CASSIUS

The air in this house is thick and the film of smoke makes my chest feel painfully hollow with every inhale. Subjecting myself to various chemicals and poisons over the years couldn't have even prepared me for this.

Cigarettes might be the only thing I never added to my long list of addictive habits. Tried it once when I was twelve, but I blame Warren for that one.

I feel like the plastic chair I'm currently sitting on is going to snap in two, so I'm not even putting my full weight on it as Quinn's mum scrutinizes me from across the table.

She's all sunshine and rainbows and southern hospitality on the surface, but I feel like there's hidden meaning behind each sweet word she directs at me.

Quinn busies herself with washing dishes and refilling her mum's glass with top-shelf vodka every so often. The apologetic glances she keeps throwing my way are making me feel even more tense. And why is she cleaning this grown-ass woman's house?

I didn't know what I was signing up for when I offered her a ride. Honestly, I think I would have preferred to drop her off at a date than be sitting here right now.

I've always been a confrontational person by nature. Warren fights with impassive facts and charisma, courtesy of our mum, and I was always just flat out aggressive. Dad and Micky spent a lot of time teaching me how to fight with unfiltered shit-talking and scarred fists.

Skylar spent three years trying to cure me of my abrasive nature and the six months in prison were used to perfect the art of permanently locking that part of myself away. Apparently, I didn't work hard enough because I'm struggling right now.

Sitting here, being observed like a caged animal in a zoo, has resentment creeping up my spine. Every time Mabel compliments me, I want to chastise her. When she smiles and bats her eyelashes, my jaw involuntarily clenches.

The worst part? There's no fucking explanation or justification for my volatile emotions. Mabel has been nothing but nice since I first arrived thirty minutes ago. I guess the problem is that I just don't trust it.

Everything seems underhanded and I'm waiting for the façade to fall apart. Hostility simmers in my gut, making me queasy. But this is Quinn's mum, for fucks sake. I need to reel myself in.

I zone out while watching Quinn wipe down the counters before looking back at Mabel, trying to connect the two in my head. I'm hoping if I can find the commonalities in them, it'll force my mind to stop stressing out about nothing.

She created the spunky girl who lives her life without a care in the world what anyone else thinks. The girl who says the most off-the-wall shit that you can't help but laugh at. The girl who dances like no one is watching, literally. Mabel created the girl who is unapologetically herself.

That's all great. Fantastic. But then my thinking shifts without warning.

She created the girl who is currently trying to fade into the background as we talk. The girl who runs from serious conversation rather than welcoming it. The girl who believes it's not only okay to be cheated on but expects it to happen as well. The girl who lifts others up while simultaneously putting herself down.

Mabel did that. I'm sure she had help along the way, but I know her mum played a substantial role in shaping Quinn's view of people and the world.

"You're a handsome one." The glass is permanently glued to her hand, and she uses it to point at me.

She's said this same thing in about six different ways already and, each time, she voices it more like an insult than an actual compliment.

"Thanks." I grit out, this time without the friendly disposition I had when I first arrived.

I can't help but feel like she's trying to torture me, I'm just not sure what she expects to get out of it yet.

"Quinn's daddy was handsome too." She mumbles over her glass, arching her brow at me.

Yeah, you said that already too, Mabel. This time, I respond instead of nodding.

"Yeah? Is that who she gets her looks from?"

Okay, I didn't mean for that to sound disrespectful. Maybe a little...subconsciously. In a semi-normal family, my statement would have been a compliment. Mums swoon over that kind of shit, the kids inheriting their father's looks. Here, not so much.

But seriously, Quinn's mum has dull, stringy blonde hair and lifeless blue eyes. Nothing like the black waves and haunting green irises that Quinn sports.

As expected, Mabel scowls at my comment.

"Unfortunately. She's hard to look at sometimes." She murmurs with disgust, bringing the vodka to her lips once again.

She chugs the entire thing. Without gagging. That's fucking impressive in the worst of ways. Tell-tale sign that she's a professional drinker.

And my comment may have been kind of rude, but Mabel's response has my throat clogging up with words I know I shouldn't say.

Yet again, I glance over at Quinn, hoping she didn't overhear what her mum just said. It's almost impossible that she didn't, given the size of the room. But she's either not paying attention, or she's playing it off by pretending to be busy dusting the shelves. Both options are equally plausible.

"I don't think so." I respond with a shrug, wishing I had my own alcoholic beverage right now.

"Mmm...I'm sure you don't."

I stare at her with a blank expression because I don't know what else I'm supposed to do right now.

"What's a guy like you doin with Quinn, anyway?"

"Sorry, ma'am, I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean." I say calmly, rolling my shoulders to try and alleviate some of the tightness in my neck and back.

Micky always said I carry all my tension in my shoulders. I'm definitely feeling it right now.

"Quinny just doesn't seem like your...type." I have a feeling nobody is Quinn's type in her eyes. "You look like the kind that runs once you get what you want." Smiling. Always smiling, aren't you, Mabel?

"Men that look like you are the most dangerous ones." She sings in a low, condescending tone.

And I swear I've heard those fucking words before. Pretty sure they came out of Quinn's mouth not too long ago. Guess I know where she got that from. Strike two.

I don't take the bait this time, choosing to ignore her taunts. Quinn is walking to the table with the bottle of vodka to top her mum off again.

"You know her daddy left us?"

While my eyes lock with Mabel's, Quinn freezes as she's tipping the bottle into the lowball glass.

"Yep. Jacques Rousseau ran back to France the day before Quinny's tenth birthday. Broke her poor little heart. At least it taught her not to trust a man."

Wow. There's so much to unpack there.

First off, what the fuck? How do you leave your kid behind? Especially right before their birthday? That shit makes my heart sink and I'm trying really hard not to look at Quinn.

Second, I have a feeling Mabel assisted Quinn with the not trusting a man thing. Your dad leaving is already a rough fucking thing to deal with but having your mum whispering shit in your ear every day afterwards will twist your head up even more.

When my pops died in a car accident, I was pissed for a few different reasons. The main one being that he was driving drunk. He was a good man in every facet of life, but he still made mistakes. I was furious that his stupid decision took him away from our family. It destroyed us in a way I didn't think possible.

Mum knew he could have hurt someone else. Luckily, he didn't, but that's always a risk. She knew he made a terrible choice that changed our lives forever. But every time Warren or I would bring it up, when we'd dwell on the anger, she'd shoot us down.

She'd remind us of all the good times, the good characteristics he had, the good things he had done. It helped both of us contain the bitterness.

I think Mabel wants Quinn to feel bitter about her dad, about men in general. She doesn't want to be alone in her misery, and her daughter is the only one available to drag down with her.

Quinn returns to the sink without saying a word, washing dishes that no longer exist. She's just running water and shifting her hands around in the basin to make it seem like she's busy.

"I'm sorry to hear that." I manage to say in a polite tone. I really am sorry it happened.

"Mhm. I'm sure you are. But we all know that's just how men are."

This bitch. My fists clench and I shift around in my chair.

"Not always."

"Nobody sticks around, Cassius. The only people you can count on is your family. I'm all Quinny's got."

Jesus Christ, someone get me out of this fucking room. I can't even think straight right now.

"Mama, did you know you can't hum while holding your nose? Try it!" Quinn yells over the sound of running water, I'm assuming to change the subject.

"No. I really wish you'd learn something useful, dear. Are you even applying yourself at school?"

Fuucckk yoouu.

"That's really cool, Quinn. We'll have to test that out on the drive home." I add in.

She peeks over her shoulder and smirks at me. I smile back, admiring her features when she looks genuinely pleased by something.

"I don't think it's a good idea, you two hanging out." Mabel interjects, gesturing between us with her glass.

"And why's that?"

I'm about to lose my shit. This woman needs to stop talking. Which means I need to stop responding. But she makes it so fucking hard to not snap back.

"Do you know what happened the last time she hung around with a boy?" She belts out, malice dancing across her tongue.

Don't fucking respond.

I lean forward, forearms digging into the table edge, and I already know I'm starting to slip. I can feel it in every inch of my body.

"Nah, but I'm sure you'll tell me all about it, won't you?" My tone comes out just as aggressive, fueling the fire.

"People with blue eyes usually have a higher alcohol tolerance!"

"She got taught a very valuable lesson."

Quinn and Mabel both shout at the same time and I look between the two, not sure who I should direct my attention at.

"Mama, that's enough." Quinn whispers.

"That boy roughed her up good." Mabel continues.

My eyes stay trained on Quinn's back.

"She said that's enough." I reply flatly, standing from my seat.

"Nearly killed her in the process. Yep. When her brother died, that boy kept showin up, trying to weasel his way back in. She couldn't handle it. It's best to just keep your distance so she doesn't go crazy again." The lack of emotion in her words is unmistakable.

I'm suddenly unable to move, stuck in the middle of the kitchen, halfway between Quinn and her mum. I don't think I heard Mabel correctly. I couldn't have. Because why the fuck would you say something like that to a complete stranger? Why would you put your daughter down like that?

A soft grunt comes out of Quinn's mouth, and I look over just in time to see her tripping over a broom. Her body locks up and she falls face first into the ground like a wooden plank. I know I shouldn't, but I end up coughing out a laugh. The way she fell just looked so awkward. She didn't even attempt to catch herself.

For just a second, I forget about Mabel's suffocating presence as I hoist Quinn up to her feet.

"Ow." She groans weakly, her reaction a bit too late as she stares into my eyes like they'll save her from this moment. As much as I hate to admit it, I don't think I can.

I tuck an unruly strand of hair behind her ear and let my knuckles brush against her cheek before my hand falls back down by my side.

"Took a buncha pills, drowned 'em with alcohol, and planned on not waking up. Luckily her mama found her before it was too late. That boy didn't help her. You didn't help her. I'm the only one she can count on. Don't forget that, Quinny." She declares like it's a fucking achievement on her part for doing what a mum is supposed to do.

Mabel downs her fourth glass, not a hint of remorse in her eyes about the drunken shit she's spewing about Quinn.

My face is heating up. My fingers dance against my thigh. My chest is silently, slowly heaving. My eyes paint the room in a deep red film. I know these signals well. They're the ones my brain sends to my body when it's ready to snap.

I need to get out of here.

"I'll be outside."

Was that my voice? I don't even recognize it. But it must have been because I'm storming out of the house now. I carry myself out to the truck and, before I can breathe through the rage, my fist slams against it, denting the metal.

It'll be easy to pop that out later. Right now, I just want to do it again.

But instead of continuously beating up an inanimate object, I end up walking down the street to calm myself down before Quinn finishes up inside. Everything her mum said explains her skittish nature when things start getting too intense for her liking.

I don't need her to see me taking my anger out on the truck. I just have to store it away so I can unleash it once I'm back at the gym.