Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(11)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

I blink my dry eyes and force saliva down my throat a few times to rehydrate it. “I’m not sure I want to go anywhere right now.”

“Why?” he asks, backing up toward the wall. “You have something better to do?”

“No, but I’m not really feeling it right now,” I tell him. “In fact, all I want to do is lie back down and stare at the water stain on my wall.”

He relaxes back against the wall, shaking his head. “Okay, fess up, who the hell was on the phone?”

I turn my head toward him, my brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“When Delilah gave you her phone like a week ago,” he says. “You’ve been acting weird ever since and using more, too, which I’m not going to lecture you about, since I’m always getting pissed at you for lecturing me.”

“I’ve been acting as weird as I always do.” I sit up and pick up the shirt he threw at me. “There’s nothing wrong and no one called me.”

“Someone called you or else she wouldn’t have given you the phone.”

“It was…just an old friend.”

He rubs his jawline contemplatively. “Was it who I think it was?”

I slip my shirt over my head and put my arms through the sleeves. “Does it really matter?”

“It seems to matter to you, which is weird because nothing ever seems to matter to you, except for the last few days,” he states, moving away from the wall. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he pauses, debating. “It was Nova, wasn’t it?”

“Why would you even think that?” I gather some loose change piled on the floor beside my mattress, the only money I have at the moment, and most of it came from walking around and checking car doors. If they’re unlocked then we raid them and steal anything that has value. It’s the only source of income I have other than dealing for Dylan. He uses us to deal and in return we get drugs and sometimes cash to buy more drugs, a roof over our heads, and what more is there? It’s all I need—deserve. “I haven’t talked to Nova in forever,” I add.

“So what?” Tristan retrieves his cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans, nudging a few quarters on the floor in my direction with the tip of his worn sneaker. “Nova seems like the sort of girl that would call after a year and you had this look on your face while you were talking on the phone…like the conversation meant something to you.”

“I’m surprised you were sober enough to see my face.” I stuff a handful of coins into my pocket, then pick up the mirror that’s beside the pile of coins, reach under my mattress to where my stash is, and pull out the plastic bag holding the white shards of crystal that’s going to either let me numbly survive the night or kill me. “You’ve been on heroin so much lately, you’ve barely been conscious.”

He rolls his eyes as he removes a cigarette from the pack, puts it in his mouth, then cups his hand around the end and lights it with a lighter he finds on my floor. “Don’t be a f**king hypocrite.” He blows out a cloud of smoke as he takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “You do just as much crystal as I do smack. In fact you might even do more.”

He’s wrong and I want to call him out on it, but then we’ll start arguing and it could go on forever. I stare down at the mirror in one hand and the bag in the other, feeling nothing other than a desire to indulge in what’s inside it. It practically screams at me: Take me, take me, take me. Forget. Forget. Forget. Everything will be fine once I erase your pain. Die. Be free from the guilt. “Point taken.” My hands start to tremble as need consumes me. Feed the addiction. The hunger. The craving.

“What point?” he asks confoundedly, offering me a cigarette.

I take one and set it down on the mattress beside me. “I have no idea.” Nothing matters at the moment except getting a line into my system, because if I’m going to move and think and talk, I’m going to need it to fuel me, otherwise I won’t have the energy or willpower to function. One white line or maybe even two, then I’ll talk and think and breathe again.

With unsteady fingers I unseal the bag, then sink down on the mattress and balance the mirror on my lap. I pour a line across it, ignoring my reflection because I can’t look at it just yet. Then I pick up a razor that’s by my foot and break up the clumps with it. I grab one of the many emptied-out pens beside the coin pile, lower my head, put the pen case up to my nostril. Then I inhale through it like it’s oxygen helping me breathe, live, survive. The white powder slides up my nose and when it reaches the back of my throat I blow out a breath as I tip my head back.

“Feel better?” Tristan asks, scattering ashes from his cigarette on the floor before reaching out for the mirror like he wants to take a hit.

As he steals it from my hand, I catch my reflection in the scratched-up surface. Pale skin, wide eyes rimmed with red, and so is one side of my nose, but I doubt anyone else can see the change.

I pick up the cigarette and put it in my mouth. Then I get to my feet, light the cigarette, and go out into the hall while Tristan sits down on my bedroom floor and pours himself a line. I have to step over two people passed out on the floor on my way to the living room, a guy and a girl, neither of them wearing a shirt.

Maneuvering around a pile of broken glass, I make it to the kitchen, which is basically part of the living room, only a curtain has been hung up to divide the two spaces. The place is a mess. Paper plates and cups, dirty pans and spoons, empty cereal boxes cover the counter. The sink is full of dirty dishes and it stinks like a trash can. There’s empty cigarette cartons everywhere and a used syringe. I’m not even sure why I came in here. I’m not hungry or thirsty or anything really and there’s probably no food anyway. I grind my jaw a few times, trying to remember why I even got out of bed. All I want to do is go back to my room and stare at the ceiling, because it was sort of becoming my sanctuary in there.

“Dylan wanted me to give you a message.” Delilah unexpectedly strolls into the kitchen wearing a skirt and a red lacy bra. She always walks around like that, half dressed, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s just comfortable with herself or because she’s trying to get someone to f**k her.

“Oh yeah?” I blink and then rub my nose, my jaw twitching as I take a soothing drag. “What does he want?”

“For you to run over to Johnny’s and pick up an eight ball for Dylan to sell. You’ll have to pay him for it, but he left some cash.” She holds up a roll of money as she reclines against the counter, sticking her chest out. “He wants you to go, since Tristan”—she makes air quotes—“‘borrowed’ from him last time and never paid him back.”