Saving Quinton

Chapter 8

Nova

May 20, day five of summer break

I wake up the next morning and watch Landon’s video while Lea takes a shower, because I don’t want her to know I’m doing it, worried she’ll worry more about me. I hate that I watch it, but I can’t help it. Something about studying it makes me feel like I’m going be able to help Quinton not come to that point. Like if I watch it enough, I’ll see something I didn’t see before. But I still haven’t figured out what that is yet.

After I watch it, I get dressed and go down to the clinic, like I told Lea I would. I really don’t know how helpful it’s going to be to listen to other people talk about what they’re going through trying to help addicts, but at this point I’ll try anything because I feel so helpless.

I pick up a coffee and bagel on my way there, then park my car in the closest parking garage. The building is in an area that looks almost as sketchy as Quinton’s house. But I do my best to ignore that and go inside. There’s a meeting going on for people who have family members and friends who are drug addicts and I take a seat in the back, sipping my coffee and listening, feeling a little out of place because I barely know Quinton and everyone else seems to be related to the person they’re here for.

I listen for a while to people expressing how they’re feeling, how sad, how hurt, upset, heartbroken they are. A lot of them are parents and keep talking about how it feels like they’ve lost a child, like drugs have killed them. One man in particular with brown hair and brownish eyes that sort of remind me of Quinton’s starts talking. Even though I know it’s not Quinton’s dad up there, I could easily picture him being that person. It makes me wonder if Quinton’s dad feels like this—like he’s lost a child. He has to.

But according to Quinton, at least from what he said yesterday, his father blames him for the deaths that happened in the car accident. But I don’t—can’t believe this. It has to be something he created inside his head. I wonder if Quinton ever actually talked to his father about any of this—if his father even knows where he is.

It gives me an idea, but it’s going to be a hard idea to pull off because it’s going to require me getting a phone number for Quinton’s dad. And I doubt he’ll give it to me.

Although I think I might know someone who will, if I can work it right. So after the meeting ends, I drive over to Quinton’s apartment. The sun is blaring down and the temperature has to be pushing 120 degrees. It’s so hot that I don’t even want to get out of the car, but part of that might be me avoiding going inside.

After a few minutes pass by, I force myself to get out and into the heat, keeping my sunglasses on to protect my eyes from the brightness. The apartment area is quiet as usual as I make my way across the vacant parking lot and up the stairway. That guy Bernie, who was passed out the first time I was here, is back at the table outside his door, awake this time and rolling a joint right out in the open, which reveals just how blasé this place is about drugs and makes me wonder what the hell goes on behind all the closed doors.

“Hey, sweetie,” he says to me as he checks me over with his bloodshot eyes. He’s not wearing a shirt and his thin chest is tinted red from the sun. “Where’d you wander over from?”

I have a black tank top on and denim shorts and his appreciating gaze makes me feel very vulnerable and exposed so I hurry, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Hey, if you’re lost I can help you find your way home,” he calls out with a chuckle. “I’m pretty sure the place you’re looking for is my bedroom.”

“Creep pervert,” I mutter, rushing past closed door after closed door, only breathing freely when I’m standing in front of Quinton’s. As I lift my hand to knock, I keep my fingers crossed that Dylan’s not the one who answers it, since he’s about as creepy as that Bernie guy.

Thankfully, after three knocks, Tristan opens the door, barefoot and with a cigarette in his mouth. His blond hair is a little ruffled, like he just woke up, and his gray T-shirt and jeans have holes in them. “Hey,” he says, seeming a little uneasy, glancing over his shoulder at the filthy living room with a nervous look on his face. “Quinton’s not here right now and he’s not supposed to be back until really late.”

“Actually I’m here to talk to you,” I tell him, trying to shrug off the fact that it seems like Tristan’s covering for Quinton and that Quinton might even be here but avoiding me.

His nervousness turns to befuddlement as he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. “Why?”

“Because I need to ask you something.” I nervously peer over at the Bernie guy, who’s watching us as he smokes a joint, and then look back at Tristan. “Look, can we go somewhere and talk?”

He gives me a look that’s sort of harsh for the Tristan I used to know. “Just talk to me here.”

I suck in a slow breath through my nose, counting down backward in my head, telling myself to stay calm. “I’d rather talk to you somewhere more private.”

He stares at me with this bored expression like I’m annoying the crap out of him, so it surprises me when he says, “Okay.”

He flicks his cigarette over my shoulder and over the railing, and then he goes back into the house. He leaves the door cracked just enough that I can hear him talking to someone and it sounds an awful lot like Quinton. When he opens the door again, he has an old pair of sneakers in his hand and he steps out, shutting the door behind him.

He pauses to put the shoes on, glancing up at me as he ties one of the laces. “You know, despite what he’ll say later on, it’s going to hurt Quinton that you came here to see me,” he tells me, fastening the lace and standing up straight.

“I’m not so sure about that,” I say as we walk across the balcony. “I think he sort of wants me to leave him alone…in fact I think you’re covering for him right now.”

He glances at me with curiosity. “Do you really believe that? That it won’t hurt him that you came here to see me?”

“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 want 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 Jäger 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 Jäger 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 Jäger 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.

Tristan seems to be going out of his way to make it obvious that he’s hitting on her, even going as far as groping her breast. The woman giggles in response and starts coiling a strand of her hair around her finger. The longer the scene goes on the more awkward I feel and finally I get up from the table, deciding this was a bad idea and that I need to come up with a better plan. I throw a five on the table to cover my drink and then leave the musty bar. When I step into the sunlight, I breathe freely, but the feeling that I failed crushes my chest.

By the time I make it to my car, I’m panting and struggling not to count the poles in the parking garage. I grab the door handle, my hand trembling.

Inhale…exhale…inhale…exhale…

“Nova.” Tristan’s voice floats over my shoulder. “Are you…” His feet scuff against the pavement as he steps toward me. “Are you okay?”

I’m on the verge of crying and the last thing I want to do is turn around and let him see that fact. “Yeah, I’m good.” I lift my hand to discreetly dab my eyes with my fingers and pull myself together before I turn around to face him. “I’m just not feeling very good all of a sudden.”

There’s speculation in his eyes as he looks me over. “Maybe we should get going, then.”

I nod and am about to climb into the car when I spot a tall guy, with sturdy arms and broad shoulders, wearing black pants and a nice button-down shirt, strolling toward us, with his eyes on us. He has this strange look on his face, like he’s found something he’s been dying to get his hands on and finds it amusing.

“Well, well, well, look who I finally ran into.” Tristan tenses just at the sound of his voice, then gradually turns around. “Trace, what’s up?” There’s a nervous laugh under his stressed tone.

Trace stops just short of us with his arms folded. He’s probably in his mid-twenties, tall, with a very sturdy body and intimidating gaze. He also has brass knuckles on his hand and a scar on his cheek, just a light graze, but it screams drug lord to me. As soon as I think it, I shake my head at myself at the absurdity. There’s no way that could be going on—no such thing.

“You know, you’re a hard person to track down,” Trace says broodingly. “I show up in the parking lot and you let your friend take the blow. Then I go over to your shitty-ass house and Dylan takes the blow for you that time, although if you were there he probably would have ratted you out.” A small smile touches his lips, as if he’s entertained by Tristan’s nervous manner. “Things would have been a hell of a lot easier if you would have just stepped up instead of being a fucking coward.”

Tristan deliberately inches to the side, placing himself between Trace and me. “Yeah, sorry about that. But you know how things are…you’re high and shit and you just do stupid stuff.”

“High on my drugs,” Trace says, ambling forward and cracking his knuckles. I’m not sure what to do—stay put? Get in the car? But I can feel the tension in the air, so thick it’s smothering. “Drugs you owe me money for.” He stops in front of Tristan, towering over him, and Tristan isn’t that short, which means the guy is tall. “I’m going to make this real easy on you. Give me the money you owe me, plus interest, and I’ll let you walk.”

“I don’t have the money right now,” Tristan mutters with his head tipped down. “But I’ll get it to you. I just need some time.”

“Time, huh?” That’s when the Trace guy looks at me for the first time, but it feels like he noticed me long before. “And who’s this lovely thing right here?”

I’m not sure if it’s a rhetorical question or not, but I opt to keep quiet, cowering behind Tristan. My pulse is racing so fast I feel light-headed and woozy, like I might pass out.

Tristan stands up straighter, sweeping his hand through his hair. “That’s none of your business, so leave her alone.”

“None of my business.” His low laugh reverberates around us. Then suddenly his hand shoots out and he grabs the bottom of Tristan’s shirt. “Right now, everything you do is my business until you pay me back.” He pats Tristan’s cheek roughly with his free hand. “Got that?”

“Yeah, I got that,” Tristan says though gritted teeth, afraid to budge.

Trace lets him go and Tristan stumbles back toward me, bumping into the front of my car. “Good.” Trace seems to have calmed down and I start to relax as he turns away to leave, but then he unexpectedly spins around and rams his fist with the brass knuckles into Tristan’s gut. I hear the wind get knocked out of him as Tristan collapses to his knees, gasping for air, and I start to rush for him, but Trace’s eyes land on me and the dark warning stops me in my tracks. He looks back down at Tristan crumpled on his knees and then raises his fist again. This time his knuckles collide with Tristan’s cheek. I hear a pop as Trace pulls back again, preparing to hit him again. I cry out for him to stop, but he slams his fist forward again and I watch in horror as he punches Tristan in the stomach again. Tristan’s legs shake, wanting to collapse as he hunches over struggling to breathe.

Finally, Trace lowers his hand, the brass knuckles and his hand splattered with Tristan’s blood. “You have one week to pay me back or you won’t be walking away. Got it?”

Tristan nods, not saying a word, and the Trace guy turns and heads back out of the parking garage, taking his cell phone out of his pocket.

I rush for Tristan and help him get to his feet. “Oh my God, are you okay?” I ask as he wiggles away from me.

He wraps his arm around his stomach as he stands up straight and his face is twisted in pain, blood dripping out of his nose, and the entire side of his face is red and swollen. “Just peachy.”

I eye him over with concern. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital.” I reach out to touch him, but he leans back.

“No hospitals,” he says sharply. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Well, I am.”

I shake my head, irritated by his stubbornness. “What was that about?” I cast an anxious glance in the direction of the exit Trace wandered off through.

“Just an old debt,” Tristan says, supporting his weight against the car, working to breathe properly.

“For drugs?”

He shrugs as he wipes some of the blood off his nose with his hand, then winces from the pain. “Sometimes I do stupid shit.”

I remember how last year I saw Dylan, Quinton, and Delilah dealing drugs to those guys. “You guys deal drugs now?”

He looks like he wants to roll his eyes at me, but resists the urge. “You seem surprised.”

“I am a little,” I admit. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see the truth. “Is Quinton in trouble, too?”

He shakes his head. “Nope, just me and my own stupidity.” His voice lowers when a couple of people walk by us, heading to their car.

“Are you going to be able to pay that guy back?” I ask.

“Of course.” Tristan brushes me off. “In fact, I need to get back to the house and get a few things done that will get me extra cash.”

I want to ask him what those few things are, but fear the answer. “How much do you owe him?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, then, keeping his hand on the hood, he starts around the car to the passenger side.

“Are you sure…because I could maybe help you. Loan you some money or something.”

“I said I’m fine, Nova.” He opens the door with his arm still across his stomach.

I grab the handle of the door. “Well, if you ever need any help with anything…I’m here.”

We climb into the car and Tristan gives me a cold look. “What? Are you going to save me, too, Nova? Pay off my debt and drag me out of this hellhole along with Quinton?” He rolls his eyes. “Because things don’t work that way, especially when people don’t want to leave that hellhole they live in.”

“I…” I have no idea how to respond to that. Even though I offered to help him with his debt, I don’t have a lot of money. And when it comes to getting him out of that hellhole, I can’t even handle Quinton, let alone someone else.

“I didn’t think so,” Tristan says coldly, facing the window and dismissing me as he lifts the bottom of his shirt up to his bleeding nose and tries to wipe away the blood still dripping out.

Shaking my head, I reach into the glove box and take out a napkin. “Here,” I say, giving him the napkin.

“Thanks,” he mutters and then presses the napkin to his nose.

I back out of the parking spot and head toward his house. I try to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem too interested, staring out the window the entire time as he drums his fingers on his knee to the beats of the songs. By the time I park the car, I expect him to get out without saying anything like Quinton did the last time I dropped him off.

But as he grabs the handle to get out, he pauses and then pulls away. “You got your phone on you?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He turns his head toward me with a reluctant look on his face, sets the napkin down on his lap, and extends his arm toward me. “Let me see it.”

I retrieve it from my pocket and give it to him, watching as he punches a few buttons on the touch screen before giving it back to me. “His name’s Scott Carter and he lives in Seattle.” He reaches for the door handle again. “I’m not sure if that’s still his number, since the last time I talked to anyone from the house was over a year ago when Quinton used to live there, but that’s your best shot.”

“Thank you, Tristan,” I say as he cracks the door, stunned he actually gave me the information. “And if you ever need anything—help getting yourself out of trouble—please, please ask me.” I want to say more, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do.

“Whatever. I’m only giving the number to you because you asked. Not because I want your help with anything,” he replies, pushing the door open all the way and ducking his head to climb out. “And I don’t think it’s going to help Quinton at all. Trust me when I say that he’s only going to quit doing what he does when he wants to quit. I know because that’s how I roll and it’s hard to quit something that makes you feel so fucking good.” He says it so causally and before I can respond he’s shutting the door and walking away toward his crappy apartment, moving slowly because he’s in pain.

I stare at the phone in my hand, Tristan’s words replaying in my head, wondering if he’s right. If maybe it won’t do any good. If I’m trying to search for a solution to a problem that can’t be fixed, one that’s so much bigger than me, something that I saw today in the parking garage.

Still I at least have to try. Because the last time I didn’t try, someone wound up dead.

When I arrive back at Lea’s uncle’s house, it’s midafternoon and I’m exhausted, more than I have been in a long time. But I try to stay positive and hopeful as I tell Lea my plan and ask her for her help in calling Quinton’s dad.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” she states as I sink down on the sofa beside her, exhausted. She collects the remote from the armrest and aims it at the television, muting it. She turns to me on the sofa, bringing her leg up on the cushion. “Parents are, well, parents, you know. And I don’t think he’s going to respond well to a friend of Quinton’s calling him and telling him his son’s a junkie.”

I wince at the word junkie. “Well, do you have a better idea?” I ask.

She considers it for a minute or two. “Call your mom.”

“What?”

“Call your mom and ask her to call his dad.”

I slump back in the sofa, wondering if that’s a good idea or not. “You really think that’s the best way?”

She kicks her bare feet up on the table. “You remember how before we could help with that suicide hotline we had to go through that screening process and training?” she asks and I nod. “Well, you haven’t gone through the training process of being a parent yet,” she jokes.

I snort a laugh. “That’s kind of a good thing.” I twist a strand of my hair around my finger, thinking. “But I get your point.”

She offers me a small smile and pats my leg. “Call your mom and ask her.”

I sigh and retrieve my phone from my pocket, dialing my mom’s number. I start out with a light conversation, telling her in vague detail how my last couple of days have been. Then I dodge around to telling her my idea about getting ahold of Quinton’s dad and asking him for help.

“And you think I should be the one to call him?” she asks in a hesitant tone.

“Yeah…I mean, you are a mom and get things that I don’t,” I tell her, thinking about the parents I saw at the clinic. “I’m sure you understand this on a level I can’t even begin to understand, especially considering the hell I put you through.”

I swear it sounds like she’s crying. What I don’t get is why. I didn’t say anything overpowering or anything. Just the truth.

“You’re acting so grown-up right now,” she says, and I can definitely hear her sucking back the tears. “Give me the number and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say and then tell her the name and number, making sure she understands that I’m not 100 percent sure it’s still Mr. Carter’s number. She says she’ll try it and call me back in just a bit. Then I hang up and Lea and I head into the kitchen to get a snack.

“So how do you think it’s going to go?” I ask Lea as I open the fridge door. “Do you think his dad is going to freak out?”

She shrugs as she searches the cupboards. “I’m not sure.”

“Yeah, me either,” I say, grabbing a bottle of water before closing the fridge and turning around. “Although I’m sort of worried he’ll go through denial—my mom did for a while.”

She takes out a box of crackers, shuts the cupboard, and hops up on the counter, letting her legs hang over the edge. “What I’m wondering is how Quinton will react if his dad suddenly gets ahold of him. I mean, I honestly don’t think he’s just going to give up everything because of that.”

“Yeah, me neither…but I have to try.” I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing Quinton: the weight he’s lost, the emptiness in his honey-brown eyes after he did drugs, the anger in his voice. “I have to try everything I can think of before I can even start to give up—I have to know I tried everything this time.” I open my eyes as Lea starts to say something, but my phone rings from inside my pocket and cuts her off. I take it out and glance at the screen. “It’s my mom,” I tell Lea and then answer it. “Hey, that was quick.”

“That’s because I couldn’t get ahold of him,” she says, and my hope plummets.

“It wasn’t the right number?” I ask, opening up the bottle of water.

“No, it was, but he didn’t answer…I left a message, though. We’ll see where it goes—if he calls me back or not.”

She sounds so doubtful and my shoulders slump forward, my mood sinking lower as I lean back against the fridge. “Do you think he’ll call you back?”

“Maybe,” she says uncertainly. “If he doesn’t in a day or two, I’ll try calling him again…but Nova, I don’t want you to get your hopes up that this is going to fix everything. Trust me, as I mother I know that even if a parent wants to help it doesn’t mean the child will accept it.”

“I know that.” I sound so depressed and I know it’s probably worrying her.

“I love you, Nova, and I’m glad you care so much about this, and I’m not trying to get your hopes down,” she says. “But I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “I’m just tired.” I take a swallow of water, my throat feeling very dry against the lie. I know I’m more than tired. I’m stressed and lost and overwhelmed.

“Yeah, but…” She struggles and then finally just says, “You sound sad and I think it might be time to call it quits, come home, and let me get ahold of the boy’s dad so he can take care of him.”

“I promise I’m fine,” I insist and I can feel Lea’s gaze boring into me. “I’m not ready to give up and come home yet.”

“You don’t sound fine,” she points out. “You sound like you’re in that place again…that one where I…and I just…” She’s on the verge of crying. “And I don’t want you to go there—I want you to be happy. Do things that make you happy.”

“I am happy.” I force a light tone, even though the sound of her voice is breaking my heart. “In fact, Lea and I were just about to go out and have some fun exploring the city.”

She pauses, sniffling. “That does sound fun, but I’m not really sure there’s a whole lot for twenty-year-olds to do in Vegas.”

“We’re going to karaoke,” I tell her, ignoring Lea’s withering stare as she sets the box of crackers aside and hops off the counter. “And to see the sights…it should be fun.”

My mom’s still undecided, but gives in. “Please just be careful. And call me if you need anything. And I’ll call you if I hear from his dad.” She pauses and I think she’s done until she adds, “And please, please take care of yourself.”

“I will do all those things,” I tell her; then we say our good-byes and hang up.

As I’m putting my phone into my pocket, Lea walks over to the foyer and starts putting her sandals on. “Where are you going?” I ask.

She pulls her hair up in a ponytail and secures it with an elastic on her wrist. “You told your mom we’re going into the city, so we’re going into the city,” she says, and I gape at her. “I’m not going to let you lie to her,” she adds. “And besides, we need to go out and do something. I’m going stir-crazy.”

Despite the fact that I’m not in the mood for crazy city stuff, I get her point and agree to go, hoping that maybe I can have fun, despite the fact that my thoughts are lost in Quinton and my mother now. I hate worrying her like that. She’s all I’ve got and the last thing I ever want to do is make her sad.

But I also can’t forget the sadness and pain in Quinton’s eyes that I’ve seen in someone else’s eyes before. Someone I cared about. Someone I didn’t try to save and in the end I lost him. And I refuse to lose anyone ever again, no matter what it takes.