Page 9 of Final Drive

I have to look down at the table. I think about Bo’s plate under the foil, Gray carrying me upstairs and leaving, and eight Alphas who would probably step in front of a truck for me but can’t seem to say what they want when the answer might cost them something.

“That’s really nice,” I say, and I mean it.

“I’m a really nice guy.” His grin turns crooked. “Whatever Gray tells you.”

“He doesn’t talk about you.”

That gets a real reaction. His eyebrows lift. “No?”

“No. Not really.”

“Huh.” He looks down at his coffee. “I figured after the Sophia thing he’d have material.”

“He said you take things that matter to other people.”

Quinton lets out a short laugh, more tired than angry. “Of course he did. Gray and I have never been particularly generous about each other. Sophia didn’t help.”

I wait.

“She picked me, lasted three weeks, then decided she couldn’t stand being the reason the two of us stopped speaking.” He turns his cup once between his hands. “So I lost both of them.”

I’ve heard his version before, back in the library. Hearing it again after watching Gray burn his family down on that dock leaves me less certain than I want to be about which version of either man I’m supposed to believe.

“We should probably talk about the project.”

“Probably.” Quinton doesn’t push. He turns the laptop around. “I’ve been working the market analysis. Want to see?”

We spend the next hour in spreadsheets and projections, arguing about consumer behavior models and target demographics. The work is thorough. He doesn’t explain things I already know, and when I make a better argument than his, he changes the model instead of defending it just because it was his first.

“This is good,” I say when we finally come up for air. “We might actually ace this.”

“Was there ever a doubt? We make a good team, Callahan.”

“Don’t let Gray hear you say that.”

The joke is out before I can stop it, and Quinton laughs.

“He does have opinions about who you spend time with.” His tone stays light as he starts packing up his laptop. “Must be intense, though. Eight Alphas under one roof.”

“It has its moments.”

“I bet.” He slides the computer into his bag and looks at me. “If you ever need a break from all that, I’m around. No pressure, no expectations. Just somebody to talk to who isn’t tangled up in it.”

I came here because that was exactly what I wanted. An hour where I’m a person with a class and a project instead of the team’s Omega or a legal problem everybody is trying to solve.

I still can’t work out why my hands have gone cold around the cup.

“Thanks. I might take you up on that.”

“I hope you do.” He slings his bag over one shoulder. “Same time next week? We can finish the analysis and start the presentation.”

“That works.”

He hesitates beside my chair, then squeezes my shoulder on his way past. It’s quick and friendly and completely ordinary, but I can still feel the pressure of his fingers after the door closes behind him.

I stay at the table for a few more minutes with my cold latte. Coffee with a classmate. An hour working on a project worth forty percent of my grade. He didn’t ask me for anything I didn’t want to give him, and I didn’t do anything that requires an explanation.

But when I get back to the house and Bo asks how my morning was, I tell him it was fine and ask what we’re doing for dinner before he can ask me anything else.