Saving Quinton

"Yeah," I tell him with honesty. "It does."

  "Well, it will," he says as we head down the stairs. "But don't tell him I told you that."

  I keep quiet until we reach the bottom of the stairway, processing what he just told me. "Why are you telling me this?" I ask.

  Tristan gives a shrug, looking around at the bottom floor like he's searching for someone or something. "I don't know. Because it's the truth and you deserve the truth."

  I'm not sure what to make of what he says and the more I examine him, the more I notice how agitated he is: drumming his fingers on the sides of his legs, his jaw moving all over the place. He's high and it saddens me, but even though I hate to think it, I wonder if this will make it easier to get some information from him.

  We head over to my car, not saying anything. The sun has heated the leather seats up, so when I climb in they burn the backs of my legs as I sit down. I hurry and turn on the engine while Tristan buckles his seat belt.

  "So where are we going to?" Tristan rubs his hands together with a playful look in his eyes.

  "I don't know...is there somewhere you had in mind?" I place my hands on the steering wheel, but instantly withdraw them when it burns my hands. "Crap, that's hot."

  He thinks about it briefly and then points to our left, where the city gets darker, more run-down, and that makes me uneasy. "Yeah, there's a bar a little ways down the street that we can go hang at," he says. I'm wary about going to a bar around here and it must show because he adds, "It's totally low-key and safe. I promise."

  "Okay," I reply, but I'm not sure I trust him or his massive pupils and spastic jaw. But I want answers about Quinton's dad so I go with it, hoping I'm not making a big mistake. Hoping whatever lies ahead for me will be worth the risk.

  Quinton

  I think I made a mistake. Or at least that's what my overriding brain is telling me. That I need to chase down Nova and tell her to stay with me, not go with Tristan, tell her that I'm really here and that I was just upset about the roof thing and had Tristan lie for me. The problem is, they're already gone, because I hesitated. Torn between what's right and what the drugs tell me I want.

  I'm pacing the floor of the living room like a madman, wondering how things went this way. One minute I told Tristan to cover for me and tell Nova I wasn't here because I didn't feel like talking to her after the whole roof incident. In fact, I planned on never seeing her again.

  And that's what I told Tristan.

  The next thing I knew, they were leaving together. I'm fucking pissed but a lot of that anger is directed at myself for caring so much that I can't just let her go, that I want her this bad. Knowing she's out with Tristan has painfully made me aware of this and so I did the only thing I could think of to try to turn it off.

  I do line after line, trying to kill the emotion out of me and the crushing guilt attached to the emotion. But for some reason today crystal is adding fuel to the fire--adding to my emotions. I'm not sure what to do with all the pain and the anger. It's been a long time since I've felt this way and all I want to do is ram my fist through a wall. I stop pacing, pick up a hollowed-out ballpoint pen, and do another line off the cracked coffee table. After the sensation of it hits my body and slams into my heart and mind, I head toward the wall to punch a hole in it like I wanted to, but the front door suddenly swings opens. I do a U-turn and find Dylan shoving Delilah into the room.

  "You stupid fucking whore," he says, shoving Delilah into the apartment, and she lands on her back, her head just missing the corner of the coffee table. "I told you not to mess shit up but you couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?"

  "I'm sorry." Tears stream from her eyes as she sits up and struggles to get her feet under her. She only has one shoe on and it causes her to roll her ankle but she manages to get up by supporting her weight against the sofa.

  "Fuck you and your sorry." Dylan slams the door hard enough that shit falls down in the kitchen and I hear glass break. "You're always sorry, yet you keep messing up."

  I've seen them fight before--actually a lot. But they've been getting worse lately. A lot of yelling. A lot of shoving each other around. I really think Dylan might be losing it, his inner demons, whatever they are, slipping through the cracks. This seems even worse than what I've seen before, but that might be because I'm beyond tweaked out. My mind is racing a thousand miles a minute so that I can't even keep up with them and everything's just one big fucking pileup.

  Delilah's sobbing and her cheek is inflamed like he hit her and Dylan is hyped up, eyes bulging, veins defiant under his skin. He looks like he's tripping on acid and maybe he is. Whatever it is, when he storms toward her with his hand up, something snaps inside me. Here I am freaking out because I want a girl that I can't have--don't deserve--because I killed my girlfriend--lost her--and he has his girlfriend right here that he can have whenever he wants and he's choosing to hit her.

  I see red and before I realize what I'm doing, I jump between the two of them. It might not be the brightest idea, since Dylan might be going a little crazy and he's always carrying that stupid gun around in his pocket, but I don't care at the moment. He's pissing me off, not even realizing what he has. Plus, I'm so jacked up I can barely hold my head still, my fingers twitching and I think I might have done too much or something because my heart and mind feel like they're going to explode.

  "Hey, back off," I say, not shoving him back, but I do stick out my hand, causing him to walk straight into it and trip backward.

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" he snaps, rage flaring as he regains his balance and barrels toward me.

  I slam my palms against his chest and push him back again. He seems to be really struggling to keep his footing, tripping sideways and bumping into the wall. I figure he's high and that I should be able to get him away, but suddenly he gets a second wind, racing toward me and swinging his fist.

  I don't have time to duck and his fist collides with my face. My jaw pops as I stagger into Delilah and accidentally knock her to the ground. She starts to wail, crying out something that sounds a lot like "Please don't hurt him." I'm not sure if she's referring to me or Dylan but it doesn't matter. Dylan smirks at me and the anger I was feeling when they walked in magnifies, combusts, bursts. I barrel back at Dylan, my adrenaline pulsating as I raise my fist and I ram it into his face. His lip splits open and blood splatters everywhere.

  Things sort of blur after that.

  He makes threats of kicking me out as he spits in my face. "You're fucking done."

  I tell him to go to hell as I shove him back with so much anger and adrenaline inside me it scares the shit out of me. "Fuck you. You have no say in who gets to stay in this house. It's all of ours."

  His face reddens. "I do get the say because I'm the one who controls everything. Without me and my connections, no one would have any money or drugs to survive. I bring in the drugs to deal. I built this." He points around the apartment like he's claiming a prize.

  "And what a fucking prize that is." I ball my hands into fists, wanting to wring his neck, kick him out of the house. My anger is searing so viciously through my body, I'm shaking as my blood roars in my ears.

  We keep arguing about this shitty apartment and life, getting in each other's faces, breathing down each other's necks. I've never felt so much rage in my life, besides maybe the time I realized I had been brought back to life while everyone else was dead. It feels like I might do anything at the moment. I'm out of control. He's out of control. I'm not even sure what would have happened, but Delilah steps between us and shoves me away from Dylan.

  "Leave him alone!" she cries, spinning to face me.

  I gape at her with my hands out to the sides. "Are you kidding me? He was about to hit you."

  She quickly shakes her head, adjusting her shirt back into place and smoothing her hair down, like fixing herself fixes the problem. But her cheek is still swollen and her eyes are still stained with mascara. "We were just fighting, Quinton. That's all."

  I wan
t to argue with her, but she takes Dylan's hand and leads him around me and to the hallway. "Come on, baby. Let's go put some ice on your face."

  Dylan glares at me, his cheek puffy where my knuckles collided. "I want you and Tristan looking for a new place. I mean it. I'm done with you two," he says.

  "You're always done with us and yet we never leave!" I yell and he narrows his eyes at me as Delilah tugs him down the hall.

  I blow out a breath, not even realizing how nervous I was, how much tension was in the air until it's gone. I cup my cheek where he hit me, feeling the hot pain spread up my entire face. I'm not sure what to do, not just about the living situation or Dylan but also with myself. I'm not sure of anything anymore. What just happened--that fight. It wasn't me. What I did on the roof--being rude to Nova like that. It wasn't me. I used to never get in fights or yell at girls. But then again, I'm not who I used to be anymore. But who the fuck am I exactly? This person inside me, the one that survived the accident and is now all doped up and barely living, doesn't feel right. He feels damaged and distorted, ugly and tangled. Gashed and split open. Vulnerable and unstable. And I'm not sure if it has to do with Nova randomly showing up or if I'd feel like this anyway, regardless of who was around. But it seems like only a week ago I was more stable, which has to make me wonder. Just how much she affects me, how much fighting her affects me.

  I drag my ass back to my room and flop down onto my mattress, the overload of adrenaline I was feeling dwindling. For a brief second my mind slows down to reflect on how I got to this place. How I could get to such a low. How I created this monster within me--what I would be like if it died. But then I glance down at the names on my arm and remember.

  I got here because I'm no one.

  I shouldn't even be alive.

  Nova

  I follow Tristan's directions to a small bar on a corner a few miles away. Right beside it is a place called Topless Hotties and Drinks and across from it is a massage parlor, but I have to wonder by the half-naked lady painted on the glass window just what kind of massages they give.

  Tristan doesn't seem to be made uncomfortable by any of this. In fact he seems right at home as he climbs out of the car and lights up.

  "So they have the best Jager bombs here," he tells me as he opens the tinted glass door at the front of the building. He holds it open for me and I enter, cringing at the dark, smoky atmosphere.

  "I don't really drink anymore " I tell him and breath eases from my lips as a waitress walks by in a uniform that looks like it was bought at Victoria's Secret.

  Tristan gives me a weird look like he doesn't quite understand the concept. "Sure. Okay." Then he leads me out into the open bar area that has tables and chairs on one side and a few pool tables on the other.

  There's a jukebox in the corner playing "Leader of Men" by Nickelback. All the waitresses are dressed similarly to the one we ran into when we walked in, wearing lingerie-type outfits. There are mostly guys hanging out in here, go figure, but thankfully, there are a few women patrons here and there so I don't feel so out of place. Although I do feel very uncomfortable about the half-dressed waitresses.

  "Do you want to play some pool?" Tristan asks, angling his head and checking out one of the waitress not so discreetly.

  I shrug. "I've never played before."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, really."

  He muses over this, intrigued. "Well, I think it might be time to break that cherry," he says with a sly expression that makes me wonder if he knows I'm a virgin. If maybe Quinton told him about the little incident in the pond. But for some reason, I just can't seem to picture Quinton doing that.

  "Sounds good." I play along, knowing that if I want to get information about Quinton's dad from him, I'm going to have to stay on his good side.

  He grins and motions for me to follow him, stopping briefly to order a shot of vodka at the bar. He asks me if I want one and I shake my head, telling him I rarely drink anymore. He gives me a weird look but doesn't press.

  Once he slams it down, he looks even more relaxed, and part of me wishes I could take a shot, too. But I'm afraid one shot may lead to five shots and that may lead to so much more. Plus, I have to drive.

  Tristan gets two cues from the wall, hands one to me, then racks the balls up. He waves at some guy with a long beard as he rounds the table to get ready to break the balls and I have to wonder...

  "Just how often do you come here?" I ask, leaning my weight on the cue as I prop it vertically against the floor.

  He shrugs, lowering his head and slanting over the pool table while aiming the cue at the balls. "I don't know...like once or twice a week." The cue jerks forward and the tip slams against the ball. It springs forward and hits the others, scattering them around the table. He stands up straight, smiling proudly as two solid-colored balls go into the pockets. "I think it's going to be payback time for making me lose at darts all the time."

  "I didn't make you lose at darts," I tell him. "I'm just better at it."

  He gives me a cocky grin and moves around the table, setting up his next shot, which he makes. This happens two more times and each time he looks cockier. When he finally does miss a shot, it barely fazes him.

  "Go ahead and give it a try," he says, gesturing at the table.

  I almost smile because this feels so normal, like how things used to be, only he's high and I'm sober. I step up to the table and try my best to hit one of the striped balls, but fail epically. I frown as not a single ball except the white one moves.

  He laughs at me and it's the first real emotion I think I've seen, real happiness fleetingly slipping through the drugs taking over his system.

  "I'm glad you think this is funny," I say, and I mean it. It's good to see him laugh.

  "Oh, I do." His laughter dies down and he studies me from across the table with his blue eyes that used to be so much brighter. He cocks his head to the side as if he's deliberating his next move and then he sets down his cue and strolls around the table, coming over to the side I'm standing on. "Here, let me help you."

  He reaches for me and I instinctively step back. "But it's your turn."

  "I know," he says. "But this can be more of a lesson than a game."

  I pout. "Am I that bad?"

  He suppresses a laugh. "Just let me help you."

  I let out a loud breath. "Okay."

  He grins and then steps up to my side. "Face the table," he says and I do, turning around. He puts an arm on each side of me and his chest presses against my back as I lean down and he moves with me, showing me how to hold the cue correctly by putting his hands over mine and guiding them into the right position.

  His closeness makes me nervous, especially when his warm breath caresses my cheek as he dips his head forward. I think he's going to say something, maybe kiss my cheek. I wonder if I'd let him--how far I'd go to get what I need in order to help Quinton. I'm not liking my thoughts very much right now, but thankfully, I get to escape them when all Tristan does is help me aim the cue and then shoot it forward. This time a lot of balls scatter and one even makes it in.

  "See, not so hard, right?" he asks, his hands leaving mine.

  I shake off my jitteriness and turn around. "No, but now that you've showed me how, you've made it harder for you to win."

  He chuckles as he rubs his scruffy jaw. "For some reason I doubt it."

  "Yeah, me, too," I agree, stepping around the pool table to make my next shot, which I miss. He laughs amusedly.

  We play for a little bit longer and of course he kicks my ass, which he comments on a few times as we find a seat at a table so he can order another drink. After the waitress leaves to go get Tristan his Jager bomb and me my Coke, he grabs the saltshaker and starts rotating it between his hands.

  "So are you going to tell me what you wanted to talk about?" he asks, setting the saltshaker aside and leaning back in his chair. He places his hands behind his head, elbows bent outward. "Because I'm guessing it wasn't about pool."
>
  I shake my head, picking at the cracks in the table. "I wanted to ask you something about Quinton."

  He pretends to be nonchalant, but I can tell he gets tense because he starts grinding his teeth. "What about him?"

  I fidget with the band on my wrist, trying to figure out where to begin. "Well, I was sort of wondering about his dad?"

  His eyes fasten on mine, shadowed with irritation. "What about him?"

  God, how do I say this? I mean, I don't want to bring up his sister at all, but how do I avoid it and still get what I want? "Does he ever talk to him?"

  Tristan lowers his arms onto the table. "Nope, at least not that I know of." He reclines in the chair as the waitress arrives and puts our drinks on the table, and he waits for her to leave before he speaks again. "They don't get along at all." He drops the shot of Jager into the taller glass then picks it up. "In fact, it's pretty much why he ended up in Maple Grove--because his dad kicked him out of the house."

  I want to ask him if Quinton's dad knows about his drug use, but since Tristan's high I'm not sure how well that'd go over. "Yeah, but if he knew where he was living, do you think he'd want to talk to him?" I take a sip of the soda. "Help him?"

  "Help him with what exactly?" There's a challenge in his eyes, daring me to say "drug use" aloud.

  I stir my straw around in my drink. "I don't know...I was just curious...if they talked or if someone's told him anything about the situation."

  He takes another large swallow of his drink, staring at me over the brim of the glass. "And what situation is that?"

  I'm obviously pushing the wrong buttons and I don't know any way around it, so I decide to be blunt. "Look, I know I'm making you mad right now, but I really want to help Quinton and I just think that maybe if I could get ahold of his dad and tell him what's going on, it could maybe help him get better. But I need you to give me his name and number in order to do that."

  "Who said I was getting mad at you?" he asks calmly and then finishes off the rest of his drink.

  He's being an ass but I know for a fact it's not really him, but this ghost, drug-addict version of himself. He doesn't say anything else to me and gets up from the chair to take the empty glass to the bar. I wait for him to come back, but instead he starts hitting on our waitress, a leggy woman whose top is see-through when the light hits her at the right angle.