iv. in which quinn stevens faces the consequences of her actions

• • •

"QUINN, WAKE THE fuck up already." An irritated voice streamed through my consciousness, tugging myself out of my nonsensical dreams and into harsh reality. I was vaguely aware that a set of hands had me by the shoulders, gripping tight and shaking roughly. I couldn't find it in me to reply though, still stuck between the drifting stage of awakening and unconsciousness. "Oh, Jesus. Evan, hand me the bucket."

All of sudden, I was wide awake, my eyes being forced open as a frigid coldness stung my body from the waist up. My clothes, rumpled and wrinkled, clung securely to the curves along my body as the ice water drenched me and had me sputtering in shock. Bolting upright in the spot, my arms snaked around my body, hugging myself tightly as my teeth chattered involuntarily.

"What the fuck was that for?" I hissed out through gritted teeth, shivering from the breeze emanating from the air conditioning while blowing a clump of hair angrily away from my face.

"You wouldn't wake up." Joel replied with an innocent smile, cocking his head to one side, and attempted to hide the metallic gleam of the evidence behind his muscular back. The bucket's rims were still noticeable and I fixed my glare on it before switching perspectives back to the drummer. Standing meekly behind his brother was Evan, who merely glanced out the window opposite where he stood, unable to meet my death stare. A small smile flitted across his lips and I knew he wasn't as innocent in the scheme as he made out to be.

Before I could yell out an assortment of colorful language towards the brothers' directions, a pang of nausea overrode the irritation and I found myself gesturing wildly to Joel's arms.

"The bucket?" He raised an eyebrow, to which I paused in my frenzied movements to deadpan a reply, "No, you dumbness. The thong currently sticking out of your back pocket - yes, the bucket."

Wrinkling his nose at the blatant sarcasm, he extended his hands to give me the pail, but it was too late. I felt the bile from the alcohol rise up in my esophagus and soon vomit was splattered clear over the bed sheets, tarnishing its bright white hue with a sickening green color.

"Oh, gross." The three of us groaned at the same time. Now feeling utterly revolting, I tossed the empty bucket at Joel's head - which he ducked before it could make impact - before shooing them both out of the room.

"Go get a maid or something to clean this up." I demanded, tasting the remnants of puke in my mouth. "I'm going to disinfect my face." The two gave me a wary look before heading out the door and into the hallways, the door shutting firmly behind them with a click.

Once they were gone, I finally took the time to gaze at my surroundings, filled with curiosity and confusion. I was spread over a queen sized mattress, still dressed in the previous night's attire. My dress was wrinkled and torn at the hem, bunched up around my waist from the fitful sleep, and I cursed. That was my favorite dress.

Eyes scanning the room, it wasn't familiar in any way, shape, or form. The windows were placed to the right of the bed, shades drawn to a tight close as sunlight streamed haphazardly through the small cracks. It wasn't soundproof though, as the honks and shrieks of the busy Los Angeles streets filtered through the thin, beige walls. A small table sat in front of the television, stacked with complimentary magazines and the remote, scattered as my heels sat precariously atop the mess. Complete with a small bathroom off towards the left, I concluded that I was in a hotel room: a mere four star one by the looks of it.

With a grimace, I threw the vomit-stained, wet blanket off to the side and hopped down, bunching it up in a pile by the bedside table. I made my way into the bathroom, hands groping the wall for the light switch, finally finding it and flickering it on.

A hideous beast in the mirror met my adjusting eyes, and I stumbled back. As I stared at my reflection in the glass, I winced at how horrible I looked. Thick, black circles covered the rims of my eyes, making the bags underneath seem more sagged than usual. My amber eyes were red-rimmed. Eyeliner and mascara had smudged over my cheeks, blending with the remnants of blush to create a mess of make-up.

My lipstick veered off to the right, and my hair was soaked in messy tendrils around my shoulders, deflated and tangled. The dress was in worse condition than I thought; it was thoroughly soaked from the waistline up, a bit of vomit stained the top of it as well.

My eyes widened as I leaned closer, tilting my head to right.

"Is that a hickey?" I choked out in disbelief, my hand rubbing the angry pink mark just under my jawline.

My thoughts were a jumble as I tried to recollect memories of the night before. The last thing I truly remembered was when Ebony handed me a glass of water for the toasting ceremony. I could only draw up a blank from there. All I could tell at the moment was that my head really fucking hurt.

Goddamn.

Something in the mirror caught my eyes, indicating something right behind me. Hanging on the towel rack were a pair of sweats, a shirt, and an oversized Giants hoodie, complete with a yellow stick-it note plastered over top. I spun around to rip it off, recognizing Tanya's handwriting immediately. It was the scrawl of a writer; cursive but not, as the letters morphed and blended into one another seamlessly.

Quinn,

We need to talk. I left some clothes for you to change into and you can find your sunglasses on the bedside table. Meet me in the breakfast lounge as soon as you wake up. Don't get distracted.

-T

That didn't sound good. The note dripped with irritation and aggravation, with a side of mild sarcasm. With a groan, I ran a hand through my hair, fingers getting trapped in the tangles about halfway through. Crumpling up the note in one hand, I threw it in the trash bin and scoured the room for a toothbrush.

Once I managed to look semi-presentable for the public eye, I stepped out of the bathroom and looked around. Sure enough, the sunglasses I wore from the previous night sat neatly folded on the table, its lens gleaming in the dark of the room. The lights were still off, to save me the pain of the brightness hindering the recovery of the hangover. Stumbling forward, I scooped up the glasses and covered my eyes with it, moving on to the table by the television.

Crossing my hands across my chest, I contemplated putting on my boots, the black shoes sitting comfortably on top of the table, but thought against it at the last second. The talk with Tanya would probably take less than a few minutes and my pounding headache didn't want me to put in any extra effort.

Smirking, I just shook my head and exited the room, barefoot.

The hallways were a labyrinth I concluded, as I rounded another corner. The soft cranberry red carpet tickled the skin beneath my feet, toes curling instinctively as they slipped and wobbled. I held a hand against the wall at all times, guiding myself towards where I assumed the elevators would be located.

I looked like a drunken fool, which was only half correct since I was drunk no longer. But the whole hand-eye coordination thing was still difficult to accomplish with a hangover.

As soon as I got to the silver, metallic doors, I groaned a sigh of relief and shakily reached towards the button and waited for the contraption to come down. The flashing numbers above indicated that the elevator was on my level and I stepped in once the doors slid open with a squeak.

Once inside, I watched the red numbers slowly dwindle down as they neared floor one, the reception area where the breakfast lounge was located. As the floor beneath me lowered, I realized all too slowly that I was not alone in the space.

An old lady eyed me skeptically, huddled in the corner, as far away from where I stood as possible. I understood that I could be intimidating at times, but I wasn't in the mood for her scrutiny at my obvious condition and outrageous appearance.

I rolled my eyes, though doubting she could even see through the sunglasses and stepped out of the elevator as it dinged and signalled my stop. Giving her a mocking salute, I stumbled out from the threshold and rounded the corner.

Only to find myself diving headfirst into a sea of paparazzi.

Lights and flashes went off in hordes, blinding me and making me stumble back, nearly falling onto my ass. There was a wave of sound, voices and questions intermingling with each, the words flowing out from one mouth into the other. I raised a hand over my face to protect what little dignity I had left, realizing that they had just found me in a bunch of oversized clothing, barefoot, with an obvious hangover.

"Quinn, look over here!"

"No, over here!"

"Why are you barefoot?"

"What are your thoughts about the events from last night?"

"Is true that you stripped in front of the entire club?"

"How do you feel about animal cruelty in Lithuania?"

"Is that a hickey on your neck?"

"Is it true that you slept with Daniel Harding, lead guitarist of Ending Spark?"

It was the last question I managed to overhear before I stopped struggling to wade through the crowd. Angrily, I whirled around to face the culprit of the atrocious statement, finding myself face to face with a stubby man in his mid-thirties, who held a camcorder in one hand and a microphone in the other. He seemed genuinely pleased at my glare; at least I noticed him.

"So is it true, Quinn?" he pressed. I hated how he said my name, as if we were old colleagues or a friend he was reunited with after a long period's separation. In reality, he was just a wily pedophile looking for gossip and lies to spread for a quick buck. And I hated how casually he talked about the universal jackass known as Daniel Harding, with his pompous quiff and flirtatious ego the size of a walrus.

Lead guitarist of my band's rival, Ending Spark, Harding was a jerk who thought he had such a charming charisma that he could score any woman he wanted, when he wanted, and wherever he wanted. Including myself. The blonde, blue-eyed Casanova was the front man for the band he seemed to control like puppets, the band I've grown to hate because of their incapability of writing their own songs and giving into the pressure of mainstream culture.

Plus the fact that they've bashed on Call Me Rebel as many times as Daniel Harding shagged his fanbase backstage at their concerts.

Before I could open my mouth to retort back venomously in the pap's face, a hand enclosed around my wrist and tugged me away.

"Let me go, Evan," I hissed, trying to pull free. I was slowly losing sight of the man, as more clicks and shots were captured while we pushed through. "That bastard is just waiting for a beating."

"Which is exactly why I'm not letting you go." he replied in a clipped tone, shoving past people and pulling me along like a small child. Dressed in a Ramones v-neck and tan khakis, I watched his Vans hit against the linoleum carpet as he glided seamlessly through the crowd. I gritted my teeth in frustration, still tense and on the edge from the questions shot at me. Together, we weaved through the remaining stragglers and in the distance, I saw Tanya opening the double doors to a brightly lit room leading into the lounge, an impassive expression on her face.

As Evan and I neared, she glanced over our shoulders at the oncoming paparazzi and quickly shooed us in. Two of our bodyguards, Kevin and Dylan, nodded as we passed, taking up their positions by the entrance to keep the paps away. Tanya wasted no time, stealing my wrist away from Evan and dragging me to one of the tables where the rest of the band was already situated.

Joel was drumming along the table edge in boredom while Ebony had a stack of fresh waffles in front of her, the smell wafting into my nose and making my mouth water. My stomach rumbled. She took a bite, only looking up as my shadow was cast over her head. Tanya pushed me roughly into the seat opposite from my friend, a scowl on her lips.

"Why-"

Without a word, Tanya reached over to the table beside us, whipping a magazine off the red surface and slapping it onto the table. Ebony flinched at the sudden noise, scrunching up her nose at her disrupted peace. She was wearing a light grey cardigan over top a warm yellow tank top, combined with white shorts and converse. Her black hair was piled into a messy side ponytail and her eyes skimmed over the heading written in a bold yellow color, eyes widening as a light smile flickered across her face. One second it was there, the next it was gone. I assumed I was just seeing things.

I hadn't even had time to focus my unfocused gaze upon the magazine before a different pair of hands snatched it up. My eyes trailed up the arms, realizing it was now in Joel's possession. His messy hair was even unrulier than usual, spiked up in the back and flattened in the front. He also had bags under his eyes, and was dressed in a maroon hoodie and jeans.

"Holy-"

"Oh, give me that." I snapped, stealing the paper from him and leaning away before he could try and steal it back. Ignoring his protests, I rolled my eyes and turned back to the magazine. It couldn't be that bad, could it?

The headline was obnoxious, screaming out the title, "Miss Innocent Isn't as Innocent as She Makes Out to Be."

First off, the press definitely knew I was about as innocent as a school girl porn star; I never failed to hide the snide sexual innuendos during live interviews, I swore like a mobster, and my sarcasm could slice through titanium.

But as soon as the annoyance faded, I found myself staring at the chosen photo on the front page cover. To say I was surprised was a huge understatement. I looked completely different, still the same messy hazelnut hair and the same devious smirk on my lips, but it was like I was on the outside looking in.

It was a candid shot, blurry and grainy but still clear enough to pick me out. In the photo, I was standing on top of the bar, a bottle of beer in one hand and my combat boots in the other. My eyes alight and glazed over from the alcohol, staring mischievously into another set of eyes. I followed my gaze in the photo, bolting upright as soon as I saw who I had been grinding scandalously against.

Daniel fucking Harding.

"No." I gasped out incredulously, abruptly standing out of my chair. The devilish blonde had a smirk as his pelvis strayed too close for comfort against my own. I felt bile rise in my throat.

"There's more," Tanya's voice, rough and stern, filtered through my blurry mind. She walked over, the clack of her stilettos loud in the silence of the room. Her hands were on her hips, her white blouse wrinkling and long skirt swishing as she walked. When she arrived by my side, Tanya flipped to the page where my article was located, pointing to it.

Another title, much shorter yet still shocking me was, "Drunk or Insane?" My eyes scanned the article; there were photos of me nearly naked, more pictures of me making out with Daniel, photos of me getting completely wasted as I hijacked the bar. I kept finding words and phrases like underage, drunk, supposed to be a role model, out of control, insane. The last word on the page cut me like a knife and I stumbled back, feeling unshed tears sting the back of my eyes.

Pathetic, it read.

Though it's been years since I last heard that word, and years since I've seen them, it still managed to dangle me over the abyss I had only recently climbed myself out of. This new life, filled with freedom and music, the life I worked so hard to get, was already slipping away just like they told me it would.

I didn't even remember getting drunk last night. In most occasions when I got drunk I don't remember anything at all, and unsurprisingly this was also the case. It was all a vague blur - just a blip in the radar and gone with the wind.

"... and now I have to face the lawsuits of people suing Quantum because of your scandal. Underage drinking, Quinn? Really? Despite the fines, now the cops want to keep tabs on you because this isn't the first illegal thing you've done. Not to mention- Quinn. Are you even listening to me?" Tanya's voice was muted; I was muted. Stuck in the past and unwanted memories, I only tuned back into the conversation when Tanya shook my shoulders roughly.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?" she demanded, looking even more pissed off when I truthfully shook my head. My hands were starting to shake, still wrecked over that one stupid word. It still managed to through me off guard, even after all these years.

Tanya noticed my distraught gaze and the hellfire in her eyes diminished by a fraction. Exhaling deeply, she tucked a loose strand of my hair out of my face and spoke slowly, "Quinn, you're getting out of hand." I flinched at her blunt comment, turning my head so that her hand fell loosely to her side. "I don't know why, and I don't want to know why. But I can't have you in the band like this."

I bristled, balling my hands into fists. What was she trying to get at? Narrowing my gaze, I knew that ever since our band struck gold in life, I've been a little different. But when you started at the very brink of hopelessness and somehow ended up where I was, you would've indulged yourself too. But me... I changed to forget. "What do you mean?" I challenged, fire in my eyes.

The band fidgeted in their seats, neither one of the brothers able to keep my glare. Ebony, on the other hand, met my stare dead on, her lips pursed. "What's going on?" I demanded, my voice going hoarse at the end of the sentence.

"Elizabeth," Tanya put a hand on my shoulder. "Sweetie, we're sending you home."

It took about 3.4 seconds for me to full comprehend what she just said. I had to be hearing things. "Pardon?" I asked in a sickeningly sweet tone, though my eyes told otherwise.

Tanya sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. It was then that I realized she looked older than she was at that moment. The fluorescent lights shone overhead, landing on her graying hair, the slivers more prominent. Wrinkles on her cheeks, she looked tired. "It wasn't an easy decision-"

"They why did you make it?"

"The band and I thought it would be for your own good-"

"You don't fucking understand," I snarled, my voice sharp enough to cut through steel. "None of you do! I thought you knew, Tanya. You knew why I was in this band in the first place, and now you want to send me back? How could you?"

She looked pained, her eyes going soft. I was furious and angry tears threatened to spill. They wouldn't though, because I've never cried since that day. Tanya insisted, "You're not out of the band, it's just we thought, maybe you just need some time. . ." Her voice trailed off.

"What? To make things right? They had their chance," I scoffed, a strangled noise caught in my throat. "They didn't take it."

"Quinn, it's been three years. I only think you're acting this way because you're still trying to cope-"

"Don't," I said warningly. "try to psychoanalyze me."

Tanya closed her mouth, letting out a loud sigh. "It would be best for the band too. This scandal," she pointed to the magazine. "is huge. If you had some time off, it'll give people time to forget. If you don't want to think about this in that way, think of it from a business perspective."

"We're in the middle of a fucking tour!"

"The band can go on without you."

I blanched, gaping at her in shock. I was the lead vocalist, the lead guitarist. These were my lyrics, my songs. I created this band. My mouth opened and closed like a fish gaping in water. Speechless, I just turned away, unable to meet anyone's gaze.

"Ebony offered to take your place for the three months that you're gone." Tanya added as if an afterthought. Three months. She wanted me away from my life for three months.

"Ebony?" I echoed in disbelief. I knew that she had always wanted to be lead vocalist, but was everyone already wanting me out of the picture? Tanya looked like she was going to add something, but thought against it. She nodded instead.

"When are you making me leave?"

Tanya bit her lip, "Your plane to New Jersey leaves tomorrow afternoon."

I was storming out the door before she could utter another word. The flip of my hair as I whirled around, the deafening slam of the door, making the chandelier in the lobby shake nervously, and I was back among the crowd.

I let my mind wander, thinking about these unfamiliar faces. Each told a story, everyone had their own life. Were they here on vacation? To meet a lover? To get away from it all? What were they all thinking at this moment? I was hurt. Though unwilling to admit it, it was the honest truth.

That was what I was thinking.

"Quinn!" A voice called, just before I could reach the exit. Masculine and throaty, it was unfamiliar to me until I saw the smudgy man from before, with his hand-me-down camcorder and beer bottle stomach.

I spun around, absolutely done with everything. Eyes smoldering, I watched in satisfaction as he stumbled back, his confident aura wavering. "Make it quick, fatty, I've got places to be." It was a lie, but I wanted to be anywhere but the hotel.

He seemed unfazed by my insult, holding up the microphone in his left hand to my lips. "Just answer me one thing: what's going to happen to you now that this scandal was leaked? What will be of Call me Rebel? What will you do about your bad reputation?"

Without missing a beat, I adjusted my sunglasses, perching them on the bridge of my nose so that he could see the blank expression in my amber eyes. I lulled the reply in my mind, merely replying back as the Joan Jett song began to drift in my mind. "I don't give a damn about my bad reputation."

• • •

Song on the side is Harlem by New Politics.

Comment. Vote. Promote. c:

-Isabelle