Mates for Quinn

Red

Quinn

Present day

He’s listening to that song again. Or I am, but it’s all the same at this point. I hate that song, I hate the cheesy lyrics and brain-wоrming melody that sticks to my mind like melted sugar, refusing to leave me alone. And yeah, I get the irony of being probably the only gay in the world who doesn’t like the singer, but it is what it is. I’ve never been all touchy-feely anyway.

Instead of staying in my head, I try to focus on my surroundings. The old diner that used to belong to my mom is in ruins at this point. It’s been closed for months, ever since she finally lost her battle with cancer and I couldn’t deal with losing her and keeping this place running both at the same time. The bank people say they are going to take it away from me if I don’t pay the overdue mortgage bills, the piece of paper scrunched in my fist.

It’s not like I didn’t want to pay it, I just didn’t have the money to do so - my salary from the bar barely pays off my daily expenses, let alone keeping a diner open, and paying for it.

Letting out a sigh, I glance around the place that used to house me and my mom when we barely had any roof over our heads. It feels more like a home than any other place has ever felt in my life. Logically, I know I should sell it, settle the debts and focus on myself and my own future, but there is this sentimental part of me that refuses to let go. My mom would’ve hated it if I gave up this easily. Genie gifting it to her once the previous owner died would mean nothing. Just the thought of telling my best friend I had to let go of her most precious gift, and my stomach churns with unease. I can’t do that.

Forgetting him was trying to know someone…

God, not now, I hiss at myself as I walk to one of the dusty boots with their old-fashioned couches in christmassy red. The leather is parched and sticky under my touch. I remember sitting here day after day, doing my homework, chatting with Genie and Seth, pretending I was one of the cool guys, even though I was just a sassy kid with too much attitude and nothing to his name.

A safe haven for outcasts, that’s what mom used to call Wendy’s. And she was right, all of us working there were like this. Me and her who barely managed to get a roof over our heads, Genie, who used to wait tables even though she was really bad at it at first, alone and broken, and so lost. Even Seth, the grumpy biker who lived across the street and spent his free time working here when he could because he was too lonely to stay in his own crappy apartment.

I let out a sigh, thinking about my old friend. He was older than me and Genie, but he’d taken the role of our big brother and did his best to protect us when we didn’t even know we needed protection. He’s gone now, lost his life in a bust gone wrong.

But loving him was…

Shut the f*uck up! I curse under my breath, but the voice in my head refuses to leave me alone. The song continues to play as a background in the back of my mind and I can’t, for the life of me, shut it off. I guess that’s what happens when you are f*ucked in the head and see and hear things that aren’t there. Like constantly hallucinating of two grown-ass men who you’ve never met in my life, and who probably don’t even exist. Did I make up their entire personalities and lives in my head nevertheless? Yeah, I somehow did it. My obsession gets so damn deep that I hear the daily conversations they’d have if they existed. I imagine the way they look, the way they talk, the things that drive them forward. Big’s this larger than life, always grumpy dude, whose only goal in life is keeping Naughty safe. He practically doesn’t care about anyone than his buddy, Naughty. And Naughty… that man is a force of nature. Reckless, stubborn, practically a man-slut. Like I said, f*ucked in the head. Like, who in their right mind would conjure up such a thing? Well, I guess I should be glad I am not hearing Jesus telling me to go on a murder spree or some other creepy s*hit, but still, normal people don’t develop such unhealthy obsessions with their hallucinations.

Genie thinks that the guys in my head are real, I just haven’t met them. But that’s my best friend, she believes in all that weird psychic stuff, which I just call my untreated mental issues. I mean, I don’t believe in the supernatural, who in their right mind does, right? It's not real anyway. The men who live in my head are not real. The visions of the future that come to haunt me from time to time, they are not real either. Well, except for that time when I woke up from a nightmare in which Genie was getting hurt and I couldn’t relax until I called and warned her and it turned out she was actually in danger. That did feel very real. Or when I saw in my mind’s eye how s*hit would go wrong just before I got sent to prison, but decided to do the job anyway, and it ended up with me losing almost two years of my life behind bars. I am not mentioning all the small things I say here and there that probably do happen, or maybe they don’t. Nope, I am not thinking about that stuff. It’s not real. It’s all in my head and sometimes I just have pretty good intuition. That’s all. Maybe I really should focus on getting myself checked into a mental institution and be done with it.

My phone buzzes again and shivers run down my spine as I try to ignore it, but it’s not that easy, not today. Last night was another thing. I was back home, chilling with my cat in front of the TV, all relaxed and lost in my own head with my own hallucinations of people who live only in my head. In my vision, I imagined them at a bar with other people, discussing someone’s Batchelor’s party. Big was distracted as always, thinking about some hook-up from years ago, a three way he’d agreed only because of Naughty. Hot enough to distract me from my phone and all the things I should not be doing. Even if there was nothing sexy about sharing his thoughts about the whole experience. And he’s grumpy again now because Naughty doesn’t see anything wrong with it…

Faster than the wind, passionate as sin…

God, man, chill. I roll my eyes at my imaginary not-exactly friend, and stare at my phone, my heart skipping a beat. Jimmie. Again. The guy hasn’t stopped calling since yesterday and frankly, I don’t want to speak with him because I know it’s about something very illegal that he wants from me. Something that I am considering the more I time I spend at my mom’s abandoned diner. Jimmie’s an old buddy I met in juvie back when I thought being one of the bad guys was cool.

Under the soundtrack of the cheesy song, worming its way in my head, I let my gaze roam around the place once more - the dirty counters, the uncleaned tables, the dirt on the ground and how the afternoon sun peaks through the muddy windows. Finally, I stop at the mouldy CLOSED sign and something tugs on my heart strings. I can’t afford to lose it. I can’t let my mom and Genie down like this. I know I promised on my mom’s dying bed to never go back to that road again, but do I really have a choice?

I am not even thinking clearly as I finally answer the call, my stomach churning with a bad feeling even as I do so.

“Hey man, where’ve you been?” Jimmie’s grating voice reaches me from the other end of the line and I have to physically brace myself not to flinch at the thought that I probably shouldn’t talk to him. I know I shouldn’t talk to him. The man’s bad news, always have been. But he won’t give up unless I give him a firm answer and right now my resolve is shaken.

“Hey, been busy…” I reply, noncommittally. “What’s up?”

“You still in the game?” Jimmie asks, as always straight to the point and I feel like I am sinking. Because no, it’s not that my resolve is shaken. Like an addict, I am promising myself it will be the last time, but I know it’s never the last time once you go that road. Still, I am not saying no.

Missing him was dark grey…

“Sure,” I shrug, as always ignoring the voices in my head. “Got something for me?”

He goes on about needing a professional to open some nasty lock but promises to catch me in on the details once we meet face to face later. It’s going to be easy, Jimmie assures me. Get in, get out, get richer than we are now.

“You in?” He asks, that voice of his smooth and luring, and for a moment I imagine him like a damn spider, kneading its net around me, and me - the unsuspecting fly that’s going to realise too late that it’s trapped.

I think about my s*hitty job that doesn’t pay merely as much as I need to get by and that because of my record it’s probably the best I am ever going to get. I think about losing the one remaining thing that connects me to my mom who I miss every day. And then I think about the never ending chatter in my head that only gets quiet when I am supper focused on a job I shouldn’t be doing. The memory of the thrill, that exhilarating feeling I get when I manage to pull off something impossible, proving the entire world I am not just good for nothing punk, but someone capable of big things…

I am not though. Capable of great things, I mean. I am just a broke down ex-con s***h ex-juvie looser who has nothing to his name, not even a way out of his own misery.

I know should probably politely decline. I am not in business anymore, I made a f*ucking promise. But then I see it clear as day. I see myself on my knees in front of a door, working my way in through a fancy lock that costs more than everything I own. I feel the storm above my head and see the lightnings, tearing the night sky. Jimmie is nervous, but he’s always a bit nervous, jittery even, but I don’t mind it unless it’s messing with my work, so f*uck him, he can do whatever the hell he wants. I’ve got this. I see us walking through the narrow corridor of the warehouse to a wide open space, then down some stairs on the right. As we step in we are alone.

“You in, man?” Jimmie’s voice brings me back in the present and I cough a little, trying to clear my throat, trying to cast the vision away. Fancy seeing stuff that suit my narrative, huh? If that’s not a great new level of delusion, I don’t know what is. At least, if what they say is right, I might not be actually crazy, because crazy people don’t know they are indeed, crazy.

But then again, only a crazy person would get excited, his pulse racing at the thought of being back on a job that might ruin his life for good. If I am caught doing illegal s*hit again, it’s ten years and more, not to mention having to see the disappointment on my best, only, friend’s face. Adrenaline rushes through me nonetheless, my heart rate spiking, even though I don’t even know what the job is yet.

Remembering him comes in flashbacks…

“You can count on me,” is my final reply as I walk out of the diner and lock the door behind me, clarity rushing over me for the first time in months.