Burn (Brothers of Ink and Steel #2) (3 page)

“Quinn, wait up!” I shout when I get closer.

“Leave me alone!” She has zero intention of stopping. In fact, she picks up speed.

Two can play at this. I can run all night.

Quickly, she looks back, and the frustration is clear on her face. She’s not happy I’m gaining ground.

“Come on, I just saved your ass back there! I only want to talk!”

“I’ve got nothing to say!” she counters.

We run like this until she shoots like a bullet from a gun out of the cemetery gates onto River Road—a dead-end street. This is the back area of the cemetery, where no one comes through. Plus the river washed out the road last spring, and the city hasn’t bothered to deal with it yet.

I stop and yell, “I give up!”

She doesn’t answer me; she just keeps her pace as she tears through the trees. Carefully, I trail her, hoping to follow her more covertly.

Where the hell could she be going? There aren’t any houses over here.

Soon enough, she’s climbing down the bank to the river. I keep a good distance between us and duck into the brush to hide myself as she slows to a walk. She follows the bank until she stops under the overpass bridge.

I watch her settle in. A moment later, she lights a fire in a small circle of stones. In the illumination, I see a rolled up blanket next to a black garbage bag.

I know this scene all too well.

My foot begins to slip on the rocky bank. As I move it for better footing, dirt and stones become dislodged and scatter down the hill.

Quinn jumps up, pulls a baseball bat out from behind the bag and is ready to strike.

Goddamnit!

“Who’s there?”

“Hey! Chill. I’m not going to hurt you.” I come out of the bushes with my hands up.

“What the fuck?!” She’s still holding the bat in front of her. “You followed me anyway! What is wrong with you? Are you here to finish what Dylan started?”

“Of course not! I just …” Damn, I don’t have an answer.
I decided to follow you to see where you’d go … for no reason other than … I’ve acquired the new talent of stalking?
No.

“Just what?” She’s still on the defensive.

I try a different approach. “God damn, it’s freezing out here! Do you mind if I share your fire?”

“Why should I trust you?” The blond strands of her hair are tossed around her head in a mess, and she’s sweaty from running. She’s stunningly gorgeous.

“Got nothing to recommend me, Quinn, except I’ve lived out on the streets since I was nine years old.”

Still, she doesn’t drop her guard.

“I know it’s real hard to trust or make or
keep
friends.” I point to the garbage bag that looks about half full. “I know what it feels like to have everything you own in the world fit in half a trash bag.”

Her expression becomes pained and her brow creases.

“Why aren’t you at North House?” I ask.

She hesitates then says, “Because … they’ll find me.”

“I get it. Foster homes suck.”

“So does St. Anne’s, I hear.” Finally she tosses the bat down on the ground.

“St Anne’s? You must have done something pretty serious.” Slowly, I walk towards her and her makeshift campsite. St. Anne’s is a lock-down detention home for girls and has the reputation of being a really rough place. Quinn doesn’t look like the kind of girl who’d survive in there.

“I didn’t
do
anything. I’m being falsely accused, but my word won’t count for shit in a juvie court.” A mix of sadness and defiance settles firmly over her face.

“Adults control the system, and thus the system sucks ass.” I hold my hands over the little fire that already threatens to extinguish. “What are you being accused of?”

“Doesn’t matter, just made me have to run from yet another place I thought I’d be safe that turned out to be a nightmare.” Wearily, she sits on a rounded stone close to the flame. “I’m sorry you’ve been homeless on and off since you were little. That’s horrible.”

“You get used to it,” I lie. “I’ve been at my latest foster home for two entire months. It’s a fucking record.” I try to make it sound funny, but it doesn’t. “When my foster parents are around, they’re both real assholes. Fortunately, they’re hardly ever around. They like to go down to the reservation to gamble and drink up their government money. At least they usually leave some groceries before they go.”

Saying that makes me think about food. I look around at her meager supplies. I’m not seeing any food. There’s not even a water bottle.

She runs her hands through her hair, rests her elbow on her knee and cradles her head in her palm.

“You don’t have anything to eat, do you?”

She sighs and closes her eyes to avoid the question, or maybe because she’s hoping I’ll disappear.

“You know, it’s only going to get colder out here,” I say.

“Yeah, I know. You better go home.”

“Yeah, okay.” I start to turn, but it’s only for performance’s sake. “I have an idea.”

“Of course you do,” she mumbles. “Like the beer idea.”

“Why don’t you come with me? We could get something to eat,” I suggest.

At that, she lifts her eyes to mine. “Where would we go?”

“Like I said, my foster parents are gone a lot. They’re gone now and won’t be back until Sunday night.”

“What do you get out of it?” she comes back at me.

“Good karma.”

She cracks a smile, a real one.

I turn the key and open the door to the rundown townhouse in a crappy neighborhood. I feel embarrassed having to even bring her in here, admitting this is where I now live, and that’s pretty bad considering she’s sleeping under a bridge.

“Help yourself,” I say and turn on the lights.

But Quinn is skittish and shy suddenly. She’s going to need coaxing. I lead her into the kitchen. It’s a real mess in here. The Richardsons haven’t been home in a week.

“Sorry, the cleaning lady quit,” I joke.

She’s staring at the fridge.

I open the door and wish there was more to offer her. In the past week I’ve eaten almost everything they left for me—which wasn’t much—I had to ration it carefully too.

“Here.” I reach in and grab an apple. “Start on this.”

She looks up at me with such gratitude. “Thank you,” she breathes before she begins to devour the fruit. It reminds me of when she drank the beer.

Rummaging through the cabinets, my fingers gain purchase on a box of flavored oatmeal packets.

“Do you like apple cinnamon?”

She nods.

“Good. ’Cause I really know how to make this stuff. It’s my specialty,” I say extravagantly.

She just rolls her eyes playfully.

I grab a bowl and heat the water in the microwave. After the water’s bubbling, I pour a packet of sweet smelling oatmeal into the bowl. Once it cools, she scarfs it down.

It’d be funny how fast she eats if it wasn’t so pathetic.

“You know, I’m pretty sure I have a few Pop-Tarts left in my room. Want to come check it out?” I offer.

She nods uncomfortably, and I wish there was a way to make her feel better … safe.

“It ain’t much,” I murmur as we enter the cramped space. A twin bed and chest of drawers are set against the wall. Other than that, it’s empty.

“Where’s your stuff?” she asks.

I open the top drawer and take out the Pop-Tarts. I hand her a silver foiled packet and keep one myself.

“Fuck, no milk,” I realize out loud. “How about some water?”

“I’d really love some water, thanks.”

I go back to the kitchen for some glasses of water. “Do you like ice?”

“No, thanks. I’m just going to drink it quickly.”

She’s very polite.

When I get back to my room, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. She drinks down half the water and sets the glass on the hardwood floor as she tears the wrapper of the treat and nibbles the Pop-Tarts carefully, as if she’s savoring them.

I wish that was a good thing, but I know it’s because she’s unsure of the next time she’ll eat.

“Where’s your mom and dad anyway?” I ask.

“Where’s yours?” she volleys.

“Ahh … you want to play it that way.” I nod, smiling.

“Yeah, I want to play that way. Anything you want to know about me, you answer about yourself first, and then I’ll match your answer.”

Why do I want to open up to this girl? I’ve had enough friends come and go. But the desire to get her to open up to me draws me like a piece of steel or a smashed car to a mega-sized electromagnet; I’m going to play her game.

I sit on the bed and rest my back against the wall so I can watch her face, expressions and body language when she answers my questions. I’m pretty good at detecting when someone lies … but if I’m truthful with myself, it’s just because she’s so damn pretty. I want an excuse to look at her.

“My mom is in Brookeside Apartments,” I say. “She likes to have the place all to herself, especially when she’s entertaining guys, so I always get a free street pass on Friday after school. Sometimes she lets me back in on Mondays, but most of the time she’s in bitch mode and decides she never wants me around again. That’s when I sleep where I can and usually get picked up by cops at some point and get reintroduced into the magical, wonderful world of social services.”

She nods sympathetically.

“Your turn,” I remind her.

She shrugs over her Pop-Tart. “My mom would rather live in the mansion she works at as a private nurse to an elderly woman she hardly knows than be home with her daughter. That’s what she’s been doing for as long as I can remember. When I turned ten, she didn’t want to pay for sitters anymore, so I was on my own. Didn’t matter to me; when she was home she ignored me, or told me what a miserable disappointment I was and how she never wanted me in the first place. She would’ve been so much better off without me, she says—she would’ve found a man who would’ve stuck around and given her everything she ever wanted.

“When I was little I used to think there must be something I could do to make her love me. I’d try to hug her or tickle her or
something
to make her talk or smile at me. She’d grab whatever was in reach and rap it across my knuckles, or my head or back. She got her point across and made sure that there’d be no marks to show later. She’s big on show. She’s happy as long as everything appears to be good on the outside so her friends think she’s Mother-of-the-Year,” she says sarcastically.

Fuck! Quinn’s so sweet, I couldn’t imagine anyone doing that to her, let alone her mother.

She goes quiet. I wonder where her dad is.

I lie for this next one. “I don’t know my father. Never met him.”

Quinn sighs, as if maybe she thinks the question and answer gig we have going on should be over, but continues anyway. “My dad lives in Florida with his
new
family. His wife came with two kids. They’re both well-to-do corporate execs. The courts placed me with them when my mom kicked me out—or when I ran away, both have happened so many times, I don’t remember which it was—when I was fourteen.

“Anyway, I was with them for almost a year before his new wife presented me with an ultimatum; either I leave or she would, which I believe would have devastated my father. So I told him I wanted to go and live with a friend. I should have told him the truth … but I was already such a disappointment to my mother, I didn’t want to be responsible for the breakup of my dad’s marriage and be the same burden to him. Just more guilt I’d have to live with.

“I don’t talk to either my dad or stepmother now. She’s made sure of that.” She pauses. “If I have to be honest, he hasn’t done anything to try to get me back either. That’s hard to admit to myself. Guess the truth is, my mom and dad both love me about the same—one would rather have a pretend rich life, and the other would rather have his shiny new family—either way, neither of them wants me.”

Quinn looks at her silver wrapper. “Do you have a wastebasket in here?” she asks, breaking the spell her pain has cast over me.

“Yeah.” I reach over, snatch her empty wrapper and toss it on the floor.

It makes her laugh. The sound makes me laugh too. 

“Are you still hungry?” I ask.

“No, I’m good. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

“Have you been in many foster homes?” Her voice is soft and quiet, as if she’s trying to protect itself against the inevitable answer.

“Yeah, by the time I was twelve I’d lost count.” I fold my hands behind my head and lay back on the pillow. “You?”

“No. Like I said, my mom was all about show and too concerned about her reputation being tarnished to abuse me outright, so she did her crap to me in secret. When I was younger, she sent me to school in nice clothes, and we pretended that she fed me and didn’t leave me home alone night after night, week after week … month after month. That sucks after a while—not only does it suck ’cause you’ve got no one to talk to, but the isolation makes you start to hallucinate and shit.” She shakes her head, remembering, and her eyes go dark. “Whatever. She had the perfect set-up. She’d leave for work before I got home from school in the afternoon and wouldn’t come home until after I left for school in the morning. She never had to see me except for the weekends. And when I turned fourteen, she cried to all her friends about what a rebellious, ungrateful and terrible teen I was. Her friends sympathized with her, and I had a new home on the pavement … until I was sent to live with my dad … and then sent to yet another hell.”