Grounding Quinn Read online

  Grounding Quinn

  By: Stephanie Campbell

  Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie Campbell

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.

  Published by

  Stephanie Campbell

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For Chris,

  For your encouragement,

  and for proving to me that beautiful things do in fact last.

  Chapter One

  Quinn

  My mother is totally nuts. I say this with complete certainty, and with the backing of fourteen medical professionals’ opinions. They’ve filled her head, and our medicine cabinet, with enough bottles to make a CVS jealous. Lithium, Darvocet, Prozac, Xanax-they’re all present and accounted for, happy little tablets to curb her unruly moods. So, what did come first, the meds or her major personality defect? If you ask me, I don’t think she started off certifiably emo. I think she was unhappy and my dad knew it’d be easier to partially sedate her to keep her quiet than attempt to make her life better. So between him and all the whack job doctors with their happy little concoctions, they’ve made her schizo on their own. But whether it was before or after the pills, she’s now bat shit crazy just the same.

  I tap my fingers lackadaisically on the heavy walnut door, as I stare in to the overflowing medicine cabinet. Mom’s insanity has at least one perk. There’s a sea of countless bottles seemingly smiling at me, begging me to pick them. I spin the Lazy Susan until I find a winner. Grabbing the dark, amber bottle, I roll the cool glass back and forth in my palm. My parents are too self-absorbed and preoccupied with my younger brother, they’ll never realize that it’s missing. I chug a mouthful of Tussionex (pre-spiked with hydrocodone for your convenience), savoring its warm, syrupy goodness as it coats my throat and flows down into my stomach. I know that in minutes I will feel blissful and alert. My mother’s flakiness and my dad’s patronization will cease to bother me. Yes, now I’m ready to start my day.

  I should be dreading this. Going to summer school is not at all how I envisioned spending the summer before my senior year. I should be off on some drunken Mexican vacation with everyone else in my class, not making up math credits in order to graduate. Too bad I’m galactically inept when it comes to math. I don’t care what anyone thinks, I just can’t wrap my mind around numbers; they taunt me, and laugh at my stupidity.

  Maybe if I had something else going on, summer school wouldn’t have appealed to me in the least, but sadly, I do not. My boyfriend Daniel and I broke up the day before he left for Cabo, and my two best friends, Sydney and Tessa, are both out of town, so that helps up the depression factor a bit.

  The school halls are empty for once, just the way that I like them.

  Stepping into the deserted administrative office sort of makes me feel like I’ve made a wrong turn and ended up on the sun. Between the bright fluorescent lights, and intense yellow paint job, it wouldn’t be an unrealistic assumption. Its cheeriness leaves me grimacing. I’m tempted to set the attendance sheets that I’ve been charged with delivering on the office desk and leave, but I decide against it. With my luck, they’d get overlooked and I wouldn’t get credit for this damn class. I try to be patient and amuse myself by looking at the class panoramic pictures from previous years. Decade’s worth of happy graduates crammed into the school bleachers showing off their commencement attire. I scan the alternating colors of caps and gowns that so creatively spell out our school’s initials, and find my dad in one of the yellowing, framed pictures. He looks so pompous, even at eighteen. It’s nice to see some things never change.

  I root around in my purse until I find a black permanent marker and scribble out his smug head.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that,” an unfamiliar voice says, followed by a light laugh.

  Shit.Shit.Shit.

  The marker slips from my hand as I spin toward the voice.

  I don’t recognize the guy standing in the office with me. To say that he is huge would be an understatement. His massive frame occupies most of the doorway. He looks like a linebacker, or is it a quarterback I’m thinking of? The point is, he’s a total Sasquatch. His t-shirt and preppy knit cardigan clash with his gargantuan body. Still, he’s decent eye candy.

  “You weren’t supposed to see that,” I mutter.

  He laughs as he reaches down to retrieve my marker. “Apparently. So, someone you don’t like?”

  I grab the marker from his hand and shove it back into my purse. “Something like that.”

  “I’m Ben,” he says, extending his hand.

  “Quinn.” I glance sideways and shove my hands into my pockets. I don’t shake hands. It’s not a germ issue, it’s just, handshakes are for grownups. They’re too formal for people my age and I don’t like them.

  Mrs. Niño appears from the back room, wiping her mouth with a rough, brown paper towel.

  “What can I help you with?” she asks. Her eyes dart back and forth between me and the yeti.

  He pushes up his sleeves and motions for me to go first. Polite and cute.

  “No, go ahead. I’m not in a hurry,” I say. It couldn’t be any more true. I stare down at my Peru-B-Ruby nail polish, pretending to be distracted and totally not eavesdropping.

  “My name is Ben Shaw. I’m supposed to pick up some registration forms,” he tells Mrs. Niño. His voice has a deep, raspy quality to it that is muy delicioso!

  “Sure, sure, sure,” Mrs. Niño says. She rummages around her cluttered desk, and picks up a dozen paper weights before pursing her lips to the side, looking confused.

  “Do you think it could be that envelope there?” he asks. I detect a hint of faux politeness in his tone. Ben points to a large manila envelope. On it, BENJAMIN SHAW is written in thick block letters.

  I stifle a chuckle.

  “Oh my,” she says. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.” Envelope in hand, Ben turns for the door. I don’t know this guy from Adam, but my heart picks up pace and I wring my sweaty palms when he leaves.

  “What do you need, Quinn?” Mrs. Niño asks me. Her tone is way more harsh when she addresses me as if I spend so much time in here, which I totally don’t for the record. I narrow my eyes in to my best glare, lob the attendance sheets onto her desk and bolt out the door after Ben. I have no clue what my motive is for following him, maybe I’m just bored. Maybe it’s just so easy to cyber-stalk hotties on Facebook that I’ve moved on to doing it in real life. Either way, the fact that I’m acting like a complete spaz is not lost on me.

  He’s already in the parking lot when I get outside, leaning against a shiny black car as I approach him.

  “Nice car,” I say.

  “Thanks. Here to deface more private property?” he asks, with a laugh.

  “Ha,” I mutter. “Actually, I just came to see, um…”Actually I wasn’t sure what I came to see… Actually, normal girls don’t chase after strange guys they just met.

  “Did you come out here to hit on me?” The sarcasm drips from his voice.

  “Absolutely.” I try to sound sarcastic, but hope the hitch in my voice doesn’t give my nerves away.

  “Well good, saves me the effort.” He gives me a quick wink, and my instincts tell me I’m in big trouble the very best kind.

  “Well?” he says. He’s standing at the passenger side of the car with
the door wide open, tapping his foot. I’m not clear on the question or implied invitation, or whatever.

  “Well what?”

  “Are you going to stand there, or are you going let me take you to lunch?”

  “No way,” I tell him. His confident smile twitches downward at my words and I immediately feel guilty. I slide into the smooth leather seat. Ben rounds the side of the car and climbs into the driver seat. His left brow is arched in confusion.

  “You can drive, but I am taking you to lunch.” Without giving it any thought, my lips form a rare, genuine smile.

  He lets out a raspy chuckle. “All right then, where to?”

  ****************

  “Are your parents home?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder into the living room.

  “Nope,” I say. I add another scoop of coffee to the filter, and flip the switch to ‘on’. I pause to inspect the dark liquid drizzling into the pot. I’d lost track of how many scoops I added while talking to Ben and making lunch. The liquid filling the pot is extra dark and thick.

  “They’re at a baseball game with my little brother,” I qualify.

  “Is that you in that picture?” Ben points to a small frame on the edge of the telephone stand. It’s a photo of me wearing my best I just want to please you smile and leotard. I was nine.

  “Yep.”

  “Do you still do gymnastics?” he asks.

  “Not often. Where’d you move from?” I change the subject.

  “The booming metropolis of Bowling Green, Kentucky.”

  I ladle out some lentils and pasta into two bowls and push one across the kitchen island to him.

  “Thank you,” he says with a smile. Goosebumps prick up on my arms in response.

  “Have you lived here all of your life?” he asks.

  “No. We moved here when I was like eight. My dad had an offer to start an accounting firm with an old friend, so lucky me, here we are.”

  “Where’d you used to live?” He crosses his arms over his sturdy looking chest. The tendons in his arms flex, and I silently tell myself to close my mouth, which is gaping open. I know I said he was only decent looking, but scratch that, after spending just a short time with him, I want to gobble him up.

  “California.” I take a sip of my coffee. I hope he doesn’t notice how I wince. The coffee is outrageously strong and bitter. I try to be nonchalant as I swirl extra cream into it, trying to dilute it.

  “Ah, that explains it,” he says.

  “Explains what?” I glance over my mug and he winks.

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head with a smile. “Do you plan on staying here after high school?”

  “God, no.” I love that he seems legitimately interested in all of these lame details about me.

  “Favorite musician?” he asks.

  “Bobby Long, you?”

  “Nice choice. Mayer Hawthorne.”

  We’ve been going back and forth with this game of question and answer without pause for over an hour.

  “So, what else can you tell me?” he asks.

  “What do you want to know?”

  He tilts his head and appears to be weighing his words carefully before asking. My spine prickles with nervousness over what he might ask. It’s standard protocol with me not to divulge much.

  “Pet peeves?” he finally says.

  I tap my fork on the counter top. “When people say, ’irregardless’. Is that even a real word? I hate it.” He leans back in his chair and laughs.

  “How about you?” I ask.

  “High fives.”

  “That’s a good one.”

  His eyes meet mine for a moment, and I fight the urge to look away.

  “Vices?” he asks.

  Pills.

  “I don’t really have any,” I say, with a shrug.

  “Oh come on, everyone has something.”

  Stealing.

  “Oh yeah, what’s yours?” Divert attention! My cheeks ignite and my head screams. Deflect! Sidetrack! Distract!

  He cocks his head to the side and smirks. “Snarky ass women.”

  Once I realize he’s not trying to bully me into divulging some deep dark secret, I humor him and answer. “Carbs.”

  “This is amazing,” he says, stabbing at a piece of Farfalle.

  I prop my elbows on the island across from him, and rest my face in my hands.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yeah, where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “Some from my mom. Some from Bobby Flay.” I flash him a smile and he lets out a low chuckle. “Mostly I taught myself. I cooked a lot for me and my brothers growing up. I only mess around with it, though.” My throat feels like there is a Brillo pad lodged in it. Talking about myself makes me feel like I’m having an allergic reaction, especially when compliments are involved.

  “Cooking is about the only thing that I don’t manage to fuck up,” I add.

  He shakes his head, “I doubt that.”

  Realizing I’ve momentarily let my guard down, I pull myself upright and smooth out the wrinkles in the Social Distortion t-shirt I’d thrown on this morning.

  “Don’t believe me? Just wait…”

  Chapter Two

  Quinn

  “Quinnlette, you decent? You have company!” Carter, my older brother who is in from Stanford yells through my closed bedroom door.

  My eyes reject fully opening as I try to guess the approximate time by the amount of blinding sunlight that fills the room.

  “Company?” I croak out.

  The door flies open in response. I sit up and pull my knees to my chest, waiting for an explanation.

  “Nice hair, lazy ass. Get up.” Carter laughs.

  I purse my lips into a pout and run my palm against my head, knowing that my baby fine flyaways have made their usual aura around my face.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Some guy. Ben?”

  That gets my attention. I rush across my room to my closet and pull out the first thing that my fingers physically touch. A lightweight, eyelet sundress that I don’t think I’ve ever worn. It screams wholesomeness, something that I am not. Whatever, it’ll work.

  “Did he say what he wants?” I ask. I can feel my pulse quickening thinking about Ben. Downstairs. Waiting for me.

  “He probably wants to hang out, asstard,” Carter says. “Hey, he seems cool.”

  “Yeah, he’s great.”

  “Great.” Carter bats his eyelashes at me, mocking me. “I hope it stays that way, because I really don’t want to have to pull the guns out.” Carter makes an exaggerated muscle as he leaves the room so that I can change.

  He’s there. In my kitchen. He’s shooting the shit with Carter. Talking about some App or something, but the point is, he is right THERE. I know it’s ridiculous, but it feels different now. Seeing him there, leaning casually against the counter. The way that he talks with his hands and his easy smile both startles and captivates me. I linger in the doorway watching Ben and my brother, clutching my stomach trying to pinpoint exactly what feeling is surging through me when I’m spotted.

  “Hey Quinn,” Ben says. He extends his hand to Carter, who shakes it and then leaves Ben and I alone together. “Sorry for waking you.”

  “Oh no, its fine, I was already up.” I lie. “So, what’s going on?”

  He smiles that perfect boy-next door-dimplicious grin as he casually runs his hand over the smooth surface of the counter top. I catch myself wondering what it would feel like to have his hands on my skin. Jesus, Quinn, a little early for that, I scold myself.

  “So, I heard that they have this food festival in Savannah this weekend-”

  “Savannah?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I know it’s kind of a drive, but you love to cook and stuff. I thought it might be fun.”

  “Just you and I?” My heart goes tachycardic.

  “Would that be okay? I mean, going out of town with me, it’s not like creepy or something?” His confident grin falters f
or a quick second, long enough for me to snap out of my idiotic stupor.

  “Oh, no, that sounds awesome.” I nod. “Let me just grab my bag.”

  He lets out a relieved sigh and smiles. I fight the urge to stand on my tip toes to reach his lips. Because my guess is that cramming my tongue down his throat right now, would be creepy.

  “Sure,” he says. He fumbles with his keys, looking pleased and sweet, and delectable. “Are you cool with me driving?”

  I nod.

  Chapter Three

  Ben

  “So, what is this?” I ask.

  Quinn narrows her eyes at the morsel of food that vaguely resembles a cross between a chicken nugget and brains. Only slimier.

  “If I tell you, you won’t eat it.” She smirks.

  “No way, you haven’t even tried it yet.” I counter. I reach over to the large tray and grab another.

  “Fine.” Quinn rolls her eyes and plucks the food (and I use the term loosely) from my hand. “Count of three, one, two, three.”

  I wait a split second to ensure that she actually downs whatever it is, before popping the whole thing in my mouth. My eyes start to water, not from the taste so much, but the texture of it is something I’ve never experienced-nor wanted to. The outer layer that looked so crispy and normal dissolves into what feels like cake batter coating my mouth, and toying with my gag reflex. I barely chew it up just so that I can move on to swallowing and get it over with.

  “Okay, what the hell was that?” I ask. Quinn gives a valiant gulp and then takes a long pull from her water bottle.

  “Sweetbreads,” she says.

  “There was nothing sweet about that, and it sure as shit wasn’t bread,” I say.

  “No, it’s like, it’s the gland of an animal. This one was probably from a calf’s throat or something similar.”

  I grab the water bottle from her hand and down the rest of it.

  “That’s…interesting. You really like this kind of stuff?” I ask her.

  We walk away from the table and toward the center of the festival. The place is pretty packed. I finally spot an empty spot under a massive Spanish Moss tree and guide her over to it.