He rolls his eyes as he removes a cigarette from the pack, puts it in his mouth, then cups his hand around the end and lights it with a lighter he finds on my floor. “Don’t be a f**king hypocrite.” He blows out a cloud of smoke as he takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “You do just as much crystal as I do smack. In fact you might even do more.”
He’s wrong and I want to call him out on it, but then we’ll start arguing and it could go on forever. I stare down at the mirror in one hand and the bag in the other, feeling nothing other than a desire to indulge in what’s inside it. It practically screams at me: Take me, take me, take me. Forget. Forget. Forget. Everything will be fine once I erase your pain. Die. Be free from the guilt. “Point taken.” My hands start to tremble as need consumes me. Feed the addiction. The hunger. The craving.
“What point?” he asks confoundedly, offering me a cigarette.
I take one and set it down on the mattress beside me. “I have no idea.” Nothing matters at the moment except getting a line into my system, because if I’m going to move and think and talk, I’m going to need it to fuel me, otherwise I won’t have the energy or willpower to function. One white line or maybe even two, then I’ll talk and think and breathe again.
With unsteady fingers I unseal the bag, then sink down on the mattress and balance the mirror on my lap. I pour a line across it, ignoring my reflection because I can’t look at it just yet. Then I pick up a razor that’s by my foot and break up the clumps with it. I grab one of the many emptied-out pens beside the coin pile, lower my head, put the pen case up to my nostril. Then I inhale through it like it’s oxygen helping me breathe, live, survive. The white powder slides up my nose and when it reaches the back of my throat I blow out a breath as I tip my head back.
“Feel better?” Tristan asks, scattering ashes from his cigarette on the floor before reaching out for the mirror like he wants to take a hit.
As he steals it from my hand, I catch my reflection in the scratched-up surface. Pale skin, wide eyes rimmed with red, and so is one side of my nose, but I doubt anyone else can see the change.
I pick up the cigarette and put it in my mouth. Then I get to my feet, light the cigarette, and go out into the hall while Tristan sits down on my bedroom floor and pours himself a line. I have to step over two people passed out on the floor on my way to the living room, a guy and a girl, neither of them wearing a shirt.
Maneuvering around a pile of broken glass, I make it to the kitchen, which is basically part of the living room, only a curtain has been hung up to divide the two spaces. The place is a mess. Paper plates and cups, dirty pans and spoons, empty cereal boxes cover the counter. The sink is full of dirty dishes and it stinks like a trash can. There’s empty cigarette cartons everywhere and a used syringe. I’m not even sure why I came in here. I’m not hungry or thirsty or anything really and there’s probably no food anyway. I grind my jaw a few times, trying to remember why I even got out of bed. All I want to do is go back to my room and stare at the ceiling, because it was sort of becoming my sanctuary in there.
“Dylan wanted me to give you a message.” Delilah unexpectedly strolls into the kitchen wearing a skirt and a red lacy bra. She always walks around like that, half dressed, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s just comfortable with herself or because she’s trying to get someone to f**k her.
“Oh yeah?” I blink and then rub my nose, my jaw twitching as I take a soothing drag. “What does he want?”
“For you to run over to Johnny’s and pick up an eight ball for Dylan to sell. You’ll have to pay him for it, but he left some cash.” She holds up a roll of money as she reclines against the counter, sticking her chest out. “He wants you to go, since Tristan”—she makes air quotes—“‘borrowed’ from him last time and never paid him back.”
I graze my thumb over the end of the cigarette and ash flutters to the floor. I nod, even though I don’t want to go down to f**king Johnny’s, one of Dylan’s suppliers. I want to go into my room and stare at the water stains. Maybe draw. But if I don’t go to Johnny’s then Dylan will get pissed and when Dylan’s pissed everyone’s miserable, since he’s usually the one with the biggest stash and he has the connections to get more. “I already told Tristan I’d go with him.”
“Good.” She stands up straight, stuffs her hand down her bra, and rearranges her breasts. “But I’m going with you, not Tristan.”
I put the cigarette out on the counter. “Who made you the boss?”
“Dylan did.” She grins as she struts over to me and traces her finger up my arm while tucking a roll of dollar bills into the front pocket of my jeans. “Because the last time you two went and picked up something for Dylan you had it finished off before you even made it home and we don’t want that to happen again, since if it does, you’ll both end up out on the streets and you’re too good-looking to be out there.” She winks at me. “They’ll eat you up in a day.”
“So what are you now?” I ask, not necessarily pissed, just being blunt. “My baby-sitter or something?”
“Don’t you wish.” Her fingers travel from my arm to my shoulder, then down my chest. “You know my offer’s still on the table.”
“What offer?” I honestly can’t remember and the longer I try to remember the more I think about drawing and the water stains. And Nova. Her lips. Her eyes. God, her voice triggered something inside me. Life maybe? And I don’t want life in me. What I want is to forget, to stop thinking about Nova and focus on being where Lexi is, under the ground. Lexi. I need to be thinking about Lexi, get high enough that I feel closer to her—never forget her. Always love her. No one else.
Stop f**king thinking of Nova.
Delilah’s hand drifts downward until she’s cupping my c**k through my jeans and I’m so numb at this point I can’t even tell if I’m hard or not. Then she leans forward and puts her lips up to my ear as she presses her br**sts against my chest. “You can take me whenever you want. All you have to do is say yes and I can wipe that sad look you always have on your face right off.”
I don’t move her hand, shove her back, or breathe. It’s not like I want her. She practically sleeps with anyone now, I think because Dylan’s ignoring her and f**king other women, sometimes right in front of her. But for some reason I can’t seem to find the willpower to move and when she stands on her tiptoes, ready to kiss me, I plan on letting her, knowing she’ll be a really good diversion from the beautiful girl who called me out of the blue. The girl who has eyes that look blue, but are green, too. Who used to look sad but from the sound of her voice on the phone seemed happy and I wish I could be happy for her.
Delilah’s lips brush mine, her auburn hair grazing my cheek as she slants her head to the side and grabs my c**k harder. I’m about to part my lips and let her and the drugs potently mix in my head and erase my thoughts, but then I hear someone say something from the living room and Delilah quickly jerks away like I’m made of fire.
Her head whips toward the curtain, which is pulled back so we have a full view of the living room. “Oh thank God.” She places her hand to her chest when she sees it’s just Tristan. “I thought you were Dylan.”
“Would it really matter if I was?” he says as he walks into the kitchen. “He didn’t care when you slept with me and I don’t think he’ll care about Quinton, just like he doesn’t care about anything else you do.”
“Fuck you, Tristan,” she snaps, flipping him the middle finger as she spins on her heels and puts her back toward me. “You’re just pissed because I f**ked you once and then wouldn’t do it again.”
“Baby, don’t think you’re something special because you’re not,” Tristan retorts, blinking several times, high as a kite, and I doubt he even knows what he’s saying. I’m not sure any of us do.
Delilah slaps her hand against his chest and he stumbles back a little, tensing and looking pissed, but then the crystal kicks in because he pops his jaw and his anger unravels. He blinks his focus off Delilah and onto me. “So are we going or what?”
“You two aren’t going anywhere together.” Delilah rubs her eyes, smearing mascara all over her face.
Tristan’s gaze cuts to her. “And who’s going to stop us. You?”
She takes sharp breaths, anger rising on her face, but she’s too weak to do anything to stop us. “Dylan said you two can’t go together anymore. You use all the stuff before it ever makes it back here. And your dumb ass has pissed off Trace and the last thing you need is to run into him. Even though Dylan got him to cool off, he says you need to lay low for a while, just in case. Plus, he hangs out at Johnny’s sometimes. You know that.”
“Yeah, but I don’t give a shit. And besides, Dylan’s not here to stop me, is he?” Tristan states with a crook of his brow. “So that means we get to decide what we want to do. And I’m going to Johnny’s. With Quinton. Trace can kiss my ass if he shows up.” He signals for me to follow him as he turns for the door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
I hesitate, my mind briefly making it through the veil of drugs to see a real problem arising. “Tristan, maybe I should just go alone. You pissed off Trace pretty bad and he’s not a guy you want to mess around with. Remember when he and his guys stabbed that one guy for…well, I can’t remember what for, but he still did it.”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, brushing me off as he sidesteps a bucket. “If Trace is there, we’ll just leave.”
I want to argue with him more, because he’s only thinking with his addiction, but the veil in my mind closes back up, and I lose track of why I should worry so much. “All right, let’s get out of here.”
“You guys are such assholes,” Delilah huffs, stomping her foot and crossing her arms over her chest.
Tristan shrugs as he opens the front door, scooping up a backpack that’s near the doorway. I cross the living room and step over a large glass bong sitting in the center of the pathway between the two smelly old sofas, the only furniture we have. Then I walk outside into the sunlight and it stings my eyes, which already felt like they were bleeding. Tristan mutters something to Delilah about keeping his bed warm for him while he’s gone and I hear something shatter, probably the bong. Then he slams the door, shaking his head as we start across the balcony, past all the shut doors and windows covered with curtains or blankets.
“She’s such a bitch,” he says, slipping the backpack on.
“Yeah, but I don’t know why you encourage her.” I shield my eyes with my hand to block out the sunlight. “You didn’t used to.”
“Things change,” he mutters, scratching his arm.
“Not really,” I say as we reach the top of the stairway, stepping out from under the protection of the roof. The light hits me straight on and I feel like a candle melting under the sun. “Things have been pretty much the same for the last six months.”
“You say that like it’s bad,” he tells me, trotting down the steps.
I jog down the stairway after him. “No, I say that like it’s true.”
He halts when we reach the bottom of the stairs. “Maybe you shouldn’t be saying anything about it at all,” he suggests, grinding his teeth as he stares out at the gravel parking lot and then at the stretch of desert and run-down brick buildings to the side of us.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I decide to keep my lips sealed as we head for the street, because I really shouldn’t be talking to him or giving him advice. He’s probably doing all this shit because of me, because I killed his sister. I ruined his life—I ruined a lot of people’s lives, something I’m reminded of every day when no one calls me or really talks to me, which is pretty much the way it’s been since the accident. In the beginning I was stupid enough to believe that someone was going to say that it wasn’t my fault, that it was just an accident. But that never happened. The opposite did. And now I’m here right where I belong and the last time I actually had a conversation about something other than drugs was with Nova.
God, stop thinking about her. What the hell is my problem?
As we walk by the bottom-floor apartments toward the parking lot, we pass by our neighbor, Cami, a middle-aged woman who likes to walk around in spandex skirts and tight shirts with no bra. She’s smoking a cigarette, staring out at the parking lot, but when we walk by she focuses on us.
“Hey, baby,” she says, moving away from her front door that she’s leaning against. “Any of ya got anything good on ya?” she asks, stumbling in her heels as she blows out smoke, making a path toward me.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t.” And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to her.
I step to the side to go around her, but Tristan decides to stop and doesn’t follow me, so I pause just behind Cami and wait for him.
“What are you looking for?” he asks and I shake my head at him. Cami is a whore, and I mean that literally. She sells herself for money or drugs, whatever she needs at the time.
“Tristan, let’s go.” I say, targeting him with a look that says, Don’t go there, man.
He looks genuinely baffled. “What?”
I nod at Cami, who seems oblivious. No way, I mouth.
“What do ya got?” Cami says, stepping forward. “I’ll take anything. I ain’t got any cash.” She sticks her chest out, like she’s trying to seduce him.