“I just… need you. Is that okay?”
“More than okay, Q. Stay someplace safe and wait for me. I’ll be right there.” He turned and found the band staring at him.
It was an uncomfortable stare and one Rafe couldn’t read, but Quinn’s fear reverberated through him, and he tucked his phone into his back pocket.
“What’s up?” Miki perched himself on a low stool. “What’s with Kane?”
“Nothing. I don’t know the full story yet. Look, I’ve got to go. Sorry.” Rafe spared Damien a glance, long enough to catch the flat look in his eyes. Turning his back on the band, he said, “Quinn needs me.”
Walking out the door… that door… at that time probably meant losing his chance with the guys. He was literally turning his back on the band for what? Quinn Morgan. But nothing in his gut, soul, or heart screamed at him to do anything other than pack up his bass and head over to the university where a green-eyed Irishman needed him.
In that moment, Rafe realized he needed Quinn a hell of a lot more than he needed Damien, Miki, and Forest.
“Call me when you’re done, and tell Kane to call Sinjun, or he’s going to go insane about it.”
Damien’s words stopped Rafe in mid-cable-pull, and his stomach jumped up into his throat in shock.
“We can do this again at Miki’s place. The sound’s better over there, and the studio’s cooler.”
Forest’s protest came in hot and fast. “Hey, fuck you. The sound here’s fine.”
“Air-conditioning sucks.” Miki stood to grab another bottle of water. “Gotta admit that.”
“Yeah, well the maintenance guy said he had to replace a compressor or something, but not like we’re cooking in here,” the drummer scoffed.
“Dude, I’m drenched down my back,” Damien grumbled. “If you can’t do tomorrow, Rafe, we can do the day after.”
Fortune always favored the bold, or so Sister Terese Mary’d always told him, so Rafe asked as calmly as he could, hoping to keep the jitters out of his voice when he spoke. “So what’s this mean? I’m in?”
Damien was quick to answer, “No, we’ve got to—”
“Yeah, you’re in.” Miki shoved his best friend back a step, nudging his shoulder with the flat of his hand. “We’ve got to play more. Play live. But yeah, don’t let this asshole fuck with you. It fits. You fit. Everything else? That’s got to shake out.”
“Fucker.” Damien shoved back lightly, barely rocking Miki’s slender torso. “I’m supposed to say—”
“Don’t be an asshole, D. Okay, don’t be more of an asshole,” Miki muttered, crowding his brother in until Damien took a step back. “You know he works. Let him go. He needs to go.”
“Yeah, you work. Go head out.”
Damien agreed, and Forest murmured a good luck as he took the cables out of Rafe’s hands.
“We’ll clean up. Call. Let us know what’s going on, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.” Rafe stumbled, nearly tripping on the strap on his bass. Packing it into its case, he tried to shove away all of the emotions bombarding him—worry, gratitude, and under it all, a severe need to wrap his arms around the man who’d called Rafe to his side. “Fuck, thank you. I’ll talk to you later. Promise. Right now, Quinn. He’s all that matters, but… fucking thanks.”
“HERE YOU go, Doctor Morgan.” The security guard handed Quinn a cup of hot chocolate. His thick red hair was blown back from his craggy round face as if he’d been caught in a wind tunnel, and he reached up to smooth it down, fighting to get the unruly strands to cover his high forehead. “Cocoa always makes you feel better. I even got Sally to get you some of those tiny marshmallows. Never go wrong with marshmallows.”
“Thanks, Sam.” Quinn took the cup gratefully. His fingers were as cold as his belly, although his chest burned with worry and stress. “And no, you can never go wrong with marshmallows.”
Sam’s broad smile was an uneven stairstep of teeth and gums, and he patted Quinn’s shoulder awkwardly, then trundled off to chase away curious students lingering a few feet away.