Just not… dead gone.
A week since Simon’s death, and Quinn’d exhausted his memory and patience with Kane and his partner, going over details of his life until he’d been about to commit murder himself. The only soothing part of living in the warehouse were the times in the middle of the night when Rafe called, seemingly looking for company, but Quinn wondered if there was more to it than that.
God, Quinn couldn’t let himself hope for more than being company. Even when his chest tightened when his phone chirruped a hello and Rafe’s number flashed on the screen, or the sticky mess he made of himself after hanging up, his body thrumming and satiated as he stroked himself off in the dark afterward, he buried his longing for Rafe. It was safer that way. At least that’s what he told himself.
“You’re going to break it if you continue to do that.”
Graham’s voice shocked Quinn out of his thoughts of Rafe, sticky sheets, and warm mouths, and he patted Quinn’s thigh.
“What?” Quinn stopped rattling his spoon about his mug and looked down at his dick, its length curled up in its nest of denim and cotton. Slightly hard from his lingering thoughts of Rafe, it seemed fine.
“Stop stirring. You’re going to break the cup.” Graham leaned over the desk and took the spoon from Quinn’s fingers. “Honestly, you’re hard on the crockery, Dr. Morgan.
“Did you… still have feelings for Simon? Are you sure you should be here? I’m sure everyone would understand if you went home.”
“God, I have no home, Graham. I’m still at Kane’s, lodged up like an old spinster aunt under the rafters.” Grumbling felt good, especially when Graham nodded and let him ramble about, looking for a thread of something in his own brain.
His friend made clucking sounds, tiny pricks of ticks meant to soothe. “And you hate it there?”
“No—yes. But not because I don’t like them… don’t love them. I just can’t—God, I’m never alone. There is always someone there.” Quinn rubbed at his eyes. “And can I be honest with you?”
“Of course. Anything you tell me goes no further than me. You know that, Quinn,” Graham promised.
“I feel like a fucking shit for not… I haven’t even thought about Simon in forever. Sure, right after he—” The last time he’d been with Simon had been an ugly, confusing experience, and he’d gone out of his way to avoid Simon ever since. “He hated the shit out of me, Graham—”
“No…. Quinn, that’s not possible—”
“Oh yeah, trust me. You didn’t hear the things he said to me. What he thought of me.” Everything Quinn’d feared he truly was Simon found in his bilious pour of words, each dripping with acid and shot through with razors. “He dug into me. Threw back everything I’d shared with him. Every single goddamn fear I had inside of me, sharpened it and stabbed me with it. He stood there screaming at me, and I couldn’t… just couldn’t breathe. And now he’s dead. And it’s my fault. It’s my damned fault.”
“Do they know who killed him? Your ex?”
Graham’s fingers butterfly-skipped again over Quinn’s knee, a flicker of sensation he barely felt beneath his jeans.
“Any idea?”
“Not a damned one,” he confessed.
“Then you don’t know it’s your fault. The rest of it could be someone’s idea of a sick joke, and Simon—well, that might have been anything from a robbery to maybe someone else he hurt. You can’t blame yourself for his death, Quinn,” Graham said softly, rubbing at Quinn’s knee. “If he treated you as badly as that, I can’t imagine he treated anyone well. You’ll be back home soon. We’re all more comfortable in our own surroundings. That’s normal. Human nature.”
“I feel like I’m five all over again,” Quinn muttered. He liked Graham, counted on him, but the feel of the man’s fingers on him rattled what little calm he had left. Shifting in his chair, Quinn moved his leg, breaking their contact. “Can’t stay overnight at my friend’s house because I’m homesick, and the bathroom’s on the wrong side of the hallway. Everything’s off… off pattern, off routine. Off everything.”
“Once again. Normal. Especially for you. You need some steadiness in your life. We both do. We’ve talked about that.”
Graham crooked his head, angling his beak-like nose into Quinn’s face until their chins almost touched, and Quinn chuckled, pulling back.
“See, normal as ever, Doctor Morgan.”
“I hate when you call me that.” Quinn blew on his coffee.