Prologue
Quinn McKnight did not enjoy the bright, flashing lights and throbbing music of nightclubs nor the almost animalistic way in which people danced. That was if one could call all of the bumping, grinding, and limb flailing occurring on the floor, truly dancing. No, she much preferred the comfortable and smoky atmosphere of hole-in-the-wall bars, such as Pickled Pete's and the Grunge, where she knew the bartenders as if they were members of her own immediate family and she could hustle people out of their credits over a game of pool. However, she was an easily persuaded - and easily agitated – person; especially after enduring several minutes of her roommate's senseless babbling and constant pleading. Quinn had caved, saying yes without really knowing why.
Though her roommate, Lorraine, had promised a good time along with drinks on her, the main inspiration for Quinn's sudden agreement was the sole purpose of shutting the girl up. Sure, Lorraine was a nice person with "good intentions", but once she started talking, it was damn near – no, nigh impossible to get her to stop. Moreover, she didn't respond to sarcasm, which made Quinn's existence all the more difficult, though whether it was because Lorraine was overly optimistic or Quinn's sarcasm went over her pretty blond head had yet to be determined.
Now that she was out in public, however, the music pulsating around her and altering the pace of her heart, Quinn was beginning to regret her snap decision. Well, she thought to herself, that's not entirely true.
She had begun to lament her hasty accord long before they had even left the apartment, when Lorraine had thought it necessary to tear through the majority of Quinn's clothes, successfully destroying the closet and scattering garments all over the previously clean floor in an attempt to find something "suitable" for the brunette to wear. Apparently, it was "stupid" to wear jeans and a tee shirt to a club, especially a club like Ricochet, and it was almost certain that she would look "ridiculous" if she did.
It had only taken a few selective words to drop Quinn's mood for moderately excited to. . .well, something less than exuberant. So far, the only thing that had managed to spark a mild flame of interest within her was the cold beer that her slim, calloused fingers currently gripped. The beer that I paid for, she thought darkly, even though Lorraine had promised to pick up the tab.
She rolled her eyes to herself, taking a swift drink from the long neck bottle. The moment they had stepped foot into the club, Lorraine spotted some of her other friends and ran off to join them on the dance floor, thus breaking her promise to Quinn. But she supposed that her roommate couldn't help that her attention span was practically non-existent.
She sighed, pushing a hand through her hair as she contemplated her own stupidity. Quinn considered herself an intelligent person with a firm set of instincts, but this wasn't one of her shining moments. Especially since this wasn't the first time that Quinn had been ditched by her roommate. The last time she had tagged along with Lorraine, she was tossed aside like a rag doll, left to fend, and pout for herself the rest of the evening. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, again, this time at herself, she lifted the bottle to her lips and quickly drained the remains. A shiver passed through her as the cold draught made its way down her throat, settling in, and oddly enough, warming her belly.
Quinn waved at the bartender, gesturing towards the now-empty beer bottle in her hand. He narrowed his dark eyes at her, which caused her to frown. Did she do something wrong? Had she offended him in some way? Normally, she didn't care whether or not she offended someone, but this man was standing in her way of another beer. She would - well, she wouldn't get down on her knees and beg, but she was desperate. The way she figured, if she wasn't going to hang around Lorraine, which, admittedly, was something of a godsend, she might as well get plastered.
After a few minutes of failed attempts to get another beer, she released an aggravated gust of air. "Asshole," she muttered under her breath, her feathers thoroughly ruffled. She swiveled in her seat, turning her back to the bar, leaning her elbows on the lip of the countertop for balance.
To say that the club was crowded simply wouldn't suffice - it was packed. Everywhere she looked, people, both human and humanoid alike, were pressed against each other, whether by choice or not. However, they all appeared to be enjoying themselves, laughing and chatting with others as they sipped on their alcoholic beverages, some more animated than others. Her vision turned green very briefly as the jealousy took a deep stab in her chest.
Saying that Quinn lacked adequate social skills would be a severe understatement. Trying to communicate with others, especially people her own age, was like pulling teeth: unpleasant and at times, downright awkward. Her mother attributed this to her hesitancy to commit herself to even the simplest of relationships. She was too guarded, too paranoid of what would happen if she made herself too vulnerable; she could count the number of people she trusted on one hand. Though she had never had a knife wedged into her back, she had known plenty of others, namely her mother, who had and Quinn wasn't willing to subject herself to that sort of treatment. Not when it could be avoided.
As most things, her jealousy quickly passed, replaced by her innate curiosity. Observing people was one of her favorite pastimes, one that she indulged in quite often. She knew that it was impolite to stare, but she couldn't help herself. Similar to nail biting, it was one of those annoying habits she didn't even realize she was doing until it was too late.
Her eyes roved over the crowd, skipping over the chattering bunch that had caused her internal evaluation in the first place, instead focusing her attention on the dance floor. She tried not to grimace as she took in the sight of the writhing bodies pressed closely together. It wasn't exactly the most attractive thing to behold, especially since nearly everyone was covered from head to toe in sweat and most likely, the person they were dancing with was a complete stranger. The idea of a stranger's hands roaming over her body evoked a faint feeling of nausea. Thankfully, she hadn't drunk enough to actually spew anything, though a part of her was vaguely disappointed that she could process this thought.
So much for getting hammered like she had intended on doing.
Once she had had her fill of observing the dance floor, Quinn turned back to the bar, hoping that she would be much more successful this time in her attempt of flagging down the bartender. She highly doubted that she would be which was why the exit was beginning to look extremely tempting, even if she had only been in the club for a little less than forty minutes. At least she would be able to change out of the horrendously short dress Lorraine had practically forced her to wear and into clothes that were much more comfortable. And maybe, just maybe, there might be some beer left in their refrigerator.
A lick of excitement flared through her. Maybe she should just give up now while she was -
"What can I get you?" came the grumbling growl of the bartender.
Quinn's brown eyes widened in shock. She hadn't expected him to respond to her insistent flagging. In fact, she had been hoping that he would not so she would have an excuse to go home.
"Um." She gnawed her bottom lip nervously, trying to remember what she had ordered. Was it Budweiser or Heineken? Hm, maybe she wasn't as sober as she had initially pegged herself to be. "I'll have what I was drinking before…"
The bartender sent her a inquisitive look. A look that was eerily similar to the ones she received from her mother when she said or did something stupid. "And what was that?" he drawled, his agitation evident on his heavy face as his eyes drilled holes into her forehead.
She glanced at the bottle in her hand, the words slightly blurred. Quinn shook her head in an attempt to clear her vision. Ah. A green bottle. "A Heineken. Please," she replied, smiling tightly at the bartender.
His eyes remained steely, his expression unchanged, as he stalked away to fill her order.
"Nice choice," a pleasant voice said.
Quinn turned her head to the left to look at the person who had spoken to her. Her eyebrows rose fractionally - she had been expecting a greasy monkey with tattoos, not a pretty boy. Briefly, her eyes took in the angular planes of his face and the hue of his blue eyes. A very pretty boy, she thought, fighting off a smile. However, Quinn quickly discovered the most distracting thing about the newcomer was his incredibly full lips. Subconsciously, she dragged her tongue along her bottom lip.
A/N: As you might have surmised, this is my first endeavour into the Star Trek territory, and I must say that I was – and still am - very frightened to post this in fear of getting tomatoes thrown at me from all directions for royally screwing this up, but my friend and awesome beta, KD Skywalker, changed my mind. I owe her mad props. Oh, I don't own anything aside from Quinn and Lorraine.