CASSIUS

Waking up in an alley with a migraine from hell, head perched in my girlfriend's lap, was not my finest hour.

I mean, I haven't slept that well in a long time, but the guilt was enough to erase every ounce of refreshment I might have felt.

Quinn was slumped against the wall, head resting on the dumpster as her arms stayed cocooned around me like she was trying to protect me from any possible threats. Racoons, maybe. A few feet away from our bodies was a broken skateboard.

I don't know what happened or how we ended up there, but the apologies flying from my mouth were shut down as we walked back to her apartment in the morning to get cleaned up.

She had to be in class about twenty minutes after we showered, so we didn't have time to talk shit through before parting ways. It's Thursday now, and we still haven't discussed the events of Monday night.

All she really filled me in on that morning was that she couldn't get me to the apartment, so she borrowed some guy's skateboard. I have a feeling she threatened him into handing it over. I guess the plan didn't work out, which is how it ended up broken.

Either way, she decided we would just sleep next to Dumpster Doug instead. My heart raced, wondering if it was a homeless person she buddied up to while I was blacked out. But no. The dumpster itself is Doug. The dumpster has a name. And we slept with him. Romantic, right?

I'm a fucking idiot.

Max told me not to show my face at work again until I came to terms with the pile of shit that I practically begged him to dump in my lap. So, I'm in the gym for the third night in a row instead of taking up residency in the club.

I'm too close to Max, don't know who Sonny is, and can't talk to pops. It's not necessarily Fletch's fault, but he's the only one who I can take it out on. He's available. And I don't trust myself not to knock his teeth out the minute I lay eyes on him.

Every second that I haven't spent with Quinn, I've been throwing punches at inanimate objects. Double end bags, heavy bags, speed bags, boxing pads strapped to Micky's hands. They've all fallen victim to my frustration and Micky has been growing more suspicious every damn day.

He confronted me yesterday, trying to pinpoint what has me slipping back into my old ways – the days where regulating my emotions in the ring felt like an unachievable pipedream.

My footwork has been sloppy, my hips rotating too sluggishly during the cross punches, and my front kicks haven't been disguised well enough to not give away my next move. But, despite the lack of control, I never stopped. I couldn't.

When he continued to pry, all I did was utter the name Sonny, and he seemed to understand almost immediately. I had a feeling that asshole was privy to the truth long before I was. He's been letting me work it out of my system ever since, refraining from offering any more unsolicited coaching advice.

Him, dad, and Max have always been tied together in one way or another thanks to the boxing and MMA backgrounds. Inseparable. And yet, no matter how close I was to any of them, they kept me in the dark all this time.

I'd say that part is what hurts the most, but I honestly don't know if that's factual. I'm so raw at this point, it's hard to decipher what's real versus what I might be incorrectly perceiving due to heightened emotions.

There are so many details that don't add up.

Like this kid, Sonny. After all these years, why have I never heard of him until now?

And the note dad left for mum about paying the debt. Does that mean she knows? Or was she lost when she found it? Do I hold answers that could ease her mind? Has this been gnawing at her all these years?

The biggest question of all? Dad's decision. Why would he do it? Why did he think that was the easiest way to solve his problems? Why weren't we enough motivation for him to find another way?

Fuck. This must be how Quinn feels about her situation with Hunter's addiction.

There are a lot of unknowns, but I'm not asking follow-up questions or digging for information or trying to get to the bottom of it. What's the fucking point? It's done.

I'm not even spending time with my family during my work hiatus because I can't look them in the eyes right now. I don't think I'm strong enough to handle it yet.

The morning I woke up in the alley, I decided I'm taking this shit to the grave. I'll let it consume me in place of the maggots. If Warren and mum know anything about it, they've chosen to keep it from me. If they don't know, I'm sure as fuck not going to be the one who breaks their hearts.

Maybe that's shitty, but dad doesn't get to do that to me. He doesn't get to leave us and then push the guilt onto my shoulders. I can't be the one to pick up mum's pieces or keep Warren from going off the deep end. That was his fucking job.

The only person I can talk to about this is Quinn, but I just can't stomach it yet.

Our last few days together have been somewhat distant. She's been in her head, scheming something up, and I've been in mine, failing to keep myself grounded. But just being next to her is enough right now. Hopefully she feels the same because I don't have much more to offer.

I'm emotionally bankrupt, but her presence often feels like a never-ending reserve of loving smiles and energizing touches.

After six hours of drills and sparring, I collapse on the bench in the locker room and unravel the gauze from around my hands, trying my best to control the trembling muscles. My knuckles and knees are raw from repeatedly pounding against the vinyl bags but, other than that, I feel good.

I feel like I can endure the rest of the night without my breathing getting out of whack when I think of something I can't change. Without feeling like I'm going to crumble under the weight of my dad's decisions.

And, when I wake up tomorrow, I'll decide if I need to be at work, or right back here in this gym. It's currently a touch and go situation.

**************

As soon as I walk through Quinn's front door later that night, I'm lost.

She's sitting on the couch with seventeen bags of Cheetos surrounding her. I'm not fucking kidding; I took a survey of the chaos.

Her fingers are coated in a thick orange film as she continues to dig through the bag balanced in her lap. I almost feel like I've walked in on something...intimate? This is Quinn, so that option is certainly not off the table.

I tap the door behind me with my fingers and it creaks shut while I continue to observe. Did she forget I was coming over? How does she plan on eating all this? Why?

I take a cautious step forward, unaware of what kind of mood she's in that led her to whatever the hell she's doing right now.

"Quinn? Are you uh – are you alright?" I sound like I'm coaxing a scared animal out of hiding.

She turns her head and looks up at me with a big, cheesy smile. I freeze, like I'm about to fall victim to a predator.

To be fair, she looks very...okay, fuck it...I'm kind of scared.

"Hey Cash! I'm good! Why?"

Good? Right. Because seventeen bags of chips is a sign of being perfectly okay.

"Whhhyyy?" The emotionless slur falls from my lips as I rack up the body count on the bags, but I quickly regain control of myself. "What's with the Cheetos?" I ask in the most subdued, nonjudgmental voice I can manage.

"Oh! I'm trying to bond with my spirit animal!" She nods fervently, like she's having some kind of scientific breakthrough she can't wait to share with the world.

Yep. Alright then. Deep breaths, Cassius. Deep breaths. You knew when you came here that something unusual would happen. Why should this be a surprise? No surprise would be a surprise...right?

"Sooo, you're eating Cheetos to bond with your spirit cheetah?"

I'm trying really fucking hard here to make sense of this, to be supportive. Because this might very well be some kind of mental lapse on her end. I don't want to be the one who pushes her over the edge.

"Yep."

I gradually ease myself down onto the couch, trying not to make sudden movements as I watch for any indication that she might stab me.

"Can you elaborate on this, Quinn?"

Her face lights up, like she's excited that I asked her to explain it. Which means I just gave my brain a big ol' middle finger because it's going to be royally fucked after this.

"Chester the Cheetah is like, the king of cheetahs. At least, that's what Julia told me, but she seems to have pretty reliable sources. Anyway, according to her, the more Cheetos I eat, the closer I'll be with my inner cheetah."

Whaaat the fuuuuck.

I don't know if it's better or worse that there's actually some semblance of logic in her statement. It's flawed, sure, but it's logic, nonetheless. Buuut that logic came from a five-year-old's reliable sources.

"Okay, yeah. I can uh...I can get behind that. How's uh – how's it going?"

I'm still on edge. I don't trust the Cheeto spree. Mainly because I'm not sure why she's trying to bond with her cheetah all of a sudden.

Her orange fingers start inching towards my white shirt, so I spring up from the couch and take a few, careful steps back. Her face wrinkles as she watches me with innocent confusion before a mischievous smirk takes over.

Leisurely, she stands and stalks toward me. I take another few steps back and we both freeze, staring at one another with distrustful glints in our eyes.

She's about to launch at me, I can see it in her crazed expression. And you better believe I'm ready for it.

Noticing the slight shift of her foot, I get ready to evade the attack. Sure enough, she ends up lunging. I dip out of the way so fast, she runs right into the wall, leaving a streak of orange against the dull white paint.

I'd stop to make sure she's okay if she didn't end up recovering within a millisecond and proceed to chase me in circles around her makeshift coffee table, trying to swipe at me over the top of it. My body twists and maneuvers with every attempt, successfully avoiding her cheese fingers.

"Looks like your cheetah is still slow as shit!" I taunt over my shoulder as she sprints after me towards the kitchen.

Her response is an angry, feral grunt, but she doesn't give up. I let her think she has me cornered but, at the last minute, I dodge her dusty hand and swoop under her arm, running back into the living room.

The way she swivels her head to glare at me legitimately makes me feel like I might be murdered. Shit's straight out of The Exorcist.

When she throws herself at me again, I duck down and catch her by the waist, tossing her over my shoulder, onto the couch. She lands upside down, her legs draping over the back cushions as her head rests on the seat. Her fingers scrape down the back of my shirt in the process, marking me, but I don't really care anymore.

I'm just happy to be here with her. Happy to have her distract me from everything bad in the world around us.

I drop to the floor, my face hovering over hers. I kiss her chin and then her cheesy lips three times before concealing my face in her neck. Quinn rubs her fingers all over the back of my shirt while I breathe her energy in, letting it consume me.

Her laugh is everything.

"I've missed you." She whispers once she's gotten her fill of dirtying my clothes.

My stomach churns, making me disappear further into the confines of her body. I wonder if she's unintentionally comparing me to Hunter right now, trying to figure out if I'm starting to ghost her the same way he did at the beginning.

Or maybe it's just me comparing myself to him thanks to my recent bender. I never want her to see me in that light.

"Sorry I've been so distant. I'm working on it. I promise, Quinn." I mumble against her throat.

She reaches around me and smooths her hand down my hair, pausing at the nape of my neck.

"It's okay, Cash. I don't know what's going on, but I can tell you're distracted by something."

The guilt is back in full force.

"I guess uh...I guess my dad kil –" The rest of the sentence gets lodged in my throat, refusing to come out.

I don't think I can say it out loud. Even Max managed to inform me in the most roundabout way possible. Like it's not actually final until the phrase is spoken. Do I really want that? Am I ready for that?

"I found out he – fuck, Quinn. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing, Cash-Money." She coos, tightening her hand around the back of my neck. "Just put your big-boy boxers on and spit it out. I know you don't want to, but you're stronger than that."

A deep sigh racks through my body and a shuddered breath vibrates in my chest. Peeling myself off her, I move up to the couch instead. She stays how she is, her head next to my thigh, staring at the ceiling. My elbows rest on my knees and my interlaced fingers become the support for my forehead.

"Max basically told me that my dad...he committed...he killed himself."

All the air in the room turns into a thick layer of fog at the same time Quinn tries to scramble upright, falling off the couch instead. I watch her lay at my feet, a twisted pretzel, as her eyes bore into mine. Despite the ache in my stomach, a weak smile still comes out at seeing her awkward state.

"What do you mean he basically told you that?! That's not exactly a shades of grey kind of thing, Cash. What the hell? I've just been over here stuffing my face while you're dealing with that?! Oh my god, I'm the worst Robin ever!"

"Trust me, he said just enough to help me come to the conclusion on my own."

"Wow. That's...um...I'm...Wow."

She untangles her limbs and shuffles between my legs, peering up at me. Her hand splays across my forearm and I tilt my head to meet her eyes.

"You can't say anything. To anyone. Not even my family."

She nods her understanding, appearing dazed by the whole thing. Glad I'm not the only one.

"Does this have anything to do with Sonny? And Fletch?"

My spine straightens of its own accord while I stare at her, unblinking.

"You mentioned them the other night." She supplies the answer to my unspoken question.

Reminder to self: stay away from the damn liquor.

"Fletch works there on fight nights. Sonny? Got no fucking clue who he is."

"Did they do something to piss you off?"

"No. I just...they're tied to my dad in some way. But it doesn't matter."

It doesn't matter. It really fucking doesn't.

"Quinn?"

"Hmm?" She murmurs.

"You're not the worst Robin ever. You're the best one anyone could ask for." I whisper, my hand running through her hair.

She scoots in closer, folds her arms around my waist, and lays her head in my lap.

"I lo-ooaafff you, Cash. I loaf you. Like bread. You're a good loaf of bread. Like Rye. Or Sourdough. I bet you taste better than those ones though. Well, I mean...okay that sounded wrong. I'm sure you taste nothing like bread. Better! Better than bread!"

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Did she just...?

While she continues to talk, I stay frozen in time, too scared to move.

I can call her out on that shit, but I have a bad feeling it won't be to my benefit. And I can't risk losing the only thing keeping me tethered to reality right now.

So, I continue to play with her hair, my heart attempting to skyrocket into another galaxy, while she goes on a twenty-minute rant about bread.

I've always been taught to appreciate what's given to me. Just never thought I'd be thanking a higher power for Sourdough.