CASSIUS

A giant ball of fire in the form of a tiny twenty-one-year-old woman stands across from me with a deranged look on her face. I think she's attempting to intimidate me, but I can't say it's working. I'm more worried she might be having a stroke.

I'm torn between wanting to outwardly laugh at her ridiculous power stance or being pissed that she attacked Skylar. Despite everything I went through with the girl, I don't want to see anyone get physically hurt.

"This isn't fair! Why am I the only one getting kicked out?" She whines, flailing her arms around.

"Because you're the one who's always causing problems." I say flatly, keeping any emotion I might be feeling out of my voice.

That's part of the job. No matter how I feel about the situation, I have to remain impassive. Someone could pull a gun on me – again – and I'd still have to appear calm and collected despite fearing for my life. The anger Quinn possessed before, however, has increased ten-fold.

"I'm the one causing problems?! You're kidding, right? Are you that desperate to get laid that you're blinding yourself to the truth?!" She yells.

A few people walking by the alley pause to watch the show Quinn is putting on but then continue to walk away when they realize she's not in any actual danger.

"She started it!" Quinn adds furiously.

Skylar doesn't cause problems. At least not in the obvious, physical ways. I've come to learn that she typically works behind the scenes to create chaos. But because of the ways I had to learn that tidbit of information, I can't go near Skylar. Quinn doesn't know that and I'm not interested in telling her.

"Look, if you're not gonna let me back in, at least go make sure Greta is okay. That's your job, isn't it?"

I see the genuine look of concern on her face. Why does she care so much about a woman she just met an hour ago? Either way, this whole situation has me curious as to what happened in there.

"What did she say?" I question.

"What?"

"Skylar. What did she say to you?" I clarify.

"Basicaalllyyy, that I deserved to get cheated on." She huffs out.

"And what did you say?"

She taps her foot on the ground impatiently, looking in every direction except mine.

"I don't know! I don't remember the exact words. Something about sucking dicks and ball breath." She replies, waving a flippant hand through the air. "Can you please just go check on Greta?"

I lean back, peek through the back door, and resume my original position.

"She's fine. Dancing with some girl."

"That two-timing dance whore." Quinn mutters, glaring to the side with her arms crossed.

This girl is off her rocker, and I know for a fact that her weird personality isn't directly related to the drugs she snorted or the alcohol in her bloodstream. Every interaction I've ever had with her ends with my thoughts scattered into oblivion.

"Thought you didn't care that he cheated on you? So, why the fight?"

"I don't care. I didn't hit her because she stole my boyfriend. God, that's so juvenile."

Says the girl who changed her ex's name to dickface in her phone.

"I hit her because she put her hands on Greta. Greta's old! You don't get physical with old people!"

Wow. Just wow. My head is already starting to spin. This is a new record. I usually stop entertaining this shit when I get to the point of confusion, but Quinn is seriously the most interesting person I've ever met. I don't even know if that's good or bad because I feel like I'm stuck in a tornado, being thrown around like a ragdoll with every thought process she expresses.

"Are you uh...always this weird?" I ask against my better judgement.

"Weird? I'm not weird. You're weird." She fires back.

I chuckle at her response because it makes me feel like I'm arguing with a child. My laugh gets her even more worked up and she barrels towards me again. My body stiffens as the back of her hand slaps against my chest. When it bounces off, she stares at it like it personally insulted her.

"I really can't go back in?" She asks quietly, still staring at my chest, parallel with her face.

She's shorter than I realized. After all those times of carrying her out, you'd think I would have noticed it already. I suddenly make a connection in my head.

She has little dog syndrome. Tiny dogs bark the most and are usually the most aggressive despite their size. Quinn is a chihuahua. Ferocious attitude and a sharp bite all rolled up into a tiny body.

"No, you can't go back in." I reply after realizing she's still waiting for me to answer.

"But whhhhyy? Why does she get to stay but I don't?"

Because I can't manage to get close enough to her to kick her out. Because I can't handle speaking to her without losing my shit.

"Just go home, Quinn. We'll see you at the fight on Saturday."

My word is final, and she knows it.

"So, Skylar wins again. What a surprise. Someone should give that bitch a medal. Skylar Lewis takes the gold in the Bitchloympics!" The sarcasm is heavy in her mumbled words.

My throat goes dry. I didn't think about how this might look to her. Her ex chose Skylar and now it looks like I'm taking her side too.

Quinn takes a few steps back away from me and sulks down the alley. I wonder if she drove here or if she's walking. Should I stop her? This isn't exactly the best area for a leisurely stroll.

My job as security detail has never involved making sure patrons make it home safely, but I wouldn't be able to shake the feeling of responsibility if something happened to her. I end up jogging after her and gently grasp her arm. She turns to face me with an unusual lack of emotion on her face.

"Did you uh – do you have a ride?" I try to word it carefully, so it doesn't sound like I'm accusing her of driving intoxicated. I think I've unintentionally insulted her enough for the night.

"Life is a ride, Cash-Money." She says with a forced air of happiness.

"Come on, Quinn." I groan. Nothing can ever be a normal answer with her.

"Don't worry, Cassius." I'm not sure why she emphasizes my name. "I literally live right there."

She points to Tanya's Toys, a sex shop right across the street.

"You live in a sex-toy shop?" I deadpan.

Closing one eye, she appears to focus extra hard on the building.

"See that teeny tiny window above the shop? That's my apartment."

If I didn't know the little bit I do about her, I wouldn't believe it for a second. But Quinn living in a toy shop makes complete and total sense.

She starts to walk away again.

"What's a bearaffe?" I ask at the last minute, right before she crosses the street.

She turns to look at me down the alley, a small grin on her face.

"It's the result of a bear and a giraffe mating. That's you, Cash-Money. You're a bearaffe."

Okay. I don't know what the fuck she's talking about, but I nod like I understand anyway. Maybe she'll be able to elaborate on that when she's sober one day. And hopefully she'll forget about this whole Cash-Money nonsense she came up with tonight too.

I watch her jog across the street on unstable legs and disappear into the sex shop. The little window at the top of the building suddenly emits light, so I stroll back inside, knowing she made it home. I pray there's a more serious fight I'll need to break up tonight because I really need an outlet for the nervous energy building up in my core.

QUINN

I forgot to go grocery shopping after class earlier. I had one task, and I completely bombed it. Now I have nothing to munch on except Oreos.

I sobered up pretty quickly while I was once again being dragged from the club earlier tonight, so now I'm just moping around and wallowing in my feelings. It wasn't even a satisfactory removal because Cash had Billy ask me nicely to leave tonight.

He's been avoiding me ever since the night Greta and I attacked Skylar. Did I ever think I'd miss him throwing me out of Shadow? Nope. But I've come to realize that giving him crap and getting tossed is one of my favorite past times. Anyway, back to wallowing.

Screw Ethan. Screw Skylar. Screw Cassius. Screw Gre – no, Greta had my back. Even if she did end up moving on with a new dance partner the second I was gone, she was still there when it counted. Consider Greta officially unscrewed.

I throw myself down on the couch and stare at the peeling wall across from me. I just don't get it. What's so great about Skylar, anyway? Yeah, she's gorgeous. Her platinum blonde hair is all shiny and probably blinds people when the sun hits it just right. Who wouldn't want hair that doubles as a weapon?

But is that why Ethan picked her? Why Cassius is avoiding me? Because my black curls are too thick and always tangled up or out of place? Even my hair rebels against me.

And her boobs! Like, what in the actual fudge? Why did she get big ones, and I'm stuck with these? I roughly cup my own boobs. Perfect handful Ethan always said. HAH. Guess he traded up. Literally. He traded up bra sizes.

Wait, why do I even care who Ethan cheated on me with? I don't. I don't care.

I bet Cassius thinks she's the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. Women like that are always the most beautiful girl any guy has ever seen.

Okay, enough. This is ridiculous. None of these people matter. Everyone is temporary. Mama always said that the only people you can count on is your family. Mama used to say a lot of smart stuff, but she was wrong about that one. Even family can be temporary.

Dad was temporary. Dylan was temporary. Even the piece of mama I always like to think about was temporary.

Uggghh, this is why I turn to vices. Drowning myself in sober pity is no fun. It doesn't help. It doesn't solve anything. You know what will solve my problems? That pack of Oreos stashed in the cabinet that I can't reach.

I'm trying to teach myself discipline. What better way than placing my favorite snack somewhere out of reach?

I run to the kitchen and start climbing on my ugly, yellowing countertops. My hand smacks around on the very top shelf until the plastic bag crinkles under my fingertips. I scrunch my fingers up until the package is inched close enough to the edge for me to grab.

I snatch that sucker like it'll grow legs and run away from me if I don't capture it. I giggle, picturing my cookies as fugitives on the run while I track them down like a badass bounty hunter.

There's no milk in the fridge so, instead of dipping them until they're nice and soft, I have to eat them like a savage. I turn the TV on and stare at one of the only few channels I have. Cable is for losers, or so I keep telling myself. In reality, I just don't want to pay for it even though I've got the money.

You know how some people are trust-fund babies? Well, I guess I'm kind of like a beneficiary baby, if that's a thing. Dad has runaway guilt. He's been sending me money every month since the day I turned eighteen.

A handwritten letter never accompanies the check, but there isn't anything he could say that I'd be interested in anyway. He sends Dylan's check to my apartment too. I cash that shizz because what kind of asshole father doesn't even know his son is gone?

I was also Dylan's beneficiary. He joined the military at the fresh age of eighteen and served his country until the day he was killed overseas at twenty-seven. It was my junior year in college, and he was the only one I could ever depend on, despite him never being in the same state, or even the same country.

Besides a gazillion pictures I keep hidden away, all I have left of him is the triangular folded flag they handed me at his funeral because mama was too hysterical to accept it from the soldiers. Well, mama has that flag at her house now because she threw a drunken fit about it after we got back to the house for the Repast. It was easier to give in than cause a scene in front of all the grieving guests.

Anyway, money isn't an issue. I splurged and paid for internet because I'm not completely crazy. The cash I get from the few shifts I let the owner of the sex shop downstairs wrangle me into goes straight into a rainy-day fund. Which is a piggy bank. Like, a real one. It's an actual pink pig made of glass with a little slot at the top. You have to bust it open with a hammer if you want to access the goods inside.

If anyone saw my apartment, though, they'd think I'm flat broke. Which is exactly how I need it to be. It's a dungeon. The couch is my bed. The bathroom doesn't have a door. The kitchen doesn't even contain full-size appliances. But it's my dungeon and nobody can get me in here. It's a safe space where my thoughts are never questioned or judged.

I bet Cassius lives in a dungeon too. I mean, how much money can a security guard make? I remember when he used to participate in the fights at the club and I know that paid well, but he gave it up a while ago.

Damn shame. He was fun to watch. Now, he's no fun at all and he likes to ruin it for everyone else too. That guy's spirit died a long time ago. All he's really good for now is throwing people like boomerangs. And I guess he's good to look at too. When he's not talking or brooding.