“Shit. With Qhuinn looking at him like that, he couldn’t remember his own name. Blaysox? Blacklock? Blabberfox? Who the fuck knew…”

“In the silence that followed, Blay knew he had something he was supposed to say. Yeah...it was right on his tongue. It was... Shit. With Qhuinn looking at him like that, he couldn't remember his own name. Blaysox? Blacklock? Blabberfox? Who the fuck knew...”

“Sounds like you want a date, Lash, " Qhuinn barked. "Good deal, 'cause you keep that shit up, you're going to get fucked, buddy.”

“Do not think of him with Blay. Do not think of him with Blay. Do not think of him— “I didn’t know you were a sherry man.” “Huh?" Qhuinn glanced down at what he’d poured himself. Fuck. In the midst of the self-lecture, he’d picked up the wrong bottle. “Oh, you know… I’m good with it.” To prove the point, he tossed back the hooch—and nearly choked as the sweetness hit his throat. He served himself another only so he didn’t look like the kind of idiot who wouldn’t know what he was dishing out into his own glass. Okay, gag. The second was worse than the first. From out of the corner of his eye, he watched Saxton settle in at the table, the brass lamp in front of him casting the most perfect glow over his face. Shiiiiiit, he looked like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad, with his buff-colored tweed jacket and his pointed pocket square and that button-down/sweater vest combo keeping his fucking liver cozy. Meanwhile, Qhuinn was sporting hospital scrubs, bare feet. And sherry.”

“Qhuinn didn't know what the fuck was up. People fucking poofing it in and out of the fucking foyer, shit going south... until Autumn came the fuck back. If there had ever been a time to drop the f-bomb, tonight was it.”

“And as the end arrived and his breath left him he couldn’t remember or imagine ever having cared.”