The transition from the fracas of the gym to a navy, star-studded night is jarring. He glances at Alice with relief. She looks tired, too, the ghost of her breath on the air as she pulls her shawl tighter around her swimmer’s shoulders. His slips an arm around her waist and ushers her quietly in the direction of his car, the crush of her heels on the pavement familiar and comforting. She sighs audibly once the Chevy’s in sight.
Their reprieve doesn’t last long, a rush of Peppermint Twist roaring through the school’s heavy side door as it swings wide, a few from Quinto’s crew spilling out into the evening. Zoe and the other two look deeply satisfied, depleted after the climax of the dance. Quinto is clearly still keyed up, though, stumbling a little on his gazelle legs as he maneuvers his way back into his jacket.
Chris goes completely still, taking the opportunity to watch them openly, undetected. The adrenaline in his ears blocks Alice’s fierce whisper of Chris. He tries getting the key into the passenger side door with his eyes glued to Quinto and Zoe. They don’t kiss as they part; instead, he wraps her in his arms, protective and affectionate, and rocks her back and forth, her shoes making the same sound as Alice’s did only moments before. She smiles into his neck, but it’s not lascivious, not like their display on the dancefloor. He drawls something that sounds like Bye, babe, and she trills a playful, sing-songy Bye in return, the coast of her voice turning to cackles as one of the others yanks her in the opposite direction.
Quinto’s smile for her quickly fades as he strolls around the corner, and Chris finally gets the door open for Alice. She hops in, nearly shutting the door on the tulle of her skirt in the process, Chris righting it like a gentleman before strolling around the front of the car to the other side, matching Quinto’s strides foot for foot. He pauses, fingers tucked under the driver’s side door handle, watching over the endless line of car tops as Quinto gets smaller and smaller, hips working under jeans in a way that says, Fuck you, all of you.
His car vibrates with the hum of the horn, the sound echoing through the lot. He jumps, caught. Alice. He flings the door open and ducks inside, smiling apologetically, his heart hammering in his chest. His fingers fumble at the ignition but he gets it started, taking a deep breath as he pulls out and rides the brake toward the main road. As they come up on the front of the school, Alice seems to shrink in anticipation. By the bike racks, Quinto sits astride his Harley–his old man’s Harley–throwing his weight into the kickstarter and growling as it sputters pathetically, his voice carrying through Chris’ cracked window. Shit.
It takes only a split second for Chris to put the Chevy back in park. Alice’s voice is more insistent this time. “Chris, no.”
But he’s already half out the door. “His father and mine were old friends,” he lies by explanation and swings up and around the side of the car, calling for Quinto’s attention. “Hey. Need a lift?”
Quinto ignores him, hopping off the Harley for a closer examination. “Shit,” he says again, flicking at something near the footrest.
Chris is instantly embarrassed for even considering direct contact an option. A trademark Bob Pine Sorry I asked is on the tip of his tongue when Quinto kicks the bike. “You got any tools on you?” He rubs a hand against the shadow on his jaw, considering the now useless collection of parts–and his options.
“‘Fraid not,” Chris answers, not fully understanding why he’s pushing this but pushing nonetheless. “Come on. Hop in. Seventieth and seventeenth, right?”
Quinto finally looks at him, both surprised and impressed.
“It’s not going anywhere,” Chris nods at the bike.
With one last helpless glance at the Harley, Quinto hocks a loogie onto the pavement and begrudgingly shoves his way into the backseat of Chris’ car.
As Chris pulls onto the main road, he can almost feel the chill coming from the passenger seat. “I’ll drop you home first,” he reassures Alice, certain any plans for the beach have officially been ditched. She doesn’t respond, arms wrapped around her purse, eyes out the window.
“Relax, English. You’re not my type.” There’s a smirk in Quinto’s voice. Possibly a slight slur, too.
“Thank God for that,” Alice retorts quietly, sinking further into the leather seat.
Thursday words
Published
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