Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(10)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“Why’s your hair wet?” I ask over the music, slanting my head to the side, and a drop of water falls into my eye, rehydrating it.

His fingers move for his hair, which gives me a view of his forearm and the small holes and scabs covering his skin, some outlined with shades of blue and purple. “Oh, I washed my hair in the sink. It reeked like vodka for some reason…I think someone might have poured it in my hair last night when I passed out on the living room floor.”

“Yeah, I can see that happening.” I redirect my concentration back to the drip in the ceiling. “You have a knack for crazy things happening when you pass out, which is a sign that you might want to stop.”

“I’ll stop when you stop,” he says, because he knows I’m not going to, and it makes me feel like a terrible person, even though I’m not certain he means it. Still, I should at least challenge him, but at the same time I can’t give up the one thing that brings me a drop of peace in the murky lake that’s become my home.

“So are you going out tonight with me after we make a pickup?” He changes the subject, glancing around at the nothingness that pretty much fills my room, except for my sketchbook that’s on the floor. His gaze briefly lingers on it before he looks up at me. “Dylan said he had some shit for us to do over at Johnny’s…well, he said stuff for you to do, since he’s still pissed off at me for screwing over Trace and there’s a good chance he could be there.”

Johnny is the guy who supplies Dylan with large quantities of drugs for him to deal and sometimes we get drugs from Johnny ourselves. Trace is one of the guys we deal to regularly. Trace actually has a lot of money, at least in comparison to us. He also has a lot of connections, which means pissing him off is a very bad thing. About a week ago Tristan “accidentally” shorted him a couple of ounces, one of which he sold and the other of which I have no idea what happened to—we probably used it and I didn’t even know. When Trace asked him for his thousand hundred bucks back for being shorted the ounces, Tristan replied that he didn’t have it—that he’d spent it. Tristan’s dumb ass managed to get away without getting his ass kicked. He did come home with a huge bruise on his face and I think all of us have been expecting Trace and his guys to break down the door and beat us up until Tristan pays him back.

“As much as Dylan is an ass**le, I’m with him on this one,” I tell him. “You’re lucky Trace and his guys haven’t broken down the door and beat your ass. Remember what they did to Roy and his girlfriend after they stole from him?”

“Roy was an idiot,” he says. “And didn’t know how to lay low.”

“No, he tried to lay low,” I reply in a firm voice. “But they found him and beat the shit out of him. He ended up in the hospital and almost freaking died…and they raped his girlfriend.”

It seems crazy that this is the way things are, but I learned really quickly when we moved down here that there are a lot more dangers with drugs than just doing them. There’s also a lot of danger through exchanges, the people I meet, the people who think I’m ripping them off. But I’m not even sure they are dangers because most of the time I don’t feel scared, knowing what could happen. The risk just exists like everything else.

Tristan seems unfazed. “A, I don’t have a girlfriend, so I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself, and B, I’ll figure out a way to pay him back…somehow.” It’s clear in his voice that he has no intention of paying Trace back. Tristan has no boundaries anymore, not just with stealing and taking drugs, but with life choices; he’s always pushing toward danger. Never thinking about the consequences, veering toward a short life. We all kind of hover in the same place, always a few steps away from getting ourselves killed or arrested, especially with the large amount of drugs Dylan has in his possession sometimes when he’s working a bigger exchange. But Tristan never seems to know when to pull back, and a few steps is more like half a step for him. I’ve had to stop him more than a few times from getting into fights, doing too many drugs, mixing the wrong drugs, but it’s okay. I owe him so much more and I’ll keep helping him—making sure that half a step always exists—until the day I die. It can be my penance.

“It’s not worth death.” I have to pause to catch my breath. Saying the word “death,” talking about death, or even thinking about it, can sometimes make me feel like I’m helplessly falling, even when I’m flying. “So stop stealing shit and find a way to pay Trace back before he gets fed up.”

“It’s not worth death, huh?” Tristan questions, ignoring my remark about Trace as his forehead creases in confusion and I wonder what he’s on, if the drugs are just getting to him or if he really questions if it’s not death.

“Not for you,” I say with the little care I have left in me. “Drugs aren’t worth your life ending.”

“But they are for you?”

“Everything’s worth death for me.” I lose my breath again over the word. I need to stop saying it, but sometimes when I’m strung out, words just crash out of my mouth.

He glances uneasily at the names Lexi, Ryder, and No One tattooed on my arm. “Just stop talking about death and get up and come do this run with me.”

“Where are you going?” I ask, but my voice gets washed away by the increase in the volume of the music as the drummer bangs harder on the drums and the woman singer belts out passionate lyrics that I swear to God are trying to tell me something. I become distracted by images appearing in my head, ones I’ve tried to put down on paper many times but can never seem to get as perfect as I want them to be. Nova with drumsticks in her hands, pounding to the beat while beads of sweat cover her smooth skin, but in the most beautiful way possible.

Tristan goes over to a corner of the bedroom and turns the music down, tipping over the stereo in the process. “You’ve been listening to some real depressing shit lately.”

“I guess so, but does it really matter?” I ask, wiping a few water droplets off my forehead. “It sort of matches my mood anyway.”

“I was just pointing it out.” He picks up a dirty shirt off the floor and chucks it at my face, then gives the side of the mattress a good kick. “Now get your ass up so we can go get this shit done. I have plans later tonight.”