Midnight Muse

I find my pants discarded haphazardly on the floor. It’s too early for Slate or Ace to be texting me, and all of my notifications for social media are set to Do Not Disturb. It’s a Sunday, so I’m not particularly sure who it could be.

The screen of my phone lights up with the text and the floor falls from beneath my feet as I read who it’s from.

It’s my father, and the message accompanying the photo he’s sent me makes my blood boil. A letter from the landlord of Third Street Apartments.

I’m not sure how long I stare at the message. All I know is that I snap out of it when Quinn calls my name. Her voice is soft and groggy, confused until she catches sight of me.

When she smiles, my worries seem to melt away.

Everything else can wait when she curls a finger at me, beckoning me back to bed.

“Here you are boys,” Rhonda says with a kind smile a handful of days later. She sets a large stack of pancakes with extra butter in front of Slate and a breakfast special before Ace. My hands haven’t stopped shaking enough for me to be able to pick up a fork yet, nor the hot mug of black coffee I’m clutching for dear life. Rhonda offers me a consoling glance—she’s always reminded me of my mother in a way, with how caring she is, and it makes something pinch in my chest—a feeling I duck away from. “Nice to see you around here again.”

I’m thankful that she refrains from asking any questions. I haven’t shown up to her diner with Slate and Ace since after freshman year when Slate figured out that he could pull almost any girl he wanted and Ace found other places to frequent, places more sophisticated to the trust fund he’s going to inherit next year for his high grades.

It feels like I haven’t seen them in ages even though we live together. Ace has been busy with Rory and Slate’s been chasing tail as usual, and I’ve been keeping a lot more to myself than I normally do since we’ve formed a friendship with our neighbors.

I’ve missed them.

I texted our special code this morning after seeing Quinn off, the one that would ensure both Ace and Slate would drop everything and meet me here. Quinn flew out with Rory and her older sister, Peep, back to Seattle for the short holiday break. I know I’ll see her on Monday, but everything feels too fresh to be apart already. This past week has been bliss, meeting up on campus after classes for coffees and a dinner I cooked her. We even all hung out as a group last night, sharing a bottle of wine and watching movies well into the morning hours. We even found a few more times to fit in some quickies, when Quinn sank to her knees after I told her I sold most of the pieces from my exhibition, and when I gave her three wall-shaking orgasms in reward for when she modeled for me.

Even if she did leave me with a stellar blowjob, I miss her already.

The diner hasn’t changed in the two years we’ve been going, or the fifty years before then. There’s a funky neon boomerang pattern adorning the tables, straight from the 80’s. The bright blue booths and barstools have been replaced since then, but most of them are still worn with time, their pleather ripped open and showing off a yellow foam inside.

The food is just as good as it’s always been, and I don’t understand why we stopped coming here, but I always did find solace in the quiet diner and the company of the owner. It became a safe haven for me when I had a bad day and needed a milkshake to make me feel better and was unable to ride my motorcycle. I could barely grip the straw in the cup after the accident and my hands were so weak that I was almost too embarrassed to leave the apartment at all.

A jukebox sits on the far side of the restaurant and I remember shoving loads of quarters into it and setting a queue so long that it had the other patrons moaning and groaning on Friday nights while Slate, Ace, and I sat in this very booth and had the time of our lives.

These days, I feel like I don’t know a thing about what’s going on in their free time. I don’t know how they’re doing in their classes; I don’t know what grade Slate got on his sculpting project. I don’t even know if Ace still works at the art supply store. He doesn’t have to anyway, but it was nice to get some free erasers once in a while.

Slate doesn’t seem to notice the tension keeping my shoulders rigid, glancing behind him at one of the waitresses ducking into the kitchen with a furrow to his brows. Ace’s blue eyes are tinged with only the worry my emergency message could cause, and he hasn’t touched his meal.

“What’s going on, Knox?” Ace asks me.

“Is it about those noises we heard last night?” Slate tacks on, stuffing a bite of pancakes into his mouth.

I cough. Choke, really. I finally manage a sip of the hot coffee, but it only adds to the blush I can feel fighting its way onto my cheeks. Quinn hadn’t been quiet last night, and I hadn’t made her, partially because I enjoy the way she was screaming my name, and partially because I didn’t realize that anyone was home.

“Slate,” Ace scolds, elbowing him in the side. “I told you not to bring that up.”

“Two whole fucking years since Knox has gotten laid and you want me not to bring it up?” Slate shoots back, glaring. “That’s impossible. I’m only a man, Ace. I need details.”

Ace rolls his eyes, shooting me an apologetic look. I shrug in response, biting back the smile threatening to appear at the thought of Quinn beneath me again, her nails scratching down my back as she begged me for more.

I shake that thought from my head before my cock wakes from its nap. I watch Ace too closely as he spears his fork into the fluffy eggs on his plate, looking expectantly at me for an answer as to why we’re all here.

“I can, uh, go into detail later.” I scratch my head awkwardly. Not. As much as I’d love to brag about finally getting a taste of Quinn, there’s nothing official about us yet. We’ve slept together a few times, but we haven’t talked much about it, too eager to please each other before we had to break apart for the few days off of class that we have. “But that’s not why I asked you here.”

Slate sighs dramatically and I’m confused for about all of three seconds until he pulls out his wallet and slides a crisp twenty over to Ace.

At the look on my face, he says, “I thought this would be girl related.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I answer, tracing the pattern on the table. My news is much worse than that. “My father came to visit me a few weeks ago and?—”

“A few weeks ago?” Ace asks, and he looks hurt, like I’ve betrayed him. Slate’s eyebrows knit, his chocolate eyes brewing with fury at the mention of Travis Foster. “And you didn’t tell us?”

“It’s not that big of a deal, Ace—” Except that it is.