against the counter, like she's disappointed in her decision not to kidnap him.

It was a pretty bad decision. He's kidnap worthy.

"Tanya! Don't talk about him like that!" I squeal. Only I can talk about him like that!

"Seemed kinda scared to come in here. He ain't one-a those friends of Hunter, is he? I ain't scared to get the broom out if he comes in again."

"No! Don't hit him, please. He's...he's fine. Just, don't use the broom. Not yet, okay?"

The third time Hunter showed up unannounced to my apartment after we broke up, Tanya had enough. She grabbed the giant broom from the supply closet and started swinging it around like a Bo Staff. Hit him in the head a few times and nearly shoved it up his butthole as she was violently poking him out the front door.

I don't know what I plan to do with this whole situation yet, but I'd feel terrible if Cash got attacked by Tanya's toys and Tanya herself. He'd never come back.

Not that I want him too. It's whatever... Like, the kind of whatever where you care a little. But not really. Because he's just a man. And men are...okay, I'm done with this.

"Fine." Tanya waves me off and goes back to counting the money in the register.

This whole thing is making the idea of avoiding Cash so much more unappealing. I want to talk to him, but I'm scared. I treated him worse than my shower curtain. If the curtain still hasn't forgiven me, how can I expect him to?

My grip tightens around the Gatorade bottle as I start walking to school. I don't mind apologizing. The real problem is the possibility that he'll ask me about the Billy thing again and I'm not ready to explain that. Maybe I never will be.

And then he'll start asking more questions because how can you not? Answers often produce questions. Which is seriously stupid. That's supposed to be the opposite of how it works.

But I have questions for him too. The restraining order thing is really messing with my head. I can't risk putting myself in that kind of position again. I barely escaped the Hunter fiasco.

I know I told Cash he's an asshole but, if he actually turned out to be one, I don't think I could handle it. He's been my source of safety for years. If I lose that, I'll have nothing left. I'd just get swallowed up by a big black hole and...no, I just can't.

It's not a risk I'm willing to take. Everyone is temporary, Quinn. Everyone.