Unrequited Read online

  "You told me he wasn't bothering you anymore."

  "Apparently, blabber-mouth Jessica told him that she saw us at the movies last weekend. Nosy bitch," I said lightheartedly. "He thinks I was cheating on him all along, and now he's embarrassed and hurt."

  "I'll talk to him," Quentin said with finality. "He won't bother you again."

  "Like you talked to Brent?"

  "If necessary."

  "It's very unnecessary, actually."

  "Dude can't seem to take a fucking hint." There was a touch of anger in his voice. Controlled, but still there.

  Like Brent, Kevin's infatuation with me turned into possessiveness. Eventually, possessiveness turned into scorn once Kevin realized I wasn't tripping over him like all the other girls were. Then to preserve his fragile ego and coveted reputation, I was labeled stuck up. Now I could add 'cheater' to the list. But contrary to what Kevin thought of me, I cared about him. He was right about one thing, though. I started to pull back from him when he confessed those three little words. He wanted my heart, but my heart wasn't mine to give.

  I ignored Quentin's seething temper. His protectiveness of me was both a nuisance and thrilling. Taking a pull of the joint between my fingers, I said, "I'm not that easy to get over." I coughed and chuckled at the same time.

  "No, you're not," Quentin said evenly.

  I turned my head to look at him. Our eyes met. Like always, I looked away first. Resting the back of my head on the soft down comforter, I closed my eyes. The cool breeze felt divine on my heated face.

  Quentin's phone buzzed between us, but I didn't feel him move to retrieve it from his pocket.

  "You know she's going to keep calling until you answer." I had no idea who she was, but I knew it was a she. It always was. The bite in my tone was unexpected but unavoidable.

  "I know."

  I felt the movement of his arm as he retrieved his phone, then put it back in his pocket. I didn't bother to open my eyes. "If you need to go…" The words trailed off my tongue, tasting bitter. I took another long drag of the joint, letting the sweet smoke fill my mouth before parting my lips and blowing out a soft cloud of smoke. When I opened my eyes again, I focused on counting the stairs above—anything to keep me from looking over at Quentin at that moment. Especially when I felt the heat of his stare, like gentle fingers grazing across my face.

  "She's not important," he finally said.

  "Are any of them…important to you? Is there one that you care about more than the rest?"

  "No."

  "No?" I turned my entire body to face him, propping up on my elbow. I had an unobstructed view of his body, lying this way. He was still sprawled out on his back with one forearm tucked beneath his head, and the other arm draped across his hard stomach. He'd long since nixed the button-up shirt from earlier today and now wore a stark white undershirt.

  His brows were drawn together while looking up at the sky. "I care in the sense that I don't want anything bad to happen to them. Like getting hit by a bus or some shit."

  I snorted in amusement. "I think most human beings have that basic level of care for their fellow strangers." Quentin looked up into the sky. His face was contemplative. "Do you care about their feelings? Their emotional wellbeing? Do you care if you break their hearts?" I no longer knew for sure if I was talking about them or me.

  Amber had recently confessed her love to Quentin, demanding all or nothing. He chose nothing. Would he do the same to me if I admitted to wanting more? And what did I want? We were heading off to different colleges soon—me in Calfornia and him in Rhode Island.

  "I never loved Kevin," I confessed. "I never loved any of them. But I hate how things always ended so badly. I don't like hurting boys. Especially the good ones."

  Quentin turned his head to me, still flat on his back. "Circle of truth?" A mischievous smile stretched across his face, and I rolled my eyes. Circle of truth was something that Aunt Helena and I started when I was a child. It was a safe space, a judgment-free zone, where I could share with her my innermost private thoughts, fears, secrets, and sins without any repercussions. During summer camp, I introduced the concept to Quentin one night. He thought it was corny as hell but played along.

  The last time we played it was after Colton died. Quentin admitted to feeling numb after he found out about his best friend's suicide. So in order to feel something, he lit a cigarette and pressed the scorching tip against his chest, leaving a small scar, right above his heart.

  "Circle of truth," I repeated.

  His smile slowly dissipated, and he turned to face me, propping up on his elbow. "Amber said that I don't have a heart. She called me apathetic."

  "Ouch. Does it sting a little, knowing that you hurt her?"

  He shrugged and took a pull of the joint that I passed to him. He blew out the smoke before replying. "No. I don't care. And she's right."

  I blinked at him and tried to ignore the chill that went through me at his words and at the emotionless way he said them. "I don't believe that, Quentin."

  "You should." It sounded like a warning wrapped in a promise.

  "That's total bullshit. I know you," I challenged.

  A careless lock of hair fell onto his forehead. My fingers itched to rake through his hair to put the wayward stray back in its place. "You care for your brother and sisters. You take care of Wes when he's on a bender. You do volunteer work while the rest of us are sleeping in on a Saturday morning. You fight for humanitarian causes on campus. That doesn't sound like a heartless, apathetic person. Besides, you're going to be a politician one day. Politicians aren't apathetic."

  "You'd be surprised, Princess." Princess was a pet name Quentin called me whenever he thought I was acting 'extra' or high maintenance. Which was often, but I didn't care. Now, it sounded like a term of affection, and butterflies fluttered in my stomach whenever he used my new nickname. "I'm different things to different people. Very few people actually mean something to me. Towards most people, I'm a fucking tinman."

  "The man with no heart." I laughed at the tinman reference. He didn't. He simply blinked at me.

  "All that other shit I do, the volunteering and the campaigns, it's all for show. A means to an end to be able to persuade people or to manipulate situations as I see fit. It's all politics."

  I hesitated, about to cross a boundary we promised early on not to cross. "And your mom, Adeline? I'm assuming she's on that list?" I knew of their strained relationship and always encouraged Quentin to make amends.

  "You know my mother and I have a complicated relationship," he deadpanned. "She sent me away when—" Quentin abruptly stopped.

  "When your dad left her for my mom."

  We said nothing for a moment. Just stared into each other's eyes. That was a bad idea because I found myself getting lost in them.

  Quentin spoke up after a long pause. "My dad was wrong. But he still put in the time with me. More than I can say for my mother."

  "I saw them together once. Your dad and my mom. I was eight. It was about a month before she died." Quentin listened intently. I'd never told him this before. "It was the middle of the night. My dad was away on business, and she thought I was asleep."

  Quentin began to run the pad of his thumb and pointer finger along a single dreadlock, as he listened. I tried to ignore the way it made me feel—like tiny feathers were tickling my skin.

  "That night, I had a stomachache, so I ventured to my mom's bedroom. I remember walking across the hall and hearing voices coming from downstairs. It was really dark, and I was so scared. Especially when I heard a man's voice. It was low, like a whisper, but it was there. I remember peeking over the stair rail and seeing them." I paused, searching his face. His expression was grim. "He had her up against the wall." Quentin winced. I didn't need to spell it out for him. "I started balling in tears, and I threw up. That's when they heard me. They jumped apart and started fixing their clothes."

  "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

  "Your dad
must have left, and my mom ran up the stairs to me. She was crying and begging me not to tell my dad as she cleaned me up. I remember asking her if she loved my dad, or if she loved the man that made her cry." I explained, "She used to cry a lot. Like all the time." I thought back to one of the last heart-to-heart conversations I had with her before her death. Sometimes loving a man can do more harm than good, Babygirl. Another chill ran through me. "My mom loved your dad. More than my dad. More than me."

  With the joint wedged between his fingers, Quentin cradled my cheek. The heat of his palm soothed something inside of me, and I found myself closing my eyes for a moment, savoring his touch before his hand fell away. "I'm sorry for what my dad did to your family."

  I shook my head. "I'm sorry for what my mom did to yours. Love is fucking brutal. It usually leaves hearts in pieces."

  "Remember that, Princess," he drawled, his voice adding heat to my veins.

  Neither one of us spoke after that. Only gazed at each other. The faint sounds around us—the crickets, the wind swaying through the trees, the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, and the harmonic cords of Pink's Stop Falling, from my bedroom stereo, all seemed to amplify at that moment.

  My eyes outlined the planes of his face. The boyish angles from freshman year were transforming into sharp masculine lines as he entered adulthood. His straight nose. The cupid's bow of his lips. The everchanging speckles of green, gold, and brown in his eyes. His sun-kissed skin. The various natural shades of blond and light brown that blended into silky waves. He was so put-together. So flawless. So beautiful.

  One day, he would find a well-manicured, boring wife who would get to look at his face every morning and every night. And it wouldn't be me. Fate had sealed that deal long ago when we were kids, before we ever met. We would never have a future together. All we had was this moment in time, and our time was running out. One day, and one day soon, this moment in time would be but a fond memory.

  I wanted to kiss him. Right then and there. I wanted to cradle his face in the palms of my hands and press my lips to his. I wanted to suck on his tongue and taste the inside of his mouth. I wanted him to touch me. Anywhere. Everywhere. I wanted— needed him to make a move. To do something to show me that he felt it too. That he saw our time was running out.

  I saw the way Quentin looked at me. The way his eyes lit up just by the sound of my laugh. I felt his heated stare on my ass whenever I stood in front of him. I saw the way his eyes would slightly narrow when boys from school would flirt with me. Or the fierce way he protected me from unwanted advances or disrespect.

  Quentin extinguished the joint against the roof tiles before flicking it away. As if reading my mind, he tentatively reached out and curled the end of thin dreadlock around his long finger. It felt like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest.

  "You have the right idea," I started, feeling emboldened. I hesitated at the questioning look in his eyes. "Sex with no attachments, no expectations." My body drummed with excitement and fear as I dared to take our friendship to the next level. "Two young, sexual people seeking pleasure from one another. That's the most natural thing in the world. No false expectations mean no broken hearts." What I wanted to add, but was too chicken, was: You already have my heart. Take my body, too.

  My eyes swept over his face to his Adam's apple, and I watched his throat bob from a swallow. His hand paused for a fraction on my dreadlock, before resuming his downward movement, then up again. I couldn't tell what he was thinking or how he was feeling.

  I never doubted the power I had over boys and grown men. But with Quentin, I had no freaking clue how to interpret this. I'd never propositioned a guy like this before. I never had to. But here I was. About to lay all the cards on the table. "Let's make it count," I said barely above a whisper.

  A crease formed between his brows as if he were mulling over my proposal—my indecent proposal. My fingers hesitantly made contact with the silky strands of his thick hair, and I pushed the wayward strands back into place. The deep brown in his hazel eyes became more pronounced as his irises dilated. My resolve faded with each passing moment. I was crossing boundaries. Boundaries that I constructed early on. Boundaries that my libido or my heart no longer gave a shit about.

  I scraped my sharp nails along Quentin's scalp, trailing them down the nape of his neck. "No one has to get hurt here," I whispered against his lips, sensing his hesitation. "I know exactly what this is."

  I inched my way closer to him. His eyes slid shut as he exhaled a deep breath. He fisted my hair, and his cock grew firm in his pants. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said against the seam of my lips. "You were right. You and I should never happen."

  I removed my hand from his hair like it burned me. I sat up abruptly, drawing my knees to my chest. "You're right," I clipped. "Our dads hate one another. And let's be honest, you hate my mom, and I hate your dad." I desperately tried to save face by throwing an unnecessary verbal punch.

  Quentin sat up too. He gave a slight shake of his head, like he was about to dispute what I'd just said, but probably decided not to lie right to my face.

  "Today was fun." I stifled a fake yawn. " But, I’m pretty beat."

  "Fatima, I—"

  No. No. No. Please don't make this any more awkward. "No explanation needed," I cut in. "Seriously."

  We climbed back through my bedroom window, and I helped him gather his things. All conversation ceased as I led him through my home and out to the garage. Dragging my eyes from the retracting garage door, I forced myself to look up at him—big freaking mistake. His eyes were deep pools of conflict. "We're good, Quentin," I assured. "Friends, right?"

  He eyed me unsurely. "Friends."

  Against every muscle in my face, I smiled up at him. "I'll see you at school tomorrow."

  "See you tomorrow."

  I stared at Quentin's truck as he backed out of the garage. Once back inside, I plopped down on the sofa and groaned into a throw pillow, like a petulant child.

  Chapter 8

  QUENTIN

  "IT'S RATHER LATE FOR a school night." Eleanor was curled up on the sofa, holding a glass of wine in one hand and flipping through the bible with the other. Her dark hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and the large diamond studs in her ears glinted off the dancing flames in the fireplace. Dad must have fucked up again. He always bought her diamonds whenever he pissed her off.

  My dad met Eleanor at Sunday mass. She was young, came from a meager upbringing, and resembled a hot librarian with her school teacher glasses and cardigan sweaters. Although I was reluctant to accept her as my dad's new girlfriend—still angry over the divorce and missing my mother, I thought she was pretty, had a soothing voice, and a gentle smile. It didn't take long for her to win me over.

  Eleanor was a widow with a newborn son of her own named Victor. Her husband died in military combat while she was pregnant with him. America fell in love with the widow of a hero, and so did my dad. She was loving and nurturing and made the best apple turnovers. She wasn't anything like the evil stepmothers in the Disney movies. She was kind and patient and had worked earnestly in building a relationship with me.

  I believed my father loved Eleanor, and I hoped he was faithful to her. The complexities that made up my father were, at times, too exhaustive to decipher. He was cruel and compassionate, calculating and sincere, loyal and deceitful, selfish and selfless—all depending on the person and the circumstance.

  Eleanor and my father had three more children, all girls. And with each birth, America forgave his sins a little more. His extramarital affair was now a mere afterthought, but still a stain, no less. The hope was now in me, to right the wrongs of my dad by ultimately securing the Oval Office, which would redeem the James – Belcourt legacy.

  "Sorry, mom. Lost track of time." I continued my stride to the east wing staircase, praying to God that she wasn't in a chatty mood.

  "Come. Sit."

  I turned and started towards one of the sofas in the e
xpansive parlor. "What's up?" I slumped back onto an adjoining sofa and yawned, hoping that she would take the hint.

  "Who's the girl?" Mom closed her bible and untucked her feet.

  No such luck.

  I straightened and scrubbed a hand over my face. "What girl?"

  "The African American girl. I saw you two from my garden today when you came home to pick up your truck."

  "She's a close friend."

  Her eyes brightened. "She's lovely."

  "She is."

  She took a sip of her wine before setting it aside on the lamp side table. "Your father was none too pleased when you left today."

  "Is he gone?"

  "No. He's upstairs in his study. He postponed his flight."

  Dad never postponed his flights to D.C. "Why would he do that?"

  Eleanor smiled softly. "He misses his family."

  I slouched back on the sofa, spreading my long legs wide and leaning my head back.

  "It's past midnight, Quentin. I expect you home at a decent hour on school nights."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And about Wesley…"

  I sat upright at Wes's name. "What did he do now?" Was I going to have to kick his ass? I'd already caught him staring at mom's tits over breakfast one morning and had threatened to cut off his balls if he ever tried to fuck her.

  "He's not home yet. I expected him home after his therapy session with Emilia. I know he's quite troubled, and rightly so. But if he can't abide by our rules, then perhaps he needs to patch things up with his parents and move back home." Mom had a soft spot for my prick of a best friend. Her motherly instincts caused her to want to protect him from his demons. Therapy had been one of the conditions of him living with us. Mom even recommended Dr. Emilia Nunn, a friend from church.

  "I'll talk to him. But he can't go home." Going home was not an option for Wes, but if he didn't get his shit together, it would be out of my hands. The least he could do was stop coming home shit-faced. And to stop fucking his therapist would be a step in the right direction. He'd once told me that he'd rather die before going back to the house of horrors, as he jokingly called it, though I failed to see the humor on his face or in his eyes when he said shit like that. I already lost one best friend. I wasn't trying to lose another.