Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(35)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“Baby, put the gun down,” she says, her voice quiet—scared. She’s scared and I am, too, honestly.

“Fuck you,” Dylan snaps at her, and then he looks at me. His expression is stone-cold as he ambles toward me, the veins in his neck bulging, anger simmering in his eyes about ready to burst. “I had to get this after you two f**ked up and now we’re all on very thin ice.” He points his finger at the bruise below his eye. “You see this f**king thing right here? I got this because I was jumped by Trace and his guys.” He jabs a finger roughly against my chest. “Because you two worked for me and messed him over…like it’s my fault you’re dumbasses.” He leans forward, his breath hot on my face. “Do you know how stupid you are to mess around with Trace?” He steps back and rakes his hand over his bald head, his other hand at his side, grasping the gun. “Jesus, I knew this was coming and I’m sure it isn’t over with yet. The guy’s a relentless douche.”

“You don’t know anything for sure…maybe Trace is satisfied now that he beat the shit out of me and you,” I say, knowing it’s a stupid thought process and that there’s no way that could be possible, but Dylan is all worked up with a gun in his hand. I glance over at Delilah as she gets up from the couch, watching us with caution. At first I think she’s going to come over and try to talk him down, but then she eyes the door like she’s going to run.

“Yeah, because that’s the way the world works,” Dylan snaps, swinging the gun around while he turns in a circle. Delilah freezes in place while I realize just how severe this situation is: that he’s high and he’s got a gun and I’m standing right here in front of him. The question is: do I care? I’m not sure.

He stops spinning and lowers the gun. “You two better stop f**king up,” he warns in a low tone. “I have a lot riding on connections and I don’t want you messing up any more of them.”

My heart is thudding in my chest as I think about how ruining his connection with Trace is only part of the problem. Tristan has also been stealing drugs and money from Dylan, like he did the other day. But as far as Dylan knows I was the last person with the money. Does he know it’s gone? Does he think I took it? Will he shoot me if I tell him it was Tristan? Do I care? Jesus, my thoughts are racing a million miles a minute, flowing in a crooked stream through my brain. I’m losing control and I need to get out of here.

Dylan tosses his gun onto the coffee table, making both me and Delilah jump. I seriously expected it to go off, but it doesn’t and the air starts to cool, although Dylan still looks like he’s going to hit me, his jaw set tight, his fist clenched, his arm kinked and ready to strike.

But then he settles down and backs away, putting up his hands. “Take care of this mess—fix things with Trace. Get him drugs or pay him back—do whatever you have to to make this good again. And pay me back that f**king money you two were supposed to use for the exchange at Johnny’s before your dumb ass got beat,” he says in a voice that carries a warning. “Or else you’re out of the house. You and Tristan both. I’m tired of your shit.”

I want to tell him that this apartment doesn’t belong to him, since we’re renting it together, but the gun is lying on the table, so instead I nod, even though I have no idea how I’m going to do either of those things. Then I go back into my room without saying another word. Tristan is waiting there with a mirror out in front of him along with a spoon and a syringe and a small plastic bag filled with crystallized powder. He’s just staring at it with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs.

When the door creaks, he glances up, looking relieved, and as soon as I see what he has in front of him, our emotions match. “Thank God,” he says. “I thought I was going to lose my mind if I had to wait a second longer.”

“We have a huge problem,” I announce as I kick the door shut behind me. “Did you know Dylan has a gun?”

Tristan nods his head distractedly as he stares at the spoon. “Yeah, he made a point to show it to me yesterday when he threatened me and told me that I needed to patch things up with Trace and to pay him back the money we took.”

Anger flickers when he says “we,” but I quickly simmer down, remembering I owe Tristan more than I’ll ever be able to pay him back for killing his sister. “You should have said something. He completely blindsided me with it just now.”

He shrugs, glancing up at me. “Sorry, I forgot.”

I want to get mad at him, but at the same time I sort of understand how he could forget—how easily our spun minds can make things disappear. “So what are we going to do about it? I mean, he’s super pissed and I guess Trace gave him a shiner—kicked his ass like he did mine.”

“We’ll look for the gun when he’s asleep or something and get rid of it,” Tristan suggests, stretching his arms above his head as he blinks tiredly, probably ready for his next boost of adrenaline.

“Okay, but even if we do that, we still have to worry about Trace coming to kick your ass.”

“If he does then he does,” Tristan says indifferently, his hands flopping onto his lap.

I bend down and lower myself to the floor beside the mattress, moving slowly because my body still aches. “I think we need to take care of it.” Not for me, but for him.

He rolls his eyes. “Just because Trace threatens us doesn’t mean he’s actually going to do anything about it.”

I look down at my banged-up body. “You really think so?” I ask.

Tristan grunts unenthusiastically. “Fine, I’ll figure out a way to pay him back or something. Or better yet, we could just find where Dylan hides his dealing stash and give him that.”

“Yeah, I don’t think pissing Dylan off is going to help this situation at all.” I bring my knee up and rest my arm on it. “We just need to find a way to pay Trace back what you owe him.” I glance at the spoon and mirror on the floor and the bag of crystal. “And I’m guessing we need to find a way to pay Dylan back, too, since I’m assuming you already spent that money you stole from him.”

“I’ll figure something out,” he says, still looking like he doesn’t give a shit, like he doesn’t care what happens to him, and it makes me angry, not at him, but at myself. Because deep down, I have to wonder why he’s here in this shithole. That maybe part of the reason is because I killed his sister and he couldn’t handle the pain, just like I can’t. “I’ll go break into some houses and get some cash. I should be able to scrounge enough up over the next week or so.”