Saving Quinton Read online

  A few minutes later the house gets quiet. The air conditioning clicks on. The sun glistens through the window. I'm starting to like the quiet because it eliminates all the worried looks and questions I keep getting. If I had my way, I'd avoid talking to my mom until I could pull my shit together, but like she's read my mind, my phone suddenly rings and I know without even looking who it has to be.

  I probably wouldn't answer it, but she might have information about Quinton's dad, so I reach over to the nightstand and pick up my phone.

  "Hello," I say, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling.

  "You sound tired," my mom says worriedly. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"

  I wonder if she's been talking to Lea about my lack of sleep or, worse, if Lea's told her about my watching Landon's video, although I'm guessing it'd probably be the first thing my mom would ask me about if she knew.

  "Yeah, but I think it's the time change." It's a lame excuse, since the time change is only an hour and I've actually already gotten used to it.

  "Well, make sure you get enough rest." She gives a heavyhearted sigh. "And make sure you're not overdoing it."

  "Okay, I will." I feel the lie burn inside my chest. "So have you heard anything from Quinton's dad?"

  "Yeah..." She's reluctant and I know whatever happened is bad. "It didn't go very well."

  "What happened?" I ask, sitting up in the bed.

  "I just don't know if this is going to work," she says. "If he'll do anything to help his son."

  "Why not?" I get so upset I nearly yell.

  "Honey, I think this might be deeper than we realize," she says in the gentle motherly tone she uses when she knows I'm on the verge of cracking open. "I mean, I only talked to him for a few minutes, but I got the impression there's a lot of problems there. Not just between the two of them but with Quinton, and that his dad would rather avoid the problem."

  "I know he has problems," I drag my butt off the bed and look around the room for my purse. "That's why I'm here trying to help him."

  "Yeah, but...his father seemed so upset on the phone and not for the right reasons..." She trails off and then clears her throat, like she's getting worked up. "Look, sweetie, I know you're really determined to help him, but maybe he needs more help than you can give him."

  "Do you think his dad will come down here and help him?" I ask, picking up my purse from the back of the computer chair and getting my car keys out of it. "If you talked to him a little more?"

  "I'm not sure...but I can keep trying while you're here," she says persistently. "Please, Nova, come back home."

  "Not until I know for sure his dad will help him." I walk out of the room and to the front door. "Look, Mom, I got to go. I'll call you later, okay?" I don't wait for her to respond. I know I'm being rude--worrying her. But the thing I was counting on--Quinton's dad--has just been lost.

  I need to see him now. Need to look at him. Need to save him.

  Somehow.

  *

  I'm starting to hate the sight of that door. The one with the crack. The one that keeps Quinton on one side and me on the other. The divider. If I were strong enough, I'd kick it down, but I'm not, so all I can do is keep knocking on it.

  "Would someone just open the damn door!" I shout, feeling like I'm going to lose it as I hammer it with my fist. "Please!" My voice echoes for miles like it's the only thing that exists.

  I sink onto the ground, frustrated, feeling beaten down. I want to give up, but I keep seeing Landon's face that night we lay on the hillside, the last time I ever saw him. There was something in his eyes--I saw it. Sadness. Pain. Internal misery. It's a look that will haunt me until the day I die, no matter how much time goes by. I don't want to learn to live with it again and if I walk away from Quinton now, I'll have to, because I've seen the same look in his eyes before. And I won't let him die like I did with Landon.

  So I sit there on the scorching-hot concrete, letting my skin scald, staring at the door, the only barrier between the truth and me. And I refuse to budge until it opens. It finally does. It's getting late, and the horizon is fading behind me, but still the door opens and Tristan walks out wearing an open button-down long-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans, like it's not sweltering hot out here. He startles back when he sees me and scrapes the heel of his foot on the concrete, splitting the skin open. He doesn't seem fazed at all, though, ruffling his messy blond hair, and then he yawns as he stretches out his arms and legs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "No, you're acting kind of cold right now...you were nice the other day," I say. "Or at least civil, but now..."

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

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

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

  "I'm sorry." My voice shakes as I shuffle back and gain space. "I didn't mean that."

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

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

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

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

  I press my fingers to my temples and let my head fall forward. I swear to God, it feels like I've walked into a minefield and one wrong step and I'll set off a bomb. Only the steps are words and the bombs are moody, strung-out people, either high or craving to get high.

  It doesn't help that I'm cranky, too. I seriously consider going out through the front door and back to my car, driving off into the sunset, not stopping until I reach it, forgetting about all of this, like it would be that easy, when it wouldn't. Besides, I couldn't even reach the sunset if I tried, since it doesn't really exist. It's just an illusion that paints the world with its pretty colors just before night comes and covers it all up with darkness. It reminds me that walking away, pretending Quinton doesn't need my help, isn't going to get me anywhere, other than maybe to another video, recorded moments before he dies.

  So I end up going down the hall toward Quinton's room. As I pass by the shut door of the room Quinton locked himself in the first time I came here, I hear people arguing behind it. Their voices are muffled so I can't tell what they're saying, but it sounds like things are heated. It makes me a little nervous and that feeling only grows when I reach the end of the hall. Quinton's door is cracked and the one to my right is wide open. What I see inside makes me seriously wish I had picked the delusional sunset.

  Tristan is sitting on the floor just inside the room with a rubber band around his bony arm and he's flicking his vein with his finger as he opens and closes his fist. It reminds me of when I slit my wrist open, only he's preparing to sink the syringe that's beside his foot into his skin.

  As if he senses me watching him, he glances up and our eyes lock. It frightens me how cold and empty his are. Before I can say a word, he moves his foot and kicks the door shut in my face and suddenly I understand his erratic behavior a little bit more. It hurts, more than I thought it would, and opens my eyes a little to a much bigger problem. If I save Quinton, help him, there are still so many others slowly killing themselves like Tristan. It feels like such a lost cause. One I can't change, but desperately want to.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself to stay calm. Shut it out. Focus on one thing at a time. Breathe.

  But the yelling in the room gets louder and I hear something crash against the door and shatter. My eyes shoot open and I turn around as the sound of crying flows through the door, and then it opens up. Dylan strolls out wearing a white tank top and a pair of jeans held up with a frayed belt. He glances at me frigidly as he shuts the door, giving me no time to see what's going on inside.

  "You looking for something?" he asks, relaxing causally against the door like nothing's going on at all.

  I shake my head, my nerves bubbling inside. "I'm just here to see Quinton."

  He points at something over my shoulder. "His room is that way, not over here."

  I hesitate to turn around and only do when the crying stops. I feel Dylan stand there behind me for a while until finally he goes back into the room.

  I free a trapped breath, my muscles unraveling. "What is wrong with that guy?"

  "Delilah and him fight all the time." Quinton appears in the doorway of his room, wearing only his boxers. I can see every scar, every sunken-in area, the weight he's lost, the sheer lack of health. His eyes have dark rings under them and they're filled with the same unwelcome look that was in Tristan's eyes. "I feel bad for her and tried to help her once, but she won't leave him..." He shrugs. "I don't know what else to do."

  "Maybe I should go in there and talk to her," I say. "See if I can, I don't know, do something."

  "Always trying to save everyone."

  "Everyone I care for," I say, meeting his gaze.

  He gives me an indecisive look and then sighs, submitting. "What are you doing here? I thought we ended stuff the other day on the roof." He says it like he seriously believes that he thought our fight on the roof was the end of things.

  It takes a tremendous amount of energy to shrug off his asshole comment. "We didn't end things," I say. "We just had a fight and now I'm here to apologize."

  "Apologize for what?"

  "For making you mad. That is why you've been avoiding me, isn't it?"

  He cocks his head to the side, looking at me like I'm a foreign creature. "No, you didn't make me mad. You just made me realize that I don't want you hanging around...that it's not good for me to be around you."

  "But I want to be around you and you told me you would let me visit you before I go home, which is soon." The last part is a lie because I honestly have no clue when I'll head back--when I'll be able to accept that things may never change. Give up hope.

  He studies me even more closely, seeming conflicted and a little irate, and all I want to do is step to the side and let the wall block me from his unrelenting gaze. "You can stay and hang if you want to," he says as he reaches for a pair of jeans on the floor. "But I...I have to do a few things first."

  "Like what?"

  He doesn't respond, but he does take out a tiny plastic bag filled with white clumpy powder. He holds it up and raises his eyebrows inquiringly, like he's testing me, daring me to give him a reason to send me away, back out to the other side of that cracked door.

  I feel myself curl into a ball inside but outside I stay tall. "Do you have to?"
<
br />   He nods with need in his eyes and I force the lump down in my throat and don't say a word when he starts to open the bag and then shuts the door. At least he does me the courtesy of not doing it in front of me this time.

  I stare at the cracks in the wall as I wait, tracking them with my gaze, not counting them even though I desperately want to. Then the bedroom door swings open, the one Dylan went in. But he's not the person that steps out.

  Delilah is.

  She's wearing a see-through shirt and her shorts look more like boy-cut panties. Her auburn hair is matted and her cheek is a little swollen. But she seems more alert than the last time I saw her.

  She starts to head in the opposite direction from me, ashing her cigarette on the floor, but then pauses when she sees me. "So the rumors are true," she says, sniffling, her nose red, and I'm unsure if it's because she's been crying or because she just snorted something.

  "What rumors?" I lean against the wall and she stands across from me, relaxing against the door.

  She shrugs, taking another drag of her cigarette. "That you're here in Vegas."

  "Yeah, I got here a little over a week ago," I tell her. "And you saw me the other day."

  "Really?" She stares at the ceiling as she tries to recollect. "I don't remember that."

  "That's because you were out of it," I reply, folding my arms.

  She sizes me up and I can see the hatred in her. "Why did you come here?"

  "To see Quinton." I ignore her rude attitude.

  Smoke circles her face as she exhales. "Why?"

  "Because I want to try and help him," I explain to her.

  "With what?"

  I glance up and down the hallway, at the garbage on the floor, the used syringes, the empty alcohol bottle. There's no carpet on the floor. The ceiling is cracked. The entire place looks like it's about to collapse. "With getting out of this place."

  She laughs snidely. "Yeah, good luck with that." She puts the cigarette between her lips again and breathes deep. "No one around here wants to be saved, Nova. You should remember that, since you were once in this place."

  "But I got out."