WITHOUT YOU (STRIPPED) by Brooklyn Skye

lips toward my ear. “And if you’re going to stare at my ass, you may want to be less conspicuous about it. Your mentor is watching.”
    I purse my lips, restraining a smile, and avoid a glance to where Joel’s sitting on the living room couch with a glass of wine perched on the edge. “It’s a nice ass,” I say lowly. “I’m sure he’d agree.”
    Slightly, she leans back. Eyes in front of mine. Assessing my comeback with a lifted eyebrow. Then she throws back her shoulders and straightens. “Why don’t you ask him then?”
    In a silent pause, I let her words sit between us. This game—it might be one of my favorites. Like playing chicken with words.
    “Hey, Joel,” I say, and Quinn’s eyes widen. A moment passes. Then her lips start to part, ready for the you-can’t-beat-the-master smile. She thinks I’m bluffing. No chance there, beautiful . My mouth opens. And I blurt out over my shoulder, “I was wondering if you thought Quinn’s a—”
    Her fingers slap over my lips, eyes bugging out of her face, and she finishes quickly, “If you liked enchiladas!” Her cheeks burn carnation pink, her voice echoing throughout the tiny house. I laugh. “They’re, um, white, and we’re going to have plenty.”
    Pulling her into me, I press my lips to the side of her head. “You’re out of practice, babe. It’s a rare occasion I can get you so easily.”
    She wiggles, and I hold tighter. “Payback’s a bitch, you know.”
    “Oh, I know. And I’m looking forward to it.”
    Joel clears his throat. He’s standing near the front door, rocking back and forth on his heels, looking more out of place than a scrawny freshman on his first day of practice. “I love them,” he says to her. His eyes trace the line of my arm, wrapped around Quinn’s waist, and it’s just the right amount of awkward that Quinn steps back as I let go.
    He retrieves his cigarette pack from the small table beside the door then his eyes meet mine, glazed from the alcohol but also something else. A far away thought. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back in a bit.”
    “They’ll be ready in thirty minutes,” Quinn announces as he opens the door. He nods, and she waits until the door clicks shut then turns to me, pointing to the space. “Is he always like that? Or was that because of me?”
    I shake my head. “He gets like that sometimes. I think there might be more to his ‘I don’t have anyone back home’ story. Don’t take it personally.” I tap the can of mushroom soup. “Open?”
    With a nod, she kneels to the lower cabinet. From it she pulls out a deep frying pan. “Maybe he lost someone.” She finds some oil in the pantry then lights the stove. “Like…”
    “Death,” I finish, lifting the can opener from the jar in the middle of the counter. “I know what you meant. And, yeah, it’d make sense.” The way he, at times, shrinks into himself.
    For a few minutes I watch as Quinn slices the chicken into strips, fries them in hot oil then works with a fork in each hand to shred it. She instructs me to grate a hunk of jack cheese, dump half of it along with the soup and olives into a bowl and stir. Her hands move quick as she adds the chicken to my mixture then layers all of the ingredients into a glass dish.
    Once the last bit of cheese is on top, she covers the dish with foil, slides it into the oven then glances up at me with a cheek-to-cheek smile. “Ta-da.”
    The look of gratification on her face is enough to scoop her into my arms and kiss her. She loves cooking. And I love that she loves cooking.
    “I want to show you something while they bake,” she says and drags me to my room. We settle on my bed, her travel backpack between us. A stack of papers emerge then she plops the backpack on the floor and scoots closer, her legs and hips and shoulders all pressing into my side. “Applications for the culinary schools I’m thinking of applying to.”
    I take them, shuffling through the pile, skimming the