Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(54)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“What are you doing out here?” he asks calmly, lowering his arms to his sides.

His calm attitude irks me and I scowl up at him, hungry and thirsty and cranky, a bad combination. “I banged on the door for a while. Why didn’t you answer?”

His eyes lift to the sky as he contemplates what I said. “I didn’t hear anyone knock…Quinton has his music up. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t hear it.”

I can hear music playing from somewhere inside, but still. “Can I talk to Quinton?” I ask. His lips part and I hold up my hand, silencing him. “And don’t tell me he’s not here, because you just let it slip that he’s the one listening to music.”

His lips tug up into a half-smile. “I was actually going to say yeah, come on in. You shouldn’t be out here by yourself this late anyway. It’s not safe.” He offers me his hand. “Especially when the sun’s about to go down completely.”

“Oh.” I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet, uncertain if I’ll really be safer inside. “You make it sound like a bunch of vampires live around here and they’re going to come out and drink my blood at sundown,” I joke lamely because I’m tired and thirsty and hungry. I’ve been sitting outside for probably a couple of hours and I think the back of my neck is sunburned.

Tristan’s blue eyes gradually scroll up my long legs, my shorts, my tight white tank top, and conclusively land on my eyes. “Not vampires, but I’m sure there are plenty of people around here that would love to get a taste of you,” he says as he shuts the door behind us. He has this look in his eyes, glazed and incoherent, like he’s here in body but not in mind, and I think I might have my hands full.

It takes me a moment to find my voice. “I’m not even sure how to respond to that,” I say, squirming uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to respond. I’m just rambling,” he tells me with a shrug and then turns toward the kitchen, stumbling over the hem of his jeans when he steps on it. “Do you want a drink or something? We’ve got vodka and…” He searches through the cupboards, but they’re all empty. He shuts the last one and walks over to the counter and picks up a mostly empty vodka bottle. “And vodka.”

I smile with apprehension. “’No thanks. I don’t drink that much anymore. Remember, I told you that at the bar.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot.” He unscrews the cap of the vodka bottle and sniffs the contents, but doesn’t drink. “It’s hard to keep track of stuff sometimes, you know.”

Even though the floor is covered in sticky puddles, wrappers, even a used syringe, I dare step into the kitchen. “Yeah, I do know how that feels way too well, because I’ve been feeling it every day since I got here. I think this place is starting to crack at my sanity.” I’m tired and being way too blunt.

He screws the cap back on and he briefly appears vexed, but it fades. “Okay, not to steal your line or anything, but I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“You don’t have to respond,” I say as he tosses the bottle back onto the messy countertop, a little too hard and it sounds like it breaks but he doesn’t do anything about it. “You know me. I’m just saying how I feel.”

“Saying how you feel. How nice of you to share that with me. I feel so honored.” He rolls his eyes and strolls back into the living room, toward the sofa covered with pieces of aluminum foil and lighters. His sudden shift in attitude throws me off and I debate whether to say anything about it, whether I want to open Pandora’s box or not.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, following him into the living room. “You’re acting kind of rude right now. Is something up? Did something happen with that Trace guy?” I notice he doesn’t have any bruises on him or anything, so he hasn’t recently been beaten up, but I need to check to make sure he’s okay. “Because my offer still stands if you need help.”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Nothing’s wrong. And what happened with Trace isn’t your business—it’s mine.” He picks up a lighter that’s on the coffee table and flicks it. “And I’m not acting rude—I’m acting like myself, Nova.”

“No, you’re acting kind of cold right now…you were nice the other day,” I say. “Or at least civil, but now…”

He chucks the lighter across the room, then whirls around near the sofa, shooting me a dirty look. “I wasn’t nice to you the other day. You asked me to talk to you and I had nothing better to do so I did. Plain and simple.” He picks up another lighter and starts restlessly flicking it. “And if you’d just stop coming over here, you wouldn’t have to deal with my moodiness, but you seem to be on some pointless save-the-crackheads mission that you clearly can’t handle, but won’t admit.”

His words blaze under my skin and between my anger and exhaustion I say something I regret as soon as it leaves my lips. “I don’t have to deal with your moodiness at all, since I came over here to see Quinton, not you.”

Rage consumes him and suddenly he’s striding toward me, reducing the space between us in an instant. “Well, if you don’t give a shit about me, then leave,” he growls. He’s so close I can see my reflection in his eyes, can see the fear in the reflection of mine.

“I’m sorry.” My voice shakes as I shuffle back and gain space. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah, you did,” he snaps hotly, matching my move and stealing the space right back. “You don’t care about me even though you’ve known me for longer than Quinton, even though you hardly know anything about him.”

“That’s not true,” I say, refusing to cower back. “I do care about you.” I can only handle so much, though, and this is too much. All of this is becoming too much. “I just…” Shit, I’m starting to get worked up, ready to crack, break apart. “I can only handle so much and Quinton seems to really need my help.”

It strikes a nerve and I can see in his eyes that it does. For a fleeting instant his shield crumbles and his hurt is visible, but it swiftly builds back up and he’s annoyed with me again.

He throws his hands in the air exasperatedly. “Whatever, Nova. You show up here with your judgmental eyes and think that everything you say matters, like you can save Quinton just by talking and calling up his dad. You think you can fix everything, like helping us with our drug dealers. Like you have a f**king clue how any of that works.” He points his finger at me and starts for the hallway, walking backward, his dazed blue eyes fastened on me. “I don’t have to deal with this shit.” Then he vanishes down the hall, leaving me in a room that smells worse than dog shit.