Fearless Like Us (Like Us 9)

As the audience shouts over each other, I cut in, “Everyone shush.” Yeah, I just shushed them with zero bowls of Instant Regret. Quinn is my responsibility. He’s only twenty-two, and I need them to back off.

Shit, he’s been like a little brother to me. He’s my roommate. He said he was a fucking snow bunny?! How did he end up here?!

FUCK!

I swallow the curses, and while the girls quiet, I shift his oversized ski jacket that blends into his pants. Getting a better visual of his leg, and I go cold.

“Oh my God, his leg!” Nessa gasps, dropping to her knees at his side. “It shouldn’t be bent like that…is that his bone?” She turns to me, wide-eyed.

“I can’t look,” another girl says.

Yeah. His bone ripped through his pants.

“I can walk…” He blows out a measured breath. “Just…help me up, Akara.”

“No, don’t move. That’s an order.”

He pulls off his goggles, squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s fine….I promise, I can walk. I can walk.” He opens them on me, his desperation and pain clawing at me. “I’m going to work tomorrow…I’ll be there, on the dot. You don’t have to worry about me…” His nose flares, eyes welling up.

Mine burn. “It’s okay, just breathe, Quinn.”

“I’ll be there…you can still count on me for Pirate Parrot.” Pirate Parrot is the code name for Baby Ripley, which rarely ever needs to be used, but Quinn is smart enough not to mention him around these five girls. The more he sees my unease, the more he tries to stand up. “I can walk, Akara. I can—”

“No.” I put a hand on him.

“I can walk!” he screams, almost as excruciating as his first wail at the collision.

“Your leg is a pretzel,” I force out. “I’d rather carry your ass down this hill than see you hobble and break your face, okay?” My pulse is pounding, and his features twist in anguish. He almost tries to sit up again, but Nessa holds his other shoulder.

“Just wait, okay?” she says. “You’re really hurt, Quinn.”

I send a quick text to the Yale boys about the accident. “Let’s just get you to the ER.”

Quinn tries to ease, but he can’t. What this means for his job, his career, his future on SFO—only I have those answers. And my head is spinning, not even wanting to land on the dark reality.

“I see the ski patrol!” Nessa shouts. “Over here!”

“OVER HERE!” The girls wave.

“You’re going to be okay, Quinn,” Nessa says. “Just hold on.” She clutches his hand tight.

He nods through a pained grimace, then asks me, “Can you call my brother?”

A phone call with Oscar, a hospital ride, and an X-ray later, we all learn Quinn Oliveira broke his tibia in three pieces. Since it’s an open fracture, his surgery is scheduled later today and will probably include metal pins. At least six months of recovery.

A half a year without Quinn able to go on-duty.

He’s okay.

I try to hold on to the positive. Which is big. No head injury. No fatal wounds. Farrow already stopped by and examined the X-rays.

He left earlier, but I asked him if he thought the recovery time could be shaved. He told me under his breath, it’s a bad break. Six months is realistic.

Six months.

He’s okay.

Quinn lies on the hospital bed. Flowers overflow the room after his snowboard accident was leaked. This time The Royal Leaks wasn’t culpable.

Nessa North, the purple-jacket skier, shared the news on her Twitter account. She currently hovers over Quinn with her friend. They followed us to the hospital and haven’t left his side.

Oscar keeps grinning every time they flirt like his little brother is about to ascend the Olympic podium for Hottest Person on Earth.

Quinn’s hotness is unquestionable at this point, but even if I’d prefer to kick the girls out, they’re the only thing slightly taking his mind off his injury and bleak future on SFO. I think that’s why Oscar is entertaining this whole sideshow.

“Does it hurt more?” Nessa asks for the umpteenth time.

“Not really,” Quinn says.

“You must have superhuman pain tolerance.”

Oscar pops a couple chips in his mouth, shaking a bag of Doritos. “Or he has super strong Vicodin running through his veins.”

Quinn shoots him a look to shut up.

I just need to rip off this Band-Aid. Let the gavel fall. “Nessa, do you think you and your friend could grab Quinn a sports drink from the vending machine?”

“We can definitely do that.” Nessa speeds out of the room in a hurry, her friend right behind.

Quinn watches Nessa longingly.

Crap, I hate being the bearer of shit news. But I clear my throat. “Quinn.”

“Sorry,” he says, sort of morosely. “She’s cute, right?”

Oscar laughs. “Super cute, little bro.”

I hear super cute and an image of Sulli flashes in my brain. My chest tightens, trying not to think about her.