“No biggy,” I replied, removing my legs from the table.
Using my teeth, I ripped a packet of ketchup open and squirted it into my fancy sauce. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me. I was relatively sure he was waiting for me to look back up, but I was still nursing the sting from our last interaction. I was in no rush to start round two.
“Flint!” Quarry yelled across the restaurant. “You want one too? They have peanut butter banana.”
“Ew,” I mumbled to myself.
“Yeah. I’ll take one,” Flint answered, and when I looked up, his eyes were still glued to me, and his expression appeared to be amused. “Not a fan of the banana?”
“Oh, I love bananas. Peanut butter makes me puke.”
“Fair enough,” he answered then went back to staring at me.
What the hell is with this guy and his staring?
I wiped my chin just to make sure I didn’t have food on my face while wishing Quarry would put a move on it and get his ass back to the table. He was fun to talk to. Flint? Not so much.
“Soooo . . .” I started awkwardly, unsure what else to say, but Flint suddenly had more than enough of his own words to need mine.
“I don’t like to think about the past. I would assume most people in my position wouldn’t want to sit around and reminisce about everything they’ve lost. Yeah, I miss boxing though. A lot.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t think of boxing as something you lost. It’s not like I said, ‘Hey, don’t you miss that feeling when you put on new socks?’ Now that would have been rude.” I shrugged. “Boxing’s still there. Sucks you can’t compete anymore, but punching bags don’t discriminate, do they?”
Flint opened his mouth to respond but quickly shut it.
“Anyway. Quarry told me you didn’t go to gym anymore, and I was just curious why you’d quit something you loved.”
“Jesus, how much has Q been running his mouth?”
“We’re both talkers.” I smiled. “Look, I wasn’t trying to upset you or anything. Sorry if it came off that way. I’ve just never known anyone who was paralyzed before. It’s kinda cool.”
He barked out a laugh. “Cool is not exactly the word I would use to describe paralysis.”
“Well, then maybe you’re using the wrong words.”
Flint didn’t respond, but he did go back to staring, so I went back to uncomfortably pretending to be enthralled with my fancy sauce. After tearing the packet of mayo open, I drizzled a design over the ketchup and then swirled it together.
“Here.” Quarry set two milkshakes down on the table.
Thank God!
“Dude, that bed at Debbie’s is kicking my ass.” He cracked his neck to the left, and even though I was only watching Flint out of the corner of my eye, I recognized the exact moment he saw it.
So fast that even I was impressed, Flint snaked a hand out and grabbed the front of Quarry’s shirt, catching him completely off guard. Q toppled forward.
“What the fuck is that?” Flint boomed, pulling the neck of Quarry’s shirt down to reveal his back.
“Let me go.” Quarry fought to get on his feet.
It was magic, really. Flint might have been older, but Quarry definitely had him in size. But even as Q struggled against his grasp, Flint effortlessly pinned him as he inspected his neck and back.
“Tell me that’s fake. I swear to God, Q. Tell me it’s fake.”
“It’s fake!” he yelled.
Flint shook his head but finally released him.
Quarry straightened his shirt and glanced around the empty restaurant. “Yes. If, by fake, you mean a permanent tattoo, then yes. It’s fake.”
I giggled as Quarry jumped back a step when Flint’s eyes almost bulged from his head.
“You’re fourteen!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“And?”
“And nothing . . . You’re fourteen. You can’t get a tattoo.”
“Well, I didn’t know that, Daddy. Guess I really shouldn’t have gotten two, then.” He took another step away, flashing Flint a mischievous grin.
I desperately tried to contain my laughter. The last thing I needed was Flint turning that scary gaze on me. I didn’t have the force field Quarry so obviously possessed.
Flint suddenly rolled forward an inch, and it caused Quarry to flinch. That was it. I lost the battle with my lungs. I slapped a hand over my mouth as a loud laugh escaped.
Thankfully, Flint didn’t notice—or he at least opted to keep the lasers he was shooting from his eyes from giving me a new haircut.
“Who the hell would tattoo a fourteen-year-old kid? Christ, Q. You probably have hepatitis now.”
“Dustin Prince is eighteen, thank you very much.”
Oh fuck.
Flint curled his lip. “Who the hell is Dustin Prince?”
As Quarry pulled his wallet out, I nervously looked around the room for some imaginary backup or, at the very least, an emergency exit door.
I jumped to my feet. “I’m gonna use the restroom.”
And then enter the witness protection program.