Nuclear Love

3 | Flashbacks and Fear Mongering

THANK YOU ALL for the views, comments, the votes! I really appreciate it! Please continue to read and keep up with Quinn's adventure. This chapter will present a tough decision that may have lasting consequences for the whole book - so choose wisely! I have already started working on some possible chapter 4's, so as soon as we have 5 votes about where to head with the story, I will work on that and release it 2-3 days after.

PLEASE ENJOY!

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THE SUN IS STARTING to set, and I know I should be running, because that's what my pounding heart is telling me, but I have to stop.

Seeing something on the side of the broken asphalt road regurgitates a memory long stowed away.

I stop. I have to. Because the rush of imagery that hits me is inescapable.

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I remember a time, about two years ago if the year really is 2022, when my family took one of our only trips together, with mom, dad, and my two sisters. To a place called Coeur d'Alene, in the northern part of a nobody state called Idaho.

When you're from New York, living in a floor-length penthouse on Upper East Side, Idaho is only a place you know French Fries come from. But during our trip, it became one of my favorite memories as a family.

It was the only time I actually got to spend more than a five minute phone call from my dad. It was the only time growing up when I saw my mom and dad in the same room not yelling wildly at each other.

The lake...the lake house...the house boat.

The picturesque scene unfolds of different hues of greens surrounding a rippling, silver lakefront, an eagle flying high overhead. Docks line the shorefront with people shouting to each other - not angry shouting, but happy shouting. The aroma that fills the air is almost palpable, a pure cornucopia of pine scent mixed with fresh mountain air and misty lake water. White sailboats dot the horizon line as a trepid breeze rolls through the hills surrounding the water. Various fishermen, young and old line up trying their luck at grabbing a trout or perch to fry later. Women of wealthy backgrounds lay out on the rocky shore, soaking in bronzing sun rays that only come from the clearest of blue skies.

I remember the vivid red and white stripes wrapping around the hull of the massive boat in which we spent our two weeks of vacation. My younger sisters, Jamie and Shaelynn – their names come roaring back to me like I just spoke with them – they're laying out on the deck of the ship sipping mimosas even though they shouldn't be legally doing so. Jamie is probably about 12 years old, blond, with sun-kissed skin and a genuinely happy smile and contagious laugh with no inhibitions, while Shaelynn is a little older, a brunette, skinny, hesitant to let out a laugh, and definitely more likely to call you out.

This time though, they're both laughing freely while mimosa sprays into the clean, mountain air from Jamie's mouth.

I can see myself, corner deck on the boat, and I know I'm sixteen, just barely getting my feet wet in the real world. Before the all-night private school parties. Before chasing every long-legged girl that wore a short skirt and high heels. Before my life went spiraling in all directions, and not just down.

Little did I know at the time, but my dad had actually planned the whole trip to "visit" a mistress in the area. At least some good fruits came out of the trip.

Already starting to fill out my own body though, I'm about six feet tall. Toned muscles throughout my body as I walk around shirtless, thinking I'm God's gift to women. My dark hair is a little longer, hanging past my ears, curling at the ends just slightly. My dimples of course, prominent on both corners of my mouth, and I stand there looking into my reflection trying to perfect my smile, to show both my pearly-white teeth and dimple at their fullest. I would learn how to use that smile to land many a girl. My skin is dark, golden brown from all the sun, and even though I have a little more baby fat than I do now, I can see my cheekbones and chin already sharply defined. You can even see the stripes from where I amateurly shaved my chest, afraid of the impending dark hair beginning to sprout.