Something Like Redemption (Something Like Normal #2) (6 page)

“Just in case you’ve forgotten,” Quinn says when I stand quiet, sounding hurt that I haven’t replied. “We’re on the run. I’m just trying not to stand out like dog’s balls and blend in and not cause a scene.”

What I’m about to do next will haunt me for the rest of my life. My heart breaks as I’m about to shoot him down after he confessed he wanted no one other than me.

But I have to.

“Oh, so using a lame ass accent is a way not to stand out?” I question sarcastically, my heart shattering as the venom spills from me. “Sorry, my bad!”

Quinn sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Okay, the accent was a dumb idea. I was just trying… to make you smile, after everything that’s happened…”

I snap my eyes to his, feeling like someone other than me.

“I don’t need you to make me smile or protect me, Quinn. I’ve survived a long time on my own, and I can take care of myself!”

Quinn steps back. He looks as if I’ve slapped him. “You’re so fucking stubborn. I thought we were past this bullshit!” he says, just holding onto his temper.

I hate myself. I hate myself for what I’m about to say.

“Why? Because you got me off? You thought I would just surrender myself to you and let you boss me around? News flash, it doesn’t make a difference!”

Wow, why did I just say that? Plan B, I remind myself.

Quinn chuckles, but it’s not a pleasant sound. “Well, it made a difference to me!” he says before storming out the door, rattling it off its rusty hinges.

I rub my forehead, a headache pounding at my temples, but I deserve it. I hurt Quinn, and although it was sort of intentional, it still sucks.

Plonking down onto the soft, squishy mattress, I raise my eyes to the water stained ceiling, questioning if Plan B was such a good idea.

Quinn made me promise to never run from him again, and I intend to stick to my word.

I promised not to run from
him
, but I can’t promise he won’t run from me.

Chapter 6

Real

So, Plan B blows ass.

Making Quinn hate me is one of the toughest things I have ever had to do, but what other choice do I have?

He won’t let me go to the police, and my dad is no doubt still looking for me, forcing us to run, and therefore putting Quinn’s life in danger. I know he has some fucked up notion that he has to protect me, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it feels nice to have someone watch my back. But how can I live with myself, knowing yet another innocent man has given up his life… his freedom, to protect me? I can’t.

So, Plan B, no matter how hard it may be, no matter how much it breaks my heart to hurt him, it’s for him in the end. I’m hoping he will get sick of me and leave. Turn his back on me and go back home. And when he does,
then
I will go to the police.

I know what Tabitha said, but I have no doubt she’s putting herself in danger. I can’t do that to her, either.

I know my altercation with Brad is the reason why I’m in this mess. Picking a fight with the sheriff’s son in hindsight was probably not the smartest thing to do, but at the time, I wasn’t thinking clearly. That fucker drugged my best friend, most likely intending to do unspeakable things to her. So I don’t regret my decision. I’m just sorry Quinn got caught up in all my baggage.

In a way, I wish I’d never met Quinn, Tabitha, Tristan or Hank, and that’s not because I regret a second spent with them. No. The only thing I regret is lugging my shit onto their doorsteps.

If I was a believer in fate, then I may be fooled into believing that destiny sent me to South Boston. But how can I believe that when Hank is dead? That’s why I’m a realist. I know fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, had no hand to play in my life. Only I did.

The cuckoo clock lets me know its 9 p.m., and Quinn has been gone since he stormed out of here over three hours ago.

I wonder where he is.

Is he off banging some random bimbo? I know three who would be more than willing to provide the release he needs, and I dare say... at the same time.

But that’s what I wanted, right? At the moment, that’s the
last
thing I want.

Kicking off the bed, I decide to stop tormenting myself and go find him. Lucky follows me into the bathroom, sitting by the door, watching me as I attempt to make myself look human.

I strip out of my clothes, step over the lip of the bath and into the shower, I sigh. “We might be here for a while, buddy.”

What is it about a shower that always makes me feel better? It could be the fact I usually shower under a spray of boiling water, with little or no cold water, burning my skin, making me feel human again. Only when the water runs cold, do I step out.

I dry off with the little yellow towel, it barely covering my bits and pieces, and wipe down the bathroom mirror to look at me, post shower.

I still look and feel like shit.

Cringing as I pull back my long, thick hair, I hate that my red streaks are fading. But I have other important stuff to worry about other than my hair color at the moment. I’m thankful Tabitha showed me how to pin my tresses off my face, so I look almost ‘girly,’ because I like the way my piercing blue eyes stand out so vividly.

Deciding I need some heavy makeup to help cover up my killer bags, I slap on some black eye shadow, but not too much—again thanks to Tabitha. Before her makeup tips, I was a little heavy handed with the black. Now my eye shadow appears smoky and smudged. My full lips usually have a sheen coating of lip balm on them, but tonight I apply a nude color lip-gloss, giving them a pinkish tinge.

I slip in my small diamond nose stud and pull back from the mirror, thinking I don’t look half bad.

It’s so lame I’m even thinking about shit like this, as I’m not your normal nineteen-year-old. I’m not sitting around on a Saturday night, talking to my girlfriends about who my latest crush is, or which pair of shoes I should wear when we hit the latest club. No, I’m sitting around on a Saturday night, wondering if my dad and the police are plotting my demise.

It’s times like these when I wish I could drown my sorrows in a bottle of tequila, but after living the life I’ve lived, I know that’s just a short term solution. In the morning when I’m nursing a nasty hangover, hating myself for having that ‘one last shot,’ all my problems will still be there.

But I guess being a drug dealer at age eight and having a crackhead for a father changes your opinion on addiction. So maybe I’m just biased.

My new combat boots sit in a heap in the corner of the room where I dumped them. I decide to wear them with my black ripped jeans. I slip on my Harley Davidson t-shirt, and although it’s too big, and annoyingly slips off one shoulder, it’s the only thing I have that’s clean. I don’t leave the room without slipping my new blade into my boot, feeling safer with it on me. Giving Lucky a pat between the ears, I head down the stairs, crossing my fingers I don’t trip over Quinn and some random girl along the way.

South Carolina is actually a pretty cool place, and it turns out, wherever the hell we are, has a pretty kicking nightlife. The area we’re staying in has enough bars and nightspots to keep the population happy.

I walk past a pizza place that smells amazing. I know I really should eat something, but I can’t. The thought of eating sends a wave of nausea through me.

As I pass guys and girls on the busy street, I can see they’re dressed to impress, ready to have a good time. I shrug off the feelings of uneasiness as strange men ogle me like I’m fresh meat. Thankfully, I see an old school sign buzzing up ahead announcing The Blizzards are playing in the next fifteen minutes. Maybe Quinn is here. He certainly wouldn’t have to look far for some female company to forget all about me in this seedy place.

Shouldering past a preppy couple making out in front of the small doorway, I make sure not to touch them as I enter.

“Five dollars,” the goth girl on the door barks, extending her hand my way, totally uninterested.

I pull out a five from the back pocket of my jeans, and try not to recoil when she grabs at my arm and stamps my wrist with a happy face, which sits just above my moon tattoo.

There’s no way I’ll be able to see if Quinn is in here. The small place, which looks like a rundown coffee shop, is packed. I’m not short, but standing at 5’5” amongst giant, burly men and girls in mega high heels makes it virtually impossible to see anything. I try not to shove past the patrons who are waiting impatiently at the bar while some God awful Grindcore band are tearing apart my eardrums, but it’s hard not to when my ass is getting smacked by every second male in the venue.

Fortunately, I score a table at the back of the murky room, out of sight of everyone, which suits me just fine. I perch upon the stool and instantly gain three feet. Swiveling the chair from left to right, I attentively look for Quinn, but I still can’t see him.

Damn, where could he be?

The horrible band finishes up, and they go about packing up their gear in no real hurry. Great, this is going to be a long night.

“Are you here all by yourself, sweetheart?”

And my night just got a whole lot longer.

It feels as if a giant is standing near me, as I can feel his overpowering mass standing above me, no doubt looking down my top. Shuffling up in my seat is pointless, as he still has about a hundred feet on me.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, his hot breath caressing my neck.

“Nope, all good, thanks,” I reply, looking up at the huge jock standing too close for comfort.

He’s in a gold and blue varsity jacket with the number one printed on the front, right-hand side. I’m thinking that maybe he plays for the local football team. And from the size of him, and he’s overwhelming ego, I’d say he’s the quarterback. No doubt he’s accustomed to most girls swooning over him, dropping their panties before he even says hello. But I’m not most girls.

And I hate jocks.

So, looks like he’s shit outta luck.

“Aw, c’mon, darlin’. One drink ain’t gonna hurt,” he slurs, placing his beer on the dirty table and reaching for a vacant stool, pulling it up next to me.

Oh, your genitals won’t be saying that after I crush them under my new boots.

“I’m good, thanks,” I casually reply, trying to appear occupied while staring up at the stage.

Varsity Jacket moves closer to me while I shift away, repulsed by the smell of beer and his heavy handed cologne, which is assaulting my nostrils. His hand slaps onto my knee, stopping me from moving another inch.

My body recoils, and he’s about two seconds away from being headbutted in the stupid face if he doesn’t move his hand.

“She’s spoken for.”

I would know that voice anywhere. And in this instance, it’s music to my ears.

Raising my eyes, I meet Quinn’s heated gaze, and oh my God, how is it even possible that I have desperately missed him in such a short time apart? He looks, as usual, hotter than all hell, mixed with a dash of devilish rebellion. His lengthy hair is blanketing his large, emerald eyes, but I can see they’re dangerously narrowed, as they have dropped to the meathead’s hand, which is currently pawing at my leg.

I move it away, but his hand is like a magnet and just goes with me.

“If you don’t move your hand,” Quinn snarls, still eyeballing it, “you and I will have a problem.”

But Varsity Jacket is obviously getting off on the exchange as he tightens his hand on my leg, shifting it higher up my thigh.

I’m just about to headbutt him, but Quinn gets there first. He reaches over the small table, yanks on the lapels of his jacket, and connects with his face.

I gasp as the big brute drops to the ground with a thud, tumbling ass over tits as he topples into an ungracious heap on the sticky floor. He doesn’t get back up, as Quinn has knocked him out cold.

My mouth hits the table, and I can’t believe the swiftness and speed of Quinn’s attack. He’s like a ninja, without the outfit.

“Move,” he snarls into my ear, reaching for my elbow, indicating for me to get up.

I happily comply, as we both need to get out of here before Varsity Jacket comes to and identifies us, drawing unwanted attention our way.

The smell of alcohol fans across my face as Quinn exhales angrily when I try and break out of his firm grip. He only tightens his hold on my upper arm and closely guides me through the masses of people. This time around, my ass thankfully remains unmolested.

As we push outside, I try and jerk free, but Quinn stubbornly pulls tighter, not budging an inch. This is getting ridiculous. We have only been on the run for two days, and if the police, or my dad and Phil don’t end up killing Quinn and I first, we’ll end up doing the job for them.

I protest loudly, digging in my heels and cursing for him to let me go, but it all falls on deaf ears as Quinn just quickens his step, charging toward the motel.

The moonlight highlights the hardened set of his jaw and the incensed look in his wild eyes. I know once we get into our room, World War Three just may erupt.

As we round the corner and approach the bottom of the stairs to the motel, I grab onto the railing, holding on for dear life. Quinn jolts forward as he ascends the first step because I won’t budge and am standing my ground. I’m afraid I’ll be torn in two as he attempts to coax me into loosening my grip.

“Red…” he says through clenched teeth, his breath coming out heavily. “Let go, or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you up every step, kicking and screaming.”

“No,” I stubbornly insist, leaning back to gain better balance.

He rotates his body, turning to look at me, and because he’s a step above me, he looks all the more menacing.

“Let. Go,” he spits, his hair entirely shrouding his eyes.

“No,” I reply defiantly. “I dare you to try and carry m—”