Saving Quinton Read online

  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 int
o 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.

  Chapter 9

  May 21, day six of summer break

  Nova

  After Lea and I had a somewhat fun night walking up and down the Strip, watching all the lights, listening to the music, and absorbing the atmosphere, I felt a lot better. We didn't make it to karaoke, but made a deal to go out again in a few days and give it a try.

  I'm feeling pretty good the next morning, knowing my mom's trying to get ahold of Quinton's dad, telling myself to be positive, but then I get to Quinton's house to see him and no one answers the door. But I can hear people inside, ignoring my knocking. It reminds me of all the times I asked Landon if he was okay, he said yes, and that was that. I couldn't change anything.

  My hope starts to extinguish as I trudge back to my car, feeling so helpless because no matter what I do--whom I talk to--Quinton's actually the one who has the power in this situation. He can shut me--anyone--out and there's not a goddamned thing anyone can do about it. Plus, I'm worried. After seeing what that Trace guy did to Tristan, I fear that they might be in a lot of trouble. And I don't know how to fix it or if I can fix it. How many things can one person fix?