𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 | 𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦

04

quinn

stupid, fucking heart.

i popped the pills in my mouth and took a sip of water to swallow them. i'd sat myself at the swanky, nightclub-worthy bar, with so many clinking bottles of glistening alcohol i couldn't name them all. buffalo trace. glenfiddich fifty year old whisky. hibiki harmony. bacon vodka?

i didn't hear him approach, i felt it. i turned, expecting to see a pair of ice-gray eyes staring back at me, boring into the depths of my soul, past the black satin of my dress.

instead i found only an abyss of fathomless green staring back at me.

'jameson.' i nod in acknowledgement.

jameson hawthorne was nothing short of perfect. his handsome was not grayson's- his held wildness, ferocity, and came with a dangerous edge that never really died down. his face was a little less sharp than grayson's, and came with a sunburn on his nose and a little in between his jagged eyebrows. his body- toned, from the abundance of extreme sports he was prone to doing. his lips were practically begging to be kissed- full, plump, smooth, and the perfect shade of pink. he ran a hand through his tousled brown hair, and leaves fell onto the ground.

shirtless, as always, he leaned across the countertop and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, the muscles in his upper body rippling with each movement. 'hey, heiress.' his voice was husky, compared to the pronounced accent grayson favored. 'drinking?'

i nodded. 'oren called the bartender. he should be coming soon.'

jameson leaned his elbows on the countertop. 'about time we talked, anyways.'

i raised my eyebrows, cautiously, as the bartender placed the vodka shot on the table and i drank it in one gulp. 'about?'

'the will. the likes.' he eyed me. 'if there was one thing i ever knew about my grandfather, was that he was fond of games. puzzles. riddles. mysteries of all kinds.'

'quinn... did you ever, ever hear about tobias hawthorne before this?' his eyes bore into mine. i had no idea what emotion was it, but i had a distinct impression it was pleading.

i zoned out for the rest of the conversation. it was basic shit- the same stuff grayson had asked me the first day i came here. i answered every single one of his riddles and double-meaning questions without a hitch- the alcohol was really sharpening my brain for no apparent reason at all.

he backed off a while later, saying he had to go to the library.

then, alisa joined me at the bar.

'hey, quinn.' she ordered a martini. 'so, jameson and grayson.'

i sighed, defeated. 'don't even. they both think i'm some sort of con artist- jameson more, grayson not as much. i haven't really figured out jameson yet.' i thought for a second. 'he's... complicated.'

she downed her martini, slowly, and turned to me. 'quinn, ever had your life ruined by someone with the last name hawthorne?'

her question registered, and i blinked out of my shocked trance. 'no. have you?'

she nodded, sighing. 'yes. lucky you, quinn.'

i turned to her, all traces of alcohol gone. 'alisa. who's emily?'

grayson

stupid, fucking heart.

it had refused to stop beating after quinn left. for no apparent reason at all it had sped up when i'd spotted quinn and jameson chatting at the bar. i couldn't even get bourbon now.

i took a long sip from the leftover rye whiskey. the sphere of transparent ice rattled in the immaculate glass. the silver rings, burdening my fingers, clunked against the glass wherever it made contact.

i turned back to my laptop, my physics homework from country day displayed on it. the stupid shit. i'd left for a year to learn how to manage hawthorne foundation, and they made me retake the year.

i'd almost finished solving the question on quantum gravity before the door burst open and a clearly drunk quinn stumbled in, brandishing her phone in my face. her hair was tousled, one perfect cheek partially smushed, as if she'd lain down on a surface on an arm.

'quinn-' but before i could get anything out she shoved the phone in my face, and it took a while for the words to come into focus.

emily laughlin- the driving apart between the hawthorne brothers?

who is emily laughlin, and how did she dig her claws into grayson and jameson hawthorne?

a full rundown on grayson hawthorne's 'forbidden love' with emily laughlin

emily laughlin: devil or divine?

'quinn, you're drunk.' i got out before my blood completely froze over.

she chuckled, her words slurring. 'oh, so this is why you guys all hate me. because i look really freaking like this emily laughlin, and i even have her name as my middle name.' she smiled, forcefully.

'quinn.' my voice was so forced, strained... it sounded foreign. 'what the fuck are you doing?'

she laughed again, and i was close enough to smell the vodka on her breath. 'i found something. in the hawthorne library.' she threw a piece of paper in my face, and the action alone sent her stumbling. 'i'm not the fucking heir, grayson. read that shit- we better sort this shit out.'

we.

'you and i are not a we, quinn.' my words were forced. 'not now. you need to sleep.'

one of the thin straps on her dress slid off her shoulder and she moved to fix it but her fingers never found purchase. 'mm.. it's still early...'

i only caught her a second before she would've tumbled onto the floor. sighing in frustration, i called oren, telling him she would be sleeping in my room tonight. the decision came over me as quick as water let out of a long-standing dam- explosive, instinctive, completely manipulated by nature's laws and not one of my own.

my arms slid under her knees and the other under her back, picking her up effortlessly. her head lolled to the side from where her neck met my shoulder, and her light breathing on my neck sent chills down my spine. gently, i lowered her onto the bed in my room, the dark gray silk of the sheets seeming stygian against her warm, pale skin. i couldn't help but notice how easily she fit against me- no curves out of place, no weird angles that dug into my skin. where my stomach curved, her back did. her neck slotted itself on my shoulder like the putting together of a puzzle.

it was unsettling but calming- emily and i never fit together like that.

tugging the blanket over her, i climbed in next to her, stripped to the waist. her face was, undeniably, flawlessly beautiful, even in sleep, even in a drunken state. it was the kind of beautiful you just had to admit- the kind of beautiful no one would question.

i sighed, turning so that my back faced her instead of myself. i had a feeling i wouldn't be able to get a single second of sleep with her face in front of me.

author's note

n/a

word count: 1133