Losing It

Quinn: Are we still on for noon?

He texts back right away.

Wes: I’ll be here.

And that’s it.

I have to do this face-to-face.

Which is possible.

Totally possible.

Totally.

Chapter Four

Wes

For the third time in ten minutes, I glance at my cell.

Same lock screen—the view from that hike Griff and I took last winter.

Same lack of notifications.

Same text from Quinn.

She’s coming here.

It’s still incomprehensible.

Quinn Thorn asking me to take her virginity is too far out of the realm of possibility.

She must be coming to say oh my God, I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this.

But, fuck, if she’s isn’t—

If she’s here to demand I fuck her—

My cock stirs.

Not good.

Not right now.

I have a lot of shit to do in the next fifteen minutes.

I shrug my shoulders. Focus my attention on my mock-up.

It’s a his and hers piece inspired by a popular sci-fi show. The nuance is lacking, but the details are badass.

A guy with long hair and a huge gun.

A woman with big eyes and an I’m going to kill you stare.

I’m not sure why this set of love birds wants to celebrate their relationship by plastering their skin with fictional characters.

But if it makes them happy, who am I to judge?

I didn’t get into tattoos for the love of them. Or the art.

It started as a way to show up my brothers.

But the first time I actually put the needle to something—a banana, of course—I fell in love.

It’s the coolest feeling in the world.

The only thing that satisfies all the way to my bones.

My gaze flits to my phone.

Eleven forty-five.

Fifteen minutes until Quinn arrives.

“Fuck, you’re in love with that thing.” Hunter pushes himself onto the counter. He spins, turns to his girlfriend, motions come here.

She giggles as she leans in to kiss him.

His hand knots in her long hair.

Hers knots in his.

They move closer.

Make out like horny teenagers.

If he wasn’t a blood relative, it might be hot. His girlfriend, Emma, is a total babe.

As it is—

Fuck, it’s weird seeing him so happy.

Hunter was a miserable screwup for my entire life.

Until last year. Chase confronted him about his drinking problem. He lied about his desire to get sober.

But, somehow, we got him into rehab.

He dried out. Got his shit together. Fell in love.

He got me, Griffin, and Chase jobs here.

I owe him a lot.

And I don’t have any way to repay him.

Hunter breaks the kiss and turns to me. “You can admit you’re nervous.”

I shrug. I’m not nervous. I’m interested. And I’m not falling for Hunter’s let’s talk about feelings so we’re not emotionally constipated and in need of the bottle bullshit. “You can admit you don’t stack up to me.”

“Yeah.” He turns to his girlfriend. “What do you think, Em. Is Wes packing heat?”

“Honestly…” She taps her finger against her chin, pretending to mull it over. Which is ridiculous. We banter like this every day. Hell, we go through this exchange every day. “Yeah.”

“Obviously,” I say.

“Why else would any woman screw him twice? With that personality?” she teases.

I press my hands to my gut like I’m trying to stop the bleeding. “Baby, you know I love it when you hurt me.”

“Oooh, he’s being all cute. He’s got something to hide.” Emma crosses the room to my suite. Gets close enough to study my mock-up. “You’re here early.”

“And?” I never manage to get work done at home. There’s something about the vibe of my apartment. Something not at all conducive to concentration.

“And you’re staring at your cell every three seconds.” She reaches for my phone. “Who are you talking to?”

“None of your business,” I say.

Her red lips curl into a wide smile. “It’s a secret?”

“Or he’s fucking with you,” Hunter says.

She shakes her head. “No, look. He’s flustered.”

“Fuck off. I am not.” I shrug. Smooth my t-shirt. My jeans.

This is what I always wear.

I’m usually comfortable in it.

But not right now.

It’s too casual for Quinn.

She dresses like she’s about to audition for Mad Men.

Or maybe a Mad Men inspired porno.

Okay, that’s my depraved imagination. But now that I’m conjuring images of Quinn in some pinup lingerie set—

Fuck.

I need to get ahold of myself or I’m going to scare her.

And I’m not scaring her.

I’m not fucking this up.

My gaze shifts to my brother and his girlfriend. “What the hell are you two doing here anyway?” In theory, they’re both here to work. He’s a tattoo artist. She mans the front desk.

But the work they’re doing is the type that pays in orgasms, not cash.

He raises a brow.

She blushes.

“Really?” I guess it’s sweet they’re still desperate to tear each other’s clothes off after nearly a year, but enough already. They don’t have to rub their happiness in our faces.

“Maybe.” She reaches for my phone again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Would like you to leave,” I say.

“Tell me what you’re hiding.” Her fingers brush my cell. Emma is five eleven. In her four-inch wedges, she’s taller than I am.