Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(14)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“No, they care about Ryder.” His voice matches his aggravation. “And now that she’s dead, they only care about her more. So I’m going to do whatever the hell I want to. And what I want to do is drugs…it makes things so much easier.”

I understand what he’s saying way too well. I pause, a dry, hot lump forcing its way up into my throat. “I’m sorry.”

Tristan shakes his head, looking away from me and fixing his attention on the metal building beside us. “Stop saying you’re sorry. Shit happened. People died. Life goes on. I’m not here because of anything you did. I’m here because this is where I choose to be and because it makes me feel better about life.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I mutter, not fully believing him. More bricks of guilt pile onto my shoulders and it takes a lot not to buckle to the ground.

He returns his focus to me, his eyes a little too wide against the sunlight, his forehead beaded with sweat from the scorching heat. “Now can we please stop with all the insightful tweaker talk or I’m going to have to turn back and go do another line.”

I nod, even though I don’t want to stop talking, because then I’ll have to think. But Tristan stays quiet, muttering shit under his breath as he picks at his arm. My eyes drift to the skyline, where the tops of the buildings and the sky meet. When the sun sets and the sky turns pastel oranges and pinks, it’s actually really beautiful. It’s one of the few things I can say that about anymore. Everything else seems dark, gray, and gloomy. Nothing seems beautiful, not even the stuff I saw in the past. And my future, well, it seems pretty much dead, like I’m walking toward a coffin, ready to tuck myself in and pull the lid shut. Then maybe someone will do me the favor of burying me below the dirt, where I can stop breathing, stop thinking, stop noticing how beautiful it is. The only people who will miss me are drug dealers and the people I deal to sometimes. The more I think about it, the more I just want to throw myself out in the street, hope a car hits me with enough force for my heart to stop again, because there’s no point to it beating anymore. This has to be the bottom, right? There’s no going back up. This is it. Yet for some reason I keep walking, talking, breathing—living.

“Did you bring your knife, by chance?” Tristan asks as we round the corner of a single-story brick building that’s painted with multicolored graffiti and start to cut across the gravel parking lot to the side of it.

“Do you remember what I told you when you asked me to bring it the other day?” I say and he shakes his head, looking stumped. “That I don’t have one.”

Tristan sighs as he kicks an empty beer bottle across the ground. “I’m thinking I probably should have brought…” He trails off as a sleek black Cadillac drives up and slams on its brakes, stopping right in front of us, kicking up a cloud of dust in our faces.

The windows are tinted but I think I already know who’s in there. Trace and his guys.

Tristan instantly starts to back away as the doors open up, hitching his fingers through the straps of the backpack. Two large guys get out of the back of the car, their faces very familiar, and I remember meeting them once before. Darl and Donny, Trace’s pit bulls, sort of. The ones who do his dirty work.

“Shit. We have to go,” Tristan says, panicking and turning to run, but I don’t move. “Quinton, get the f**k out of here. Now.”

Donny is holding a tire iron, and as he strolls toward us he slams it into his palm with a threatening look on his face and I can’t help but think of Roy and the many other stories I’ve heard about drug deals gone wrong. Broken legs. Arms. Noses. It’s pretty f**king common. People get cranked up on crack and money and run on overactive adrenaline and emotion. They don’t think clearly. They cheat, they steal. Hell, I’ve done it. I knew I could get hurt. Go to jail. Die even. Regardless of the consequences, I don’t really care what happens to me. Tristan, yeah, but he’s already running off. Me, I couldn’t give a shit. Pain, bring it on. I deserve pain. I deserve nothing. Maybe this can be the car that runs into me and stops my heart. Besides, if I stay here, then maybe I can distract them from Tristan, give him a chance to get away. I owe him that much.

So I just stand there as Donny strides toward me, raising the iron rod like he’s about to hit me, while Tristan shouts something at me, racing for the sidewalk. I could try to protect myself. Pick up something and chuck it at him, even throw a punch at him. But I don’t feel like it, my heart steady in my chest, my arms resting calmly at my sides. I don’t move even when he swings the tire iron straight at my face. He does it again and again, then takes a break, but only to steal the bag of crystal I have in my pocket. Then he continues striking me.

Quinton, I love you…I swear I hear Lexi’s voice, but I might be tripping out.

I’m not even sure why I decide to give up at this moment. Maybe it’s because I think I hear Lexi calling to me or perhaps it’s that I’ve got so much methamphetamine racing through my bloodstream that my thoughts blur together and the good choices and the bad ones get mixed together and create confusion. Or maybe it’s just that I’m tired of fighting reality and I’m finally facing my future. The future I don’t have. Or maybe I’ve finally reached the bottom of my fall and I’m ready to walk straight on into that coffin.

Chapter 4

Nova

“Save Me” by Unwritten Law is playing from my iPod through the stereo speakers and the trunk of the Chevy Nova is packed with all the stuff Lea and I could cram in there, the backseat packed with our instruments. The rest of our stuff we put into a storage unit. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and there’s a long stretch of road before me. It’s the perfect day to be driving, but my heart sits heavy in my chest. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do when I get to Vegas. Just show up on Quinton’s doorstep? Knock and say Hello, I’m here to save you?

God, I sound so preachy.

Thankfully, Lea has an uncle who lives in Vegas. His name is Brandon and he said he’d let us stay in the spare bedroom for a few weeks; otherwise we’d have to get a hotel and we don’t have a lot of cash, since we both quit our jobs for the summer and are living on our savings.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” I turn the stereo down, but crank up the air. It’s hot and the backs of my legs are sticking to the leather seat and my hands are slippery as they hold on to the steering wheel.