Burn (Brothers of Ink and Steel #2) (5 page)

Or she didn’t.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here and get some lunch,” Ryder says as he walks in with Talon.

“Sounds good to me,” I agree.

“Hey, how many clients are on the Ink and Steel roster tonight?” Ryder preens himself and his leather coat in front of the mirror. “’Cause I hooked up with a real hottie the other night and her and her friends want to go out tonight. Connor and Reese are already in, what do you say?”

“Where’s Chase?” Talon asks.

“Down on the White Earth Rez. Something about studying for some big exam … blah, blah,” Ryder quips.

“Yeah, getting your degree, blah blah,” I mock.

“I’m not saying he shouldn’t get his degree, I’m just saying he should also be putting in the same amount of time getting his dick wet.”

Talon and I bust up laughing.

“Hey!” Ryder continues to drive home his point. “Use it or lose it.”

“I don’t have anything that the other artists can’t handle.” I could use a night out with a pretty face.

“Hell, I’m in,” Talon says as we walk out of the locker room.

We take the stairs to the back door. “Whose car are we taking?” Ryder asks. “I only have my bike.”

Talon laughs. “It’s the frigging arctic out there, man! How the hell do you ride that thing in the middle of February?”

I try not to visibly shiver as we step out into the below zero temps, but it’s a useless effort. I love the changing seasons, but sometimes I think we must be fucking morons, living up in Minnesota where it’s freezing half the year. If we weren’t all so dedicated to Cade—and each other—we probably would have escaped a long time ago.

“We can take mine,” I offer, reaching into my jacket pocket. “Fuck me!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I left my car keys in Cade’s office. Be right back.” I turn and jog back through the door.

I plow up the steel grid stairs two at a time, and then take long strides through the hallway. Cade will be with the kids on the mats doing hand-to-hand combat class, so I just let myself in.

Every muscle in my body seizes and locks.

My boots hold me, frozen against the carpeted floor. I feel my jaw unhinge as my blood stops its flow through my veins. Maybe I died and this is what it feels like? Maybe it’s an out of body experience? Maybe I’m still in bed dreaming, and that fucking song is still playing?

I close my eyes and shake my head to rid myself of the hallucination. But when I open them again, nothing has changed. In my peripheral I watch Cade’s eyes drop to his shoes before he takes a step back.

“Quinn?” It comes out hoarse and strangled.

This can’t be right.

But it’s her! It’s Quinn!!

She wears an elegant, brown cloth coat that hugs her hips, black knee-high riding-style boots with low heels and matching black leather gloves. Her hair is so long; the golden curls flow to the middle of her back. She’s no longer a pretty teenage girl of sixteen.

She’s a woman. A seizingly beautiful woman.

Could she really be twenty-six years old?
Somehow she had stayed frozen in my memory the way she was when she left.

Her sky blue eyes lock with mine.

“Liam …”

At the sound of her voice, the dagger that’s been plunged through my heart twists …

Again.

Chapter Three

September, 2004

Quinn

I wake up to Monica’s mother, Linda, yelling and kicking me in the ribs. I roll off the floor mat and get to my feet, trying to make sense of her accusations through my sleep-rattled mind.

“I don’t
do
drugs. I’ve never done drugs!” I say. And I never had.

After my mom kicked me out—again—about a month ago, I started staying at my friend Monica’s house. She and I go to the same high school.

Her mom and stepfather own a large Victorian house that’s been divided into several apartments, which they rent out. Monica’s oldest sister Marissa attends the nearby college and lives in the upstairs apartment by herself. Monica hates her stepfather and often stays at Marissa’s to get away from him.

This was one of those nights.

But tonight went south really fast. Marissa had a bunch of her college friends over for a party—mainly guys—and even though Monica and I are only fifteen years old, a few of them kept hitting on us the drunker they got.

Monica and I decided after a couple beers to escape into Marissa’s room when the hitting-on turned to hand-grabs and it was obvious Marissa wasn’t going to say anything to stop the douchebags. So we camped out on her bedroom floor. We had school in the morning anyway.

Which led to this moment …

Linda slapping my face and kicking me in my ribcage was one hell of a way to wake up.

Now she grabs a fistful of my long hair and drags me into the main room. She shoves my face against the coffee table.

I see small, clear plastic sandwich baggies filled with pot. Rolling papers lay haphazardly close by. There are also small mirrors with white powder lines—meticulously straight—across them. A razor blade is covered in the stuff.

I’m not stupid. I know it’s cocaine. I’ve seen it before, but I’ve never tried it. The party must have switched from alcohol to drugs.

Linda presses my face into the table and searing pain radiates over my cheekbone with the force. “If it isn’t yours, whose is it?”

She’s got to be joking, but the pain in my face and scalp says otherwise.

“I swear, none of it’s mine!”
Why would she think it was mine? It’s obviously Marissa’s!

Linda yanks my head up fast and flings me into the wall. “I knew you’d deny it!” she shouts.

I turn to face Marissa, who is obviously wide awake—and
obviously
stoned out of her mind! She looks to me with pleading eyes.

“I take the word of my own daughters over yours.” Linda comes at me again and slaps me across the face. “And I opened my home to you!”

“I was sleeping!” I shout back, raising my arms in front of my body defensively. “How could I be doing drugs in my sleep?!”

None of this makes sense to me, but then I watch Monica step to her sister’s side. And I get it; I’m the convenient scapegoat.

“I should have never taken you in,” Linda says, seething.

At her words, my heart breaks. I’ve known Linda since Monica and I were in elementary school. Her daughters have always been like sisters to me. And when I had nowhere to go … I’d been hoping she’d become the mother I didn’t have.

My eyes veer to the clock, and I’m filled with the horror of being thrust back out on the city streets with no place to go. “It’s three in the morning … we have school tomorrow … can I please just stay until—?”

“Get out!” she screams.

“Okay … okay.” I realize I’m crying as I scoop up my few belongings. I need something to put them in.

Marissa goes to the kitchen and comes back with a black trash bag. I mash them inside. 

“I know where you belong, St. Anne’s,” Linda threatens me as she marches down the stairs back to her apartment.

I’ve heard of it—Saint Anne’s, a prison for girls. It isn’t a place I want to be. I’m soft and I know it. I’d be killed.

Monica disappears behind her mother as Marissa grabs my coat and puts it around my shoulders. She slurs, “I’m so sorry, Quinn. My mom came up here and—”

“Yeah I get it,” I say bitterly. “You didn’t want to get in trouble.” As if on some mystical cue, thunder slams through the sky.

Perfect, even God has it out for me.

I zip the coat. Marissa shoves a twenty dollar bill into my hand. The gesture is way too little, way too late! It’s not even enough for a dive hotel room on the worst side of the city.

“You need to hurry. She’s called the police.” Monica’s voice comes from behind me.

I turn on her. “I don’t get it! I thought you were my best friend!”

She doesn’t meet my eyes when she says, “Things changed. Guess she doesn’t think you’re so perfect after all.”

And that’s when I get it. Monica’s been acting weird lately, making little jokes about how her mom and sister like me more than her. I can see it now in the look on her face—smug satisfaction mixed with guilt. She’s
happy
that her mom thinks I’m a druggie screw-up; it just makes her look that much better in comparison.

I shake my head, dumbfounded. It’s obvious from my life that I have bad judgment when it comes to trusting people.

I back away from them, take the steps down to the back door and run into the night.

The sky is black as pitch. The heavy rain pelts me until it’s soaked through the layers of my coat and clothes. I run until I’m out of Monica’s neighborhood.

I have to find a safe place to hide until morning. Truth is, there is no safe place at three o’clock in the morning for a fifteen-year-old girl.

The wind blows my rain drenched hair into my face. I’ve lived in Minnesota long enough to know when a storm is brewing into a tornado.

I turn down into a dark alley back behind an old abandoned-looking warehouse. The doorway is almost invisible in the shadows. I get under it and find at least a little protection from the storm.

I wonder
… my fingers wrap around the cold door handle but the door is locked up tight.

I’m suddenly aware of the silent tears spilling down my face.

I fold my body to make myself as small as possible in the narrow threshold and curl my knees up against my chest to protect myself from the storm.

Alone.

Unloved.

Unwanted.

There are places I’m afraid of.

Like swimming out towards the center of a lake. You can’t see through the murky waters, and you can’t touch the bottom. Your imagination takes over, and it’s like someone hits the panic button. As much as you tell yourself there is nothing in the water that can hurt you, you feel it, the whispering hand against your ankle threatening to pull you under to join it, underneath, in the darkness forever.

I’m afraid of my basement. It’s ridiculous, being terrorized by the black, empty space under the stairs, but hell if I can talk my rational mind into believing that, because every time I have to go down there, my hands tremble and my heart races, while a metallic taste forms in my mouth and I can’t talk, like during a nightmare. I run my ass off to get back upstairs and hope slamming the door against the ghosts will keep them from getting me.

And although both
feel
real, I’ve never really been hurt in either place. I have that same feeling right now, like I’m descending into a hellish reality that I won’t be able to escape from once I’m snatched and then surely killed. But here, in this place, I don’t need an overly active imagination.

This
is the place I’m most afraid of.

My ripped, scuffed black Converse slap against the pavement. I’m not paying attention and trip over the curb. I right myself and walk as quietly as I can while making myself as small as possible.

Brave.

Stupid.

Helpless.

Whatever. I have no options.

I think back to my first year in high school; I hated my science class when our teacher forced us to watch a film where a pride of lions stalked and took down a baby elephant.

“They need to eat,” she said.

Didn’t matter, I hated the lions for it. First they separated the baby from her mother; then they got her turned around, confused and afraid; that’s when they jumped on her back, each taking a turn biting and clawing until she fell.

And then they ripped out her throat.

“Hey, hey, sweet thang! I’ve got what you need.” A tall, skinny guy comes out of the shadows, seemingly from nowhere.

I don’t answer. I keep my head down and my eyes on the ground.

He reaches out his hand to me and in it is a little white packet. He wants me to try his drugs—which I don’t want. Things are bad enough, and I’ve seen kids fall into meth and coke, or heroin. They don’t last long, strung out and pleadingly desperate for the next hit or shot. The drugs make them do anything for more, while they slowly eat them away from the inside out. You can see it happening—and the user loses all will to fight.

Don’t make eye contact!
my mind screams. I feel like, at any moment, a group of them are going to jump me and rip out my throat—just like the baby elephant.

Another block down, a silver sedan pulls up alongside of me.

I hear the passenger side window open. “Girl, what’s your price?”

My heart pounds
. Jesus!
Just keep walking. Don’t look.

The car tears away from the curb.

This place—State Street after midnight and the area of the city called Westhill—is the place I’m most frightened of. And what scares me isn’t in my imagination.

A cold wind wraps itself around me, and I pull my hoodie tighter around my face. Not like boys around here get a free pass, but I wish I could hide my breasts and look tougher.

“About time! What took you so long?” Diamond croons as I get closer. 

I shrug, not wanting to tell her the truth—that I was establishing a hiding place past the washed out road down by the cemetery on the other side of town. I don’t know her enough yet; we just met a few nights ago, after I had been wandering for hours. Guess she knew the look—when you live on the street you have nowhere to go, no destination, so you walk, sometimes for hours, moving place to place, trying to stay safe and not loiter in one spot for too long while you’re hungry and cold.

She started talking to me, then bought me a grilled cheese and Pepsi at the all night diner on State Street. I was pretty shocked when I saw all of her money! She noticed I noticed and laughed.

“I’ve been exactly where you are. But I know this guy who can give you a great job! You can make this”—she waved the handful of cash at me—“every night! The work is easy too.”

She’s definitely older than me by a few years—and obviously has connections I don’t.

So I agreed to meet her and her friends.

“You ready?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I was hoping she’d offer another grilled cheese before we went, but she doesn’t.

“It’s not far; just up the block,” she says, and I follow her as we walk along the dirty sidewalk.

She’s really beautiful, almost glamorous.

“Why do you hang out down here so much if you have a good job?”

“This is where I find the best clients,” she says.

Clients.
Clients …

“Here we are.”

The sign over the bar and hotel reads,
The DuBois.
The windows are tinted dark and I can’t see in, but I can see out once we’re at the door. Men are standing around laughing and smoking with women hanging all over them. Other girls line the curb, beckoning to cars and passersby

I freeze at the door.

“Come on, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Diamond encourages me.

“I don’t … think so,” I stammer fearfully.

“Look,”—she comes over and places a hand on my shoulder—“these girls are having fun. They were just like me and you once, but now they make good money and have a warm place to sleep.”

I’m not budging. I get it. I didn’t before, but I do now, and all I want to do is run in the opposite direction.

“They’ll have pizza and drinks upstairs.”

Food.
I haven’t eaten for two days. It’s frightening and pathetic what you’ll consider doing when you’re hungry and scared and have nothing.

“I don’t … want to …”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Just come up and meet my friends, have something to eat and leave. Then you can think about it all on a full stomach,” she coaxes.

“I can go if I want to, if I don’t like it?” I ask, unsure.

“Absolutely. I promise.”

“Okay.” My stomach twists, and I’m not sure if it’s from hunger or fear or the intuition to run like hell that I’m ignoring.

I follow her through the main door and up the stairs. It smells awful—like smoke and sweat and urine. Guys watch us as we make our way to the first floor, where she knocks on the door.