Something Like Redemption (Something Like Normal #2) (11 page)

Shit, that just made things a whole lot harder.

“Okay, Abi. I’ll check in with you tomorrow,” I say, my head pounding.

“Um...” she hesitates.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, hearing her apprehension.

“I’m not in tomorrow,” she replies.

“But it’s Tuesday, you always work Tuesdays.”

“Um—” After a few seconds, she whispers, “It’s Hank’s funeral.”

I can feel the color drain from my face and my knees suddenly go weak, threatening to buckle underneath me.

“Mia?” Abi says, panicking when I don’t say anything. But I can’t reply because all I can hear on repeat is… funeral. “Mia, put Quinn on the phone,” Abi demands.

Like a zombie, I hand the phone over to Quinn as I step out of the booth and blindly sit on the curb, tears stinging my eyes.

Hank’s funeral? Oh my God, I think I’m going to be sick. Staring vacantly ahead, I will not allow myself to cry, as I have no right.

I can vaguely hear Quinn in the background, trying to get a word in.

“Okay, Abi, I—” and he stops abruptly.

I can hear Abi chatting noisily from the other end, which goes on for about a minute.

“They haven’t been
that
bad,” he says defensively, and I wonder what she’s grilling him over.

“Okay… yes…” more pauses. “Sheesh. Yes… ah-ha.”

I turn to look at him and he gives me a small, crooked smile.

“Okay, yes, I got it. Talk to you in a couple of days.” He hangs up, blowing his messy hair out of his eyes.

“Everything okay?” I ask softly as he takes a seat near me, his long legs stretching out in front of him.

“Yeah. I now understand what they mean about redheads having a temper,” he says with a smirk. “You all right?” He bumps me with his shoulder lightly when I remain silent.

I shrug. “Not really. But the good news is Abi’s dad is helping to clear our name. But the bad news is the police are keeping an eye on Tristan 24/7, like some fugitive. And thanks to Brad’s dad, who has a hard on for us, I might add, we are wanted in every county in a thousand mile radius. And to make matters worse—”

But suddenly, Quinn’s finger is poised over my lips, stopping me from continuing.

“Red, stop talking,” he says, and dips his head to look me in the eyes. “We’re going to New Orleans.”

“What? Are you insane? Did you not hear what I just said?” I ask, widening my eyes to emphasize my point.

Quinn shrugs. “I heard you.”

“And?”

“And what?” he says casually.

“And… I…” I falter, because I don’t really know what to say.

“You got someplace better to be?” he asks with a smirk.

“No,” I reply, shaking my head.

“So, c’mon then.” He stands up, extending his hand down to me.

Looking at his hand, I shake my head. “Quinn, this is crazy.”

I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to distract me from falling into a heap.

He waves his hand, coaxing me to take it. “Red, nothing about this isn’t crazy. So, what’s a little extra crazy gonna do?”

“But Hank,” I say solemnly as I finally accept his hand.

“Hank would want you to stop frowning and be happy,” he says, pulling me up and wrapping his arms tightly around me.

It’s exactly what I need to feel and hear.

***

To get to New Orleans, it should take us roughly seven hours, but with Quinn’s driving, it takes five and a half.

The whole car ride, Quinn and I have been deep in thought, occasionally speaking, or humming along to a tune on the radio. But overall, what’s happening back home hits us both, and we’re happy to travel in silence.

It’s about 3 p.m. and Quinn’s stomach grumbles, while I’m gaping at the terrain of New Orleans. I’ve heard stories about the beauty of this place, but actually seeing it before my eyes is like nothing I ever imagined.

As Quinn’s stomach gripes yet again, I tear my eyes from the magnificence before me and chuckle.

“You can’t possibly be hungry again?” I say with a smile.

“You bet ya ass I’m hungry,” he replies, returning my smile. “There is no sincerer love than the love of food. My mom always used to say that to Tristan and me when we were kids. I never really got it till I had my first bite of her chocolate marble sheet cake.”

I see him flinch at the slip of his mom, something he has never done before. He doesn’t speak of his mom or dad, or his past, and I don’t push, because I know how it feels to want to forget your history.

“Your mom sounds like a smart woman,” I say cautiously, trying not to upset him.

He only nods uncomfortably and pulls into a desolate gas station, which I’m pretty sure closed down in 1984.

“Um… Sparrow,” I say, looking at the building which has half a roof. “Just a hunch, but I don’t think you’ll find any food in there… or anything at all for that matter.”

Quinn smirks, killing the engine, and reaches over his head, slipping his sweater off.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him curiously as he begins wiping down the steering wheel and dash.

“It’s time we part ways with this eyesore. It was fun while it lasted, but I want something bigger and badder.”

“And less offensive,” I add, slipping off my sweater and mimicking Quinn, as I meticulously wipe down the truck from top to bottom.

By the time we’re done, the cab is wiped clean of our fingerprints. Searching under the seats to ensure we haven’t left anything behind, I give Quinn a nod when I’ve checked the truck thoroughly.

“Where to now, Sparrow?” I ask, looping Lucky’s lead through my hand.

“Somewhere where there’s food,” he replies. His stomach grumbles loudly in agreement.

“Lead the way,” I say with a smile, following him as we begin our trek down the highway.

Quinn shoulders both our bags and smirks. “Follow me.”

***

The worst thing about new shoes is blisters. And judging by the pain I’m feeling in my feet, it’s safe to say I have a few—a few dozen.

I’m hobbling behind Quinn, trying not to expose how much pain I’m currently in. Quinn stops and casts a cheeky grin over his shoulder as he waits for me to catch up.

I’m a few feet away when he slips our backpacks off his shoulder, dumping them onto the grass. “Jump on,” he says, turning his back to me.

“Excuse me?” I ask, looking at his massive upper body.

“Jump on,” he repeats. “I’ll piggyback you.”

“What?” I ask stunned.

Surely he’s joking. “I’m too heavy.”

Quinn turns at the waist to look at me with an incredulous smile. “Red, Lucky weighs more than you do.”

Lucky grumbles, giving Quinn a dirty look, while he laughs. “Sorry, buddy. C’mon, Red,” he persists, wiggling his shoulder at me, trying to tempt me.

My unhappy feet cheer at the possibility of not having to take a further step. “Okay, but only for a bit,” I say, collecting our bags and slipping them onto my shoulder.

I hesitantly approach Quinn, because I actually don’t know how I’m going to climb up his colossal back without a ladder.

“Just jump on like you would a horse,” he says, laughing, sensing my dilemma.

“I’ve never ridden a horse,” I reply, scratching my head.

“Well, now’s your chance,” Quinn says, shooting me a quick wink over his shoulder.

He crouches down low, allowing me to climb on without falling flat on my face. I stand on my tippy toes and reach up, placing my hands around his thick shoulders. As I boost myself up, I yelp, because suddenly Quinn grabs behind my knees and shuffles me up his body so he has a firm grip around my legs. Once he’s got a tight hold around me he slowly stands. I firmly latch on, clutching his neck with a death grip, afraid I’m about to fall.

“Don’t drop me,” I squeak. “It’s a long way down.”

Quinn chuckles. “I’ll try, but if you keep choking me, I can’t guarantee I’m going to get very far without passing out.”

“Oh shit! Sorry!” I yelp, loosening my grip on his neck. He chuckles and I squirm when I feel his Adam’s apple bob with the movement.

“It’s okay, Red. I like you holding on so tight. Shows me you care,” he teases.

I ponder on his comment and realize I haven’t even expressed that I do care—a lot.

“Thank you,” I whisper, his hair tickling my cheeks as I lean forward against him.

“Thank you?” he questions as he walks casually.

“Yeah, thank you, for this. For everything. There isn’t anyone else I would rather be a fugitive with,” I say, trying to poke fun at our situation without getting too heavy.

Quinn takes a breath before replying, “Ditto, Red. Life’s what you make it. And you make it unforgettable.”

I blush at his admission and don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. I simply enjoy the ambiance of the magical buildings and the divine smelling foods while perched on the back of someone who changes everything.

After endless minutes of demanding Quinn to put me down, which of course, falls on deaf ears, we roll into the French Quarter.

And I thought the scenery was amazing twenty minutes ago.

I’ve heard stories about this place, but actually seeing it before me is beyond description. With an old, historic feel, mixed with a slight modern touch, I feel like I’m in another world. The narrow streets are filled with people with no real hurry to their step. Some tourists, while others locals, they all seem to want to absorb this soulful beauty for as long as possible.

I continue my gawking, and I have the best seat in the house, perched on Quinn’s back.

“Put me down.” I giggle when Quinn stops in front of a street band, consisting of five members and a dog, and begins jiggling around like he’s about to break out into a dance routine.

He chuckles and bends, setting me on my feet, which wobble slightly. Reaching forward quickly, Quinn places his hand around my middle to steady me, and the response is natural to us both. It’s scary how comfortable we’re becoming with one another.

We stand and watch the musicians, who are playing some killer jazz tunes, for a few minutes. Quinn throws a ten into their open guitar case and takes my hand, leading me down the busy street.

My eyes take in the brilliance before them, and I’ve decided that I love New Orleans. From the romantic, long-standing architecture, to the laid back nature of its inhabitants, it feels like magic exists here.

“You like it here?” Quinn says, catching me admiring a local French inspired bakery, which smells divine.

I nod, unable to wipe the smile off my face. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for bringing me here.”

He smirks. “Oh, we’re not done yet.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused, sidestepping a couple who are walking hand in hand without a care in the world.

“We’re going to stay here for a couple of days,” he replies, reaching for my hand when I catch up to him.

“Yeah?” I ask, not able to contain the excitement in my voice.

“Yup,” he replies, returning my smile, but looking a lot more mischievous than I.

“What are you up to?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him with a smile.

“What makes you think I’m up to something?” he says, grinning further, squeezing my hand lightly.

“Ah, that shit-eating grin is a dead giveaway,” I reply, shaking my head and elbowing him in the ribs.

He clutches his side dramatically, laughing. “Vicious, Red. You need to come with a warning.”

I laugh because it’s kind of ironic, as that’s exactly how I feel about him.

Quinn stops in front of a huge building while I continue walking on in my own little world. However when he doesn’t follow, and his hand snags in mine. I turn at the waist to look at him.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask, watching him tip his head to the side as if examining the mammoth white hotel in front of him.

“Just checking out our abode,” he replies, not looking at me as he lets go of my hand, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

“What?” I ask stunned, mimicking him and gazing up at the French inspired palace in front of us. “We’re staying
here
?” I gasp, taking in the endless stories which extend into the sky.

“We sure are,” he answers with a smile. “I bet they have a twenty-four hour buffet,” he adds, licking his lips like a cartoon character.

I bite my lip to stop from laughing. “But we can’t stay here,” I say, looking at the snooty people who are pulling up to the sidewalk in their expensive looking cars.

“Why not?” Quinn questions, turning to look at me, his unkempt hair blowing in the breeze.

Pondering on his question, I know the answer lies in the fact that tomorrow, Hank will be placed into the ground. A hole six feet under, which in no way could provide him any warmth, or comfort like that of our ritzy hotel. So why do
I
deserve something as extravagant as this?

I don’t.

“I don’t des—” I begin, but Quinn cuts me off by placing his finger over my lips yet again.

“Do I need to gag you? Or carry you over my shoulder again?” he questions with a twinkle in his eye.

I know he’s not kidding as I recall, quite vividly, the memory of being dragged, kicking and screaming over his shoulder in South Carolina. However, I open my mouth, but Quinn shakes his head, his finger still poised on my lips, warning me not to speak.

“You’re so bossy,” I mutter from under his finger.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Flushing a bright scarlet at his admission, I feel he is speaking about something entirely else.

“C’mon Red.” I take his outstretched hand, realizing my nickname has just taken on another meaning.

As we stroll up the undercover walkway to the foyer, we get the worst, sideways looks by patrons walking toward us. One lady with a peacock feather in her big, floppy hat curls her lip up at me in disgust, leaning into her husband’s arm to prevent any accidental touching.

I look down at my tattered blue jeans, which have a small hole in the knee, and my stripy baggy sweater, which hangs off one shoulder, and realize I probably look like a homeless person. I guess my black Hat-imal cat hat, with attached paws doesn’t help. If I knew we’d be staying at a ten star hotel, I would have lost the hat.