A/N: Hi guys! Sorry for the delay. Work got me all tied up, especially since I'm working double time to finish everything up before the Lunar New Year. Either way, I rushed through this one because I figured I needed to move my ass.
Enjoy!
xXx
CeruleanBlues
Whisper in my Ear
Chapter 36
Tuesday, 4.45pm
/Mike Chang
I'm so engrossed staring at the laptop—unsure of what I'm even trying to figure out—that I don't hear anybody entering the apartment until the door to Sam's bedroom swings open all of a sudden. Jumping to my feet, I spin around to find a surprised-looking Sam and Quinn standing a few feet away, wearing mirrored expressions.
"Mike? What are you doing in here?"
I freeze on the spot, and I swear, I'm usually not so incapable, but at that unfortunate moment, I'm unsure how to react as I watch his eyes dart back and forth between me and the evidence on the desk.
"He knows."
Quinn's soft whisper pulls me back to the present, and I almost forget that she's in the room. It takes a few seconds to decipher what she actually means, but then I realize that she must've read my mind. Immediately, I remember what my intent had been when I had camped in here for the past five hours or so. Figuring that there's nothing left to hide, I stare defiantly at the pair.
"You have some explaining to do," I tell Sam.
The new couple exchange quick glances, and then Quinn gives the smallest of nods. Sam, though, is reluctant, and I probably ought to feel kind of offended that he doesn't trust me—his best friend—but I also know that I've probably already invaded enough of his—or rather, their—privacy by ransacking his laptop when I shouldn't be. In my defense, though, as far as possible, we don't keep secrets from one another, so I'm a little hurt right now.
"He can help us."
Okay, having a silent, telepathic conversation—no matter how one-sided it is—about me while I'm still standing here is kind of not fun, and Quinn isn't even trying to be discreet anymore, but as I glance over to Sam, his eyes flicker over to me for a second.
"Quinn…"
"Sam…"
If I hadn't known that she's a Psychic/Empath, I would probably find their exchange sort of freaky, like a scene right out of a sci-fi television show. The only difference, though, is that I'm not exactly granted with a voiceover or subtitles. I know we probably had spooked Rachel the other day when Quinn had read my thoughts, especially when it ended up sounding like that creepy vampire dude from that movie.
"Come on, we can use all the help we can get."
"But we can't—"
"He's your best friend, Sam."
"Yeah, but that—"
"Sam…"
She gives her lips a slight pout, and then seals the deal with a bat of her eyelashes. Sam arches an eyebrow, regarding her skeptically for a bit before he eventually sighs in resignation, and I almost snicker at the hilarity in the situation. I suppose we know who wears the pants in their relationship.
"Okay, fine," he relents.
Okay, fine?
What does that even mean? Something must've been lost in translation because I'm a little lost with what's going on, more so when Quinn settles herself comfortably on the bed, looking absolutely at ease. Sam gives me another pointed look before moving over to retrieve his laptop.
"You might want to sit down for this," he tells me, frowning with reluctance. After passing the computer to Quinn, he proceeds to pull a tattered-looking booking out of his backpack.
"What's that?" I ask.
"A journal."
"Whose?"
"Roseanne Walters'."
Tuesday, 5.35pm
/Sam Evans
"I can't believe you've been hiding all these from me, Sam," Mike comments once I'm done. I can tell that he's trying to process it all in, even as he's gaping down at the journal in his hands. "This is a lot to keep inside."
"If it's any consolation, I didn't even tell Quinn about it," I say truthfully with a sheepish chuckle, remembering the kiss that had started it all. "She sort of sensed—or read—it and—"
"You can read his dreams?" Mike raises his eyebrows in astonishment.
Quinn's cheeks flush with color, and it's simply too Goddamn adorable. She must've been thinking about that fateful time too as a shy—borderline coquettish—smile graces her kissable lips. "Well, I can't, actually, but I—something happened and I had a flash in my head. It's hard to explain exactly—"
"What happened?" Mike prods on curiously, tilting his head, and I swear sometimes he just asks too many questions.
"Well, Sam, he—erm—well, he—"
She's stuttering and stumbling over her words, and a part of me wants to witness the sheer cuteness of it all, but I reckon she's already embarrassed enough without having to add the uncomfortable factor. Deciding that I ought to be a good boyfriend—official or not—I quickly jump to her rescue.
"I kissed her."
It's Mike's turn to blush at the implication.
"Oh."
And then we're stuck in this triangle of awkwardness, and staring at everything and anything but each other.
"Okay, stop it, guys," Quinn speaks up after a full minute of excruciating silence. "The moment has passed, so can we just forget that conversation ever occurred and move on? We have an even bigger problem at hand. Who is Wayne Hunters, and how does he relate to Roseanne Walters? How is he connected to Sam?"
"Well, you have about a thousand records of Wayne Hunters in your thumb drive," Mike points out—his logical, rational side taking over—as he gestures towards the computer. "Do you have any idea how to go about narrowing the search?"
"We're hoping that there's something in this journal that is able to help us," I explain. "I just had this flash one day—"
Mike snorts. "While you were kissing her?"
There's a whoosh of heat firing up to my ears as Quinn whacks the back of his head. Clearing my throat, I continue, "as I was saying; I just had this flash one day, and I believe that there's a connection—especially after discovering the numbers one forty-two on the door in the photograph of Roseanne Walters."
"Is it perhaps just a coincidence?" Mike theorizes.
I shake my head in reply. "I can't dismiss such a startling resemblance. I mean, the flood, the digging—if we can prove the connection of Wayne Hunters and Roseanne Walters, then there's no denying it, is there? Besides, the door and the number in my dreams match exactly that of the one in the picture."
He soaks the information in for a moment, and then turns to Quinn. "What about using your clairsentience abilities? It helped us with Tom Earles, didn't it?"
"We've tried that," she informs him with a slight shrug of her shoulders. "But it didn't work, although I did get a flash of the flood when I touched the photo before—"
"Wait, so you knew about the flood in 1962 even before I had my research done?" Mike cuts in, looking mildly peeved. When Quinn merely offers another nonchalant shrug, he huffs melodramatically. "Talk about an unfair advantage."
I can't help but snicker at his good-natured ribbing, knowing that they're just a result of some small, harmless envy. The dude is a genius, and I suppose it hurts his pride a little when someone else beats him to it. Quinn allows a chuckle escape and playfully nudges him in the side, to which he generously responds with a gentle tug on her blonde hair.
"Okay, hey, no harassing my girlfriend," I mockingly reprimand my best friend as I wrap an arm around her slim waist in an overly exaggerated possessiveness. Dropping a kiss to the top of her head, I narrow my eyes at him.
Mike raises both his hands in surrender and laughs. "She's all yours, Evans."
Rolling her gorgeous hazel eyes at our childish behavior, Quinn squirms out of my hold and sticks her tongue out. "You boys suck."
"But you still love us either way."
"Love is kind of a strong word, Chang."
He sends her a wink, and I guess he must've sent her something else as well via the psychic channel because she gasps all of a sudden and then makes a grab for my pillow before chucking it at the Asian Brainiac.
"What is he thinking?"
"Nothing you want to know."
Tuesday, 7.10pm
/Finn Hudson
They're late—the three of them; Sam, Mike and Quinn—texting the rest of us earlier on that they had something to attend to.
Yeah, right.
What the hell is so damn important that they have to bail on evidence analysis? That's just bullshit, okay, especially when I know that Quinn doesn't have any of her classes in common with either guys, and if it's even marginally related to the Camden House case, they certainly shouldn't be keeping the group in the dark.
A quick threesome, perhaps?
As soon as that disturbing image pops in my head, I shove it away, no doubt ruining my appetite for supper.
"Snap out of it, Finn," Rachel remarks, jolting me out of my stupor. "Stop spacing out. We have a lot to cover."
"Whatever," I mutter under my breath, not in the mood to deal with her. Then again, what else is new? "Who died and made you the team Nazi?"
She hears me, though, and shoots me a dirty look, but decides to keep her opinions to herself. Why add fuel to the fire, right? Folding my arms across my chest, I lean back in my seat and resume with my task, throwing my concentration into the case in order to avoid any further wondering thoughts.
Not long after, the trio enters the room, almost conspiringly, and I have to swallow a scoff as they cheerfully greet us with apologies and vague excuses. Nobody questions them on anything—not even Rachel—as Sam, Mike and Quinn immediately immerse themselves in their respective jobs. I swear their priorities are screwed up today. We all work in silence, occupied with the important stuff, and every now and then, my eyes will dart over to check on the blonde beauty. She's working with Tina, her forehead furrowing in concentration even as tendrils of golden hair fall over to hide her angelic face.
"Finn, I think I just caught some sort of audio in our footage," Rachel once again bursts my blissful bubble. "Can you give me a confirmation whether or not our digital recorder caught it as well?"
Stifling an annoyed sigh, but knowing I shouldn't be complaining or whatever, I assent to her request. Don't get me wrong; I do love my job, and no matter how big a pain in the ass analysis is, it's always exciting when we catch any evidence that we can then present to our clients.
"It's a negative, Rachel," I report. "Nothing at all."
"Well, then, can you take a listen and give me your take on it?"
I blink hard, unsure if I'd heard her right. "You want my opinion?"
She sighs. "Just take a listen, Finn."
I plug my ear piece in because there's no way I'm using hers—and I doubt she'll allow me to, anyway—and motion for her to do a playback. Not exactly certain of the noise she's heard, I loop the footage, straining my ears for any possible anomaly.
"I don't hear anything, Rachel," I tell her after the tenth time hearing the clip. "Are you sure it's not background noise or something?"
Frankly, I'm expecting a launch into another one of our many arguments, but the brunette just frowns, and the disappointment crosses her features. It's actually rather worrying, especially with how strong-headed she is with her opinions.
"Thanks, Finn," she mumbles.
Normally, I would've been glad to have her out of my hair, but she seems genuinely bothered by something. Blame it on a momentary lapse in sanity, or maybe it's just the brotherly side of me talking. Hang on, brotherly? Gross.
"Hey, you okay?"
For whatever reason, she's surprised by my question.
"You look kind of down," I add on.
"Wow, you actually noticed?" Her voice is laced with bitter sarcasm, and this time, it piques my interest. Who knew the Great Rachel Berry had emotions that range past all that high-and-mighty crap?
"What?"
"Oh, come on, Finn," she spits out with a rolls of her eyes. "You don't even like me, so why the sudden interest in my wellbeing?"
Guess she's back.
"Just checking," I murmur, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention from the others. "Don't have to bite my head off. Sheesh."
We go back to the silence after that, and half an hour later, I'm done. There's nothing from the recordings that we can use as back-up evidence—especially after that damn raccoon contamination—so that's kind of a bust. Sam calls for a gathering around the big table to discuss our findings, and somehow or another, I find myself sitting beside Quinn Fabray—prim and dainty, in all her glory. In spite of everything else that had happened—or the most heart-wrenching, unfortunate circumstances that I had the most displeasure of witnessing—I give her a smile.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself, Hudson," she smiles back at me, her hazel eyes twinkling, and she really is fucking gorgeous—so much so that I want to lunge over the desk this instant to pummel the living daylights out of Sam Evans for being that lucky son of a bitch receiving the end of her affections. Damn that bastard. I still can't understand what she ever sees in him. I mean, does his humongous lips turn her on or something? If we're talking about kissing abilities, I can safely say that I have one hell of a talented tongue that I'm sure she'll thoroughly enjoy, if she'd only let me.
Just saying.
I can show her a spanking good time too—figuratively speaking, of course, but it's nothing I won't deny. That ass of hers is just so deliciously inviting, I wonder how it'll feel like in the cradle of my palms. On occasion, I've been told by chicks that I'm a good lay. Okay, maybe that's stretching the truth a bit—one chick, freshmen party—and I might have been too plastered to remember the night, but if Quinn would give me a chance, I'm sure I can rock her world and her bed.
"Finn? Finn!"
Someone jabs me on the side, harshly jolting me back to the present. Six pairs of eyes are fixed on me now, as though waiting for some kind of reaction, and I realize that I haven't been following any of it.
"Did you find anything during analysis, Finn?" Sam asks in exasperation.
"Oh, shit." Doing a fast scan on the page of my notebook, I try not to appear as stupid as I feel. "Well, the attic is clean. Anything we've found previously, we can easily dismiss as the sounds made by the raccoon. Other than that, no disembodied voices, nothing that doesn't spell out background noise."
My team leader nods as he makes a scribble on his writing pad. I turn to Quinn, wondering what she thinks of my findings but she's glancing down at her own notebook as though it's the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Rachel, you're up next."
Always ready and eager to share her vast—yet annoying—knowledge, she straightens her back and leans to study her notes before clearing her throat. "Well, aside from that raccoon, I'm afraid that we didn't catch anything paranormal. Every sound in the video is cross-referenced to our audio equipment and they match those of which had been made by our culprit. Anything else is dismissed as background noise. No disembodied voices and no sure signs of paranormal contact or activity."
Trust Rachel to give an elaborate recount of her analysis.
"Tina and Quinn, what can you tell us about your findings?" Sam proceeds to ask after jotting down more notes.
"Nothing much to report, Sam," Tina informs him. "We've debunked the shadows, we've ruled out possible paranormal sounds as that of the raccoon because of audio patterns—there's nothing in the living room."
Short and sweet.
"Quinn?" Mr. Beiber Senior prompts.
"Nothing on audio either," she says. "Everything we have—after cross-referencing with the video footage—is not usable as back-up evidence for our clients."
"Well then, it appears we'll only have our outdoor footages to present to Sugar tomorrow," Sam concludes, and I can't even remember Mike and Artie sharing their findings. I suppose they must've taken their turns when I'd been fantasizing about nailing Quinn against my door. From the corner of my eyes, I see her squirming uncomfortably in her seat, and I'm about to ask her what's wrong when Sam continues. "I don't need everybody there, so as usual, I'll do the client reveal with Artie and Mike. We'll meet here at five."
Quinn raises her hand. "I skipped the previous client reveal. Is it okay if I tag along for this one?"
I'm not sure if Sam is hesitating just for the sake of it, because it's quite obvious he's going to agree to it anyway. I mean, I don't blame the dude, seriously. There's no denying Quinn and her hazel eyes.
"Alright," he eventually says. "I suppose it'll be a good learning experience for you."
"Thanks, Sam."
They exchange a look for that splitting second, and there's no hiding what's going on between them. It's so fucking painful to watch, in fact, that I'm forced to tear my gaze away. The image of them sucking face in the hallway pops into my head, making me nauseas.
"So moving on," Sam announces, pulling everyone back into the meeting. "Rachel, what's the status update with Brittany? We're thinking of bringing Quinn in to talk to her tomorrow."
Rachel flips through the pages in her notebook. "She has a free period tomorrow after lunch, so that's probably a good time to talk to her."
"Do you have her timetable in there?" Tina wonders out loud.
"I just searched the name list of students in certain classes and worked out her schedule," she replies in that all-too-familiar pride in her tone. "It's nothing much, really."
I just have to roll my eyes at that.
"Good work," Sam praises her like the exemplary team leader he is. "Rachel, you, Quinn and I will meet in the dining hall where Brittany normally eats her lunch at one-thirty."
Rachel nods her head. "Copy that."
"Anything else, guys?"
Nobody speaks up.
"Alright, then. Dismissed."
Tuesday, 9.50pm
/Sam Evans
"There's no mention of Wayne Hunters at all in this journal so far," I grumble as I flip through yet another page of heartfelt declarations of love. "It's just filled with sappy poetry."
Quinn glances up from my laptop, an amused smirk on her lips. From the other corner of my room, Mike snickers as he paws through the new documents he'd managed to secure regarding the Roseanne House.
"Here, give me that," Quinn says, holding her hand out, a mischievous glimmer in her hypnotic eyes. "Maybe it's some girl code or something that you wouldn't understand."
"Hilarious, Q."
We do a quick swap so that I'm now in charge of sifting through hundreds of police records found of Wayne Hunters. The address filter didn't work, and even after trying on multiple keywords pertaining to Roseanne or the house, we couldn't identify a match. If anything, it doesn't seem like Wayne Hunters had even existed, but that's not going to stop us. I'm determined to get to the bottom of this, even if it'll take me numerous sleepless nights to crack it.
"Guys, I think I've found something interesting about the Camden House," Mike declares as he comes over to join us on the bed, a printed article in his hand. "Apparently, the land, before it was bought over by the couple that lives there now, does not belong to Roseanne Walters of Wayne Hunters. It belonged to Violet Savior and her husband, Ralph."
"Did they buy the land?" Quinn asks.
"It doesn't say here, exactly."
That name.
There's something familiar about it.
"Sam, you okay?"
Quinn must've read my thoughts, and a concerned yet curious expression crosses her face. "Yeah," I reply, mentally letting her know that I'll tell her later. "Do we have any background on Violet and Ralph? Were they related to Roseanne or Wayne?"
"Not at the moment, no," Mike shakes his head. "But I can look it up; see what their connections are."
"That'll be great, Mike, thanks."
He nods once in acknowledgement and then starts to gather his stuff.
"You're leaving?"
"Yeah, I have an early class tomorrow and my lecturer is a nightmare with tardiness," my best friend grumbles sourly as he neatly piles the pieces of paper into his thick binder. "I just think he's using that as an excuse to vent his sexual frustrations."
"Sexual frustrations?" Quinn deadpans with a quirk of her eyebrow. "How old is your lecturer?"
"About fifty," Mike shrugs.
Bursts of laughter fill the room, even as Mike looks at Quinn and I in pure confusion. Jesus, the guy is a genius, but sometimes his jokes don't even register in his own brain.
"Dude, I don't think there's anything sexual left when you're fifty," I snort out between breaths. "He's just a bitter old man who's just bored of his job and waiting for retirement."
A metaphoric light bulb goes off in his head and he chuckles sheepishly, hoisting his backpack higher up his shoulders. "Okay, shut up," he retorts good-naturedly. "I'll see you two tomorrow."
"Bye, Mikey," Quinn chirps airily.
The moment he's out of the door and out of earshot, she turns to me expectantly, the amusement gone, replaced by a seriousness in her expression.
"Okay, spill. Violet Savior."
"It just sounds familiar," I explain earnestly. "Like I've heard it somewhere before."
"Does it ring some sort of bell?"
"I don't know. It's more like a gut feeling or something."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She tilts her head, looking thoughtful all of a sudden. "Do you want to find out?"
"Of course."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
It takes barely a second to decipher what she means by that, and even lesser time for me to act on it. Setting the computer to the side, I slide over, hovering over her petite form and weave my fingers into the soft tresses of her hair. Her eyes—bright and inviting—twinkle in anticipation, and I find myself smiling before leaning over to capture her succulent lips between mine in a tender kiss. Damn, I can certainly get used to this method of retrieving information. She hooks an arm around my neck, drawing me closer as her free hand grasps onto the front of my shirt. Poking my tongue out, I languidly run it across the seams of her mouth, and with a sensual moan, she parts it for me.
"Anything yet?" I whisper huskily, barely breaking contact.
"No. Keep going."
Grateful that Quinn has a dress on instead of pants, I lift her up so that she's straddling my hardened bulge. Feeling her heat on top of me sends a shockwave through every nerve ending. My senses are kicking on overdrive, and then she shifts ever so slightly, and I'm a goner. The friction is exquisite. A low growl escapes my throat as her talented hands snake beneath my top to gently scratch her fingers along the planes of my abs. Taking that as a cue, I move the material of her skirt to reveal the milky flesh of her thighs, trailing my palms further to cup her rear.
"Sam…"
I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing my name like that.
"Still nothing, Quinn."
"Stop thinking, then," she murmurs before delving in for another kiss.
I'm about to tell her that thinking is nearly impossible when she's on top of me like that, but then she's tugging on my shirt, trying to get it off. In exchange, I slip the cardigan off her shoulders just as she's pushing me down on the mattress. The image of her sitting on top of me will forever be imprinted in my head, and damn, she just so beautiful. She leans over, bracing her weight on her arms on either side of my head, and her hair tumbles over like a curtain around us.
"Are you holding back on purpose, Sam?"
I can't help but panic for a moment, hoping I hadn't offended her, but when I notice the cheekiness playing in the corner of her lips, I know that she's kidding. Sighing in relief, I fix her with a lopsided grin.
"Maybe."
She giggles, shaking her head before closing the gap between us once again. Her weight feels amazing above me, and every so often, her hips will roll in just the right places—subconsciously or not—and I won't be able to contain the grunts and groans. Making an ascend from her bottoms, I trace the contours of her hips up to knead the sides of her waist—loving the gasps and whimpers my actions elicit—and then finding the start of her zipper, where I hesitate, wondering if she's fine with it.
"It's okay, Sam," she gently urges in my ear. "It's okay."
Slowly, as though unveiling a precious gift, I peel the clothing from her toned body, holding my breath as bit by bit, Quinn is exposed to me. The dress pools by her hips, but I can't take my eyes off her lace-covered breasts—so perfect—even when she flushes a deep shade of red and shyly pokes me on my stomach.
"Are you just going to stare at it?"
"Sorry," I murmur, feeling like a retard because all of a sudden, I'm not sure what to do with myself. It's not as if I haven't seen a woman partially naked, for crying out loud.
"Oh, my God, Sam," she chuckles. "Victoria's Secret? Really?"
Right. Psychic/Empath. Almost forgot.
"Well—I don't—you're just—"
"Okay, shut up."
She brings us back on track again, and the feeling of her bra brushing against my chest awakens something new in me—something I've never experienced before. The stirring in my crotch is begging for more—anything more—but I try as best as I can to ignore it. I don't want to expect too much out of this, and I care about Quinn more than anything to put my needs before her comfort, but she's ignited a burning fire in me, and the way she's kissing me—with an aggression and passion of a wanton woman—I'm slowly succumbing to my carnal desires.
"Sam…" she grates out, pressing her body closer, and that's possibly all I need to take the plunge.
Grabbing her around the waist, I roll over—never once breaking the kiss—so that I'm now propping my forearms into the bed, holding my weight so that I don't crush her. Her legs, God, I love her shapely, smooth legs as she clamps them around my hips. I don't even notice her hands reaching down to unbutton my jeans, but then she's struggling to rid me of it and before I know it, I'm left in my boxers while she shimmies out of her dress. The clothes form a pile on the floor—not that I care, really—and she seizes that moment of distraction to once again regain dominance.
"Jesus, Quinn," I breathe as her center comes in contact with my painfully hard, cotton-clad manhood. The heat is excruciatingly amazing, and she doesn't allow me the luxury to ogle her perfect form before she's attacking my lips once again.
And then she presses her hips down in a swirling motion.
"Shit…"
The flashes start.
A flower; violet.
A tombstone.
A woman. She's crying. Weeping. Mourning.
A man. He's tugging violently on the woman; forcing her out of the house where her belongings are scattered on the ground.
A girl watches.
Her eyes.
My mom.
"Quinn!" I pant out. "I think I know who she is."
"Good," she nods. "Don't stop now, Sam. I can't—"
"Quinn—"
She locates my hand and brings it down to her slightly damp underwear. "I want this, Sam."
"You sure?" I husk out because it's a gentlemanly thing to do.
"I'm sure."
A/N: Whoots! Fabrevans sexy time! LOL! Okay, so I'm aware that this isn't as explicit as Fix You, but it's a little awkward—at least for me, it is—to write a steamy scene in Sam's point of view. It's hardly romantic at all, and I was so tempted to make that portion sound as crude as possible, but then I realize that Sam's not that kind of guy. Let's just assume that sex with Quinn is indescribable. LOL!
Mandorac: Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing—as always! I'm glad you've enjoyed the previous chapter! LOL! And I love Santana and how she always has colorful adjectives to describe a situation! She's a great inspiration for witty comebacks! Yeah, so now that Mike's involved in Sam's dream, I suppose it'll be interesting to see how the dynamics shift in the team. Also, bearing in mind that Artie is an Empath, I'm sure it won't take long before he figures things out. Hint, hint!
Alli2345: Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! Well, hopefully this chapter answers some of your questions regarding Mike's reaction :D LOL! Poor dog! I blame Aunt Penny!
RJRRAA: Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! It's always nice to receive the lovely comments from you! I'm glad you liked the ending for the previous chapter, and I'm glad you're asking questions about Brittany :D Yes, Quinn and Sam are dating for sure. They just haven't had the 'mandatory talk' yet. It'll come in the next chapter :D I love Mike too, and yeah, I totally agree that he shouldn't be snooping around, but he can't help it, I suppose. Asian roots and all. Santana is a great character to bounce off of because she has such a colorful personality!
Nicole: LOL! Hi girl! I hope you've solved all that drama with the phone! Thanks for trying to review on it, anyway, despite what a pain it is. Believe me, I know! I'm glad you've enjoyed the previous chapter! Bummer about the Chinese homework, though. Hope you've sorted that out! Thanks for the reading recommendation! I'll be sure to check it out when I have the time! LOL! What I usually do when inspiration strikes, is that I write it in shorthand on my phone and then get back to it when I can. I don't have a tumblr account, unfortunately—I'm sad and lazy that way—because I have enough distraction during work as it is with my writing and I hardly ever use the computer at home. I'd love to give you my name, really, but I swore to myself I'd live in alias on FF. Sorry, girl! Hope you've enjoyed this update, though!
FabrevansFTW: Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! Glad you liked the cliffhanger on the previous chapter! Cheers!