What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
After dinner, I fill Mad and Gun in on what I saw in the living room earlier.
What I definitely don't fill them in on is what happened with me and Merit.
Jesus, am I the world's biggest piece of shit? I wonder as I stare at my two best friends and wonder if they know, if they could see it written all the hell over our faces that day. For a second there, I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath. I seriously can't stop thinking about the feel of her body beneath mine, the taste of her mouth, the warmth of her skin.
“Nash?” Gunner asks, and I crack my eyes to look up at him. How can he not see it in my gaze when he looks at me like that? I'm messed all the hell up right now. Like, how do I move on from this? Do I move on? Are Mer and I going to be a thing? Could we ever be a thing? Our group dynamic is … it's what I fucking live for.
“What?” I ask, pushing dark hair back from my forehead. I've always jokingly called this my emo cut which was funny, you know, because I've always been an upbeat sort of person. I don't feel so upbeat right now. Looks like the mood finally matches the hair.
“You're spacing out again,” Gunner says, getting that dark look on his face, the one that says he's slightly disappointed in me. He can tell I'm hiding something. I get that. I mean, I am. But it's scary to think he might be able to get it out of me before I'm ready. When he glares at me like that, I feel like I'm seconds away from spilling the truth. He just has that look. Maybe it's because he's a hundred feet tall? Maybe it's because he looks like a Viking warrior? Or maybe it's because he once took a blow from an angry foster father for me?
His nose never did heal quite right after that.
“I know, I know,” I say as steeple my hands and put them to my lips. “I just … I don't trust this guy like, at fucking all. He's going to drag Clea down with him.”
Maddox makes a sound from the window, sitting half inside and half out, smoking a cigarette and blowing gray-white wisps into the wind.
“I thought you and Clea were done? What do you care what she does?” he asks, pausing and listening for that distinct squeaking floorboard, the one that says somebody's coming down the hall toward us. A second later, we all hear it and Mad chucks his smoke into the darkness, closing the window and slipping into the chair next to the desk.
When the door opens, it's not the Buzzard—it's Hitch.
“Hello boys,” he says, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not particularly,” Gunner says, his voice smooth and low. Dangerous. He takes care of us, but he's not a pushover. I wonder if it bothers him that the boy we used to hang out with has become such a rancid prick?
“Good, good,” Hitch says, hauling himself up onto the bunk above my own. “I wouldn't want to bother you all if you were discussing something important.” He kicks off his shoes—these black high tops with a purple and blue galaxy print—and lets them fall to the floor in the center of the small room. From where I'm sitting, I have a perfect view of his ankle monitor.
“Nah, we were just talking about you doing crack in the living room.”
“Wasn't crack—that was definitely cocaine.” Hitch pulls his feet up onto the bed and then leans over to stare at me upside down, his blonde and black hair hanging like a mohawk. “Next time, if you want some, just ask.”
Hitch lifts himself back up onto the bed, the mattress dipping above me as he settles in.
So much for private conversations in our own bedroom.
Maddox, Gunner, and I exchange a look.
“I'm taking a shower,” Gun says with a small sigh, glancing back at Hitch before he grabs his shampoo and leaves the room, the floorboard creaking as he passes over it. Maddox doesn't say anything at all, flicking off the lamp and climbing into bed without a word. A few seconds later, I hear his old CD player whirring. I bet he's listening to Metallica again. I mean, he's only got about ten CDs so it's kind of an easy guess.
“Do they know you and Merit are fucking?” Hitch asks after a moment, making my skin go cold. I peer through the darkness at Maddox, but the only movement from his side of the room is the slight tapping of his foot against one of the bunk bed's posts.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, standing up and turning to look at Hitch, all sprawled out and comfortable on his mattress, arms crossed behind his head. I can see his mouth etched in sickly orange light from the streetlamp outside. I expect him to be smiling, smirking, laughing at me. Instead, he's just frowning with his eyes closed.
“I walked in on you two last week. If you don't want your friends to know, you should be more careful.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I snap, reaching out and taking a handful of Hitch's shirt, jerking him forward with a tight fist. He snatches my wrist and sits up to look at me, but still, he doesn't smile or grin, doesn't make a sound. He just stares at me for a long moment.
“I'm not threatening you,” he tells me, carefully removing my hand from his shirt. I let him do it and take a step back, using long, deep breaths to try and get a handle on my anger. If I start fighting Hitch, Mad and Gun will want to know why. I'm not ready to explain yet. “It's just an observation.”
“Sure it is,” I say, reaching back to grab a handful of my shirt. I yank it over my head and drape it over one of the rungs on the bunk bed's ladder that nobody ever uses. The beds are so short, it's easier to use the bottom bunk to just hop right up.
“Oh, come on, Taters, relax a little. We used to be buddies, right? I'm just trying to help you out a little.”
“Fuck off,” I snap, throwing my covers back and climbing into bed. I try not to think about Merit lying in here with me, my hand inside her jeans, inside her. My fingers curl in my hair as I suck in a deep breath and tilt my head back into the pillows, trying to get my emotions under control.
Shit.
So not only do my best friends not know, but the guy I hate has it all figured out.
This should be a fun eight months, shouldn't it?
A hand curls in my hair and drags me from the bed, throwing me to my knees on the floor.
I hit the ground hard, pain spiraling from my legs and up into my spine as the shadowy figure above me jerks me forward with his grip on my scalp, dragging me across the wood floor towards the door.
“Get your fucking hands off of me!” I scream, thrashing around and shredding the wrist of the man above me, drawing blood with my nails.
“You think this is a fucking hotel?!” he screams as he releases me, kicking me as hard as he can in the side. I'm so disoriented that I don't think to try and block it or roll aside. Instead, I just curl forward with a grunt and desperately try to suck in more breath to scream.
I was sleeping. It was early afternoon. But now it's dark? I slept too long.
Blinking through the haze of sleep, I look up just in time to see Jenna-Marie's husband looming above me in the shadows, his face a messy red blob, his eyes unfocused, his hands curled into fists.
“You lounge around all day while I work my ass off,” he slurs, running his hand through his dark hair and swaying from side to side. “Not in my goddamn house. I won't have some fucking orphan leeching off of me. Get your fucking ass in the kitchen and finish those dishes.”
“Eat a load of shit,” I whisper, scrambling out of the way as the man takes another swing at me, missing by a mile in his drunken rage. Down the hall, I see Maddie's cracked door close suddenly.
That explains a lot.
Is this why Jenna-Marie wanted me back? To take the place of her and her daughters as her husband's punching bag? It wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to me.
Finding my feet, I head down the hallway toward the front door. Unfortunately, I'm not familiar enough with the house to know there's a decorative fucking rug on the linoleum floor in the foyer.
The fabric slides right out from under me, sending me to my back on the floor
with a cry of pain. But that's nothing compared to the sudden curl of fingers in my hair, the force that the man hauls me backward with. There's so much rage there, so fucking much.
“You think you can run from me, you little bitch?” he asks, straddling me and throwing a hard punch to my face. White stars scatter across my vision, and the hot, metallic tang of blood fills my mouth. When I try to scream, I choke on the scalding liquid, gasping and sputtering as Jenna-Marie's husband grabs me by the front of my shirt and slams me into the floor. “I asked you a goddamn question!” he shouts in my face, spittle flecking my cheeks, the rancid reek of alcohol all over his breath.
I throw a punch of my own at him—I've been defending myself from grown men all my life—but he's in too much of a state to even register the pain. Instead, all that does is make him angrier, and his hands wrap around my throat, squeezing hard and choking the life out of me.
I kick my legs underneath him, but god, he must weigh about a million fucking pounds. I swear, it feels like I'm sitting under a block of cement.
Thoughts of the boys fill my head as I struggle for my life in the dark hallway, my hands clawing at the man's face, fingers going for the dark sockets where his eyes should be. I dig my thumbs into those pits with as much force as I can muster, my lungs screaming for breath, my ribs crying out at the massive amount of weight crushing me to the floor.
The man's grip on my throat loosens and I manage to scramble away, skidding across the floor as I try to find my feet again. My head is spinning and blood is pouring down my face, but I don't stop, going straight for the back door and throwing it wide.
That's where he catches up to me, snatching me by the back of the shirt and throwing me into the kitchen table. I hit it so hard that I end up mostly lying on top of it, my hand scrambling around for something to use as a weapon.
At this point, all I've managed to do is make the pissed off psycho even angrier. Now he's just coming at me in a white-hot rage. He probably has no idea who I am, doesn't even care. He just wants to hurt me—maybe even kill me.
My hand wraps around a fork, and I spin, just in time for the man to grab me by the ankle. Without hesitation, I thrust the metal utensil into his right eye.
The scream he lets out then is deafening.
Sliding off the table, I head back down the hall to my room and slam the door, locking it behind me. Since I never bothered to unpack, it only takes me a second to shove my shit into the suitcase and snap it closed. Before I let myself think too hard about what I'm doing, I climb out the window and into a sudden rainstorm.
Seems fate isn't exactly on my side tonight.
The light flickers on overhead, blinding me.
“What the fuck?” I hear Hitch mumble from the bunk across from mine. We're both on the top, inches away from the massive round light in the center of the ceiling. Getting flashed with that in a dead sleep is not my idea of pleasant.
I sit up and bang my head on the ceiling with a curse, rubbing at my eyes, expecting to see one of the younger kids standing in the doorway, someone with a nightmare that just needs a gentle smile or a pair of strong arms.
Instead, I find myself looking right at the Buzzard in her lavender robe, curly orange-brown hair twisted into a messy bun on the back of her head.
“Is she here?” she asks, and immediately, I know something's happened to Merit.
“What's going on?” I ask as the Buzzard moves into the room and checks the small closet, under both beds, under the desk. “Mrs. Freeman?”
“There's been an incident,” is what she says, but hell if I'm going to be satisfied with that. “Go back to bed, but let me know immediately if Miss Burden shows up here.”
“Why would she show up here?” I ask, heart racing, throwing my legs over the side of the bed so I can drop to the floor.
“Mr. Colvin, get back in bed or that's an infraction slip for you.”
“I'll take the infraction slip,” I tell her, lifting my palms up in surrender. “But I need to know what's happened with Merit.”
“It's not your concern, Mr. Colvin,” she sniffs with her beaklike nose. “The police are handling it. Just remember—failing to report a runaway isn't just an infraction slip, it's a guaranteed spot in the juvenile detention center.”
The Buzzard turns off the light and slams the door. I wait just long enough to hear the floorboards creak before I move over to wake Maddox and Nash. Mad always sleeps with music playing, and Nash just plain sleeps like the dead so neither of them is awake when I approach their beds.
“What the hell?” Maddox groans as I yank off his headphones and shake him awake before moving over to Nash.
“Something's happened with Merit,” I say, and that gets them both off their asses.
“What do you mean?” Nash asks, scrambling out of bed, shirtless and panting. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“I have no idea,” I tell them, grabbing a shirt and jacket from the end of my bunk. “But nobody seems to know where she is.”
“Jesus Christ,” Nash whispers, scrambling around for a shirt and shoes. “Jesus fucking Christ, Mer.”
I help Maddox find his clothes in the dark, so he can get dressed. I know he could really use the light to see, but we can't risk drawing attention right now. What we need to do is get the hell out of here.
“Are you three bailing?” Hitch asks incredulously, looking at us with disbelief. “You can't do that.”
“Sure we can,” I say, pulling my shirt over my head. I give him a cold look that brooks no bullshit. “You did crack in the living room, didn't you?”
“First off, it was cocaine, and second, you can't goddamn leave.”
“Try and stop me,” I tell him, my voice getting eerily low and quiet.
I shrug my jacket onto my shoulders and head over to the window, lifting it up on quiet hinges. I bought a small can of WD-40 from the store across the street from my work, just so I could keep this particular window from creaking.
Looks like that investment's paying off.
I climb out first and Maddox follows, using me as a guide to find his footing.
“I can't see shit, Gun,” he whispers, and my jaw clenches tight.
“I've got you,” I tell him, helping him over to the front corner of the roof. Nash is right behind us … and Hitch is behind him.
“What the fuck do you want?” Nash snarls as the boy we used to call Finny pauses on the edge of the windowsill … and snips his ankle monitor off with a pair of garden shears.
Goddamn it.
“What the hell did you do that for?!” Nash spits as Hitch pulls himself outside and onto the roof. “The cops are gonna be all over this place.”
“No shit,” Hitch tells him, throwing an arrogant look over his shoulder. “But if you guys are getting the fuck out of Dodge tonight, then making my escape later will be ten times more difficult. I wasn't exactly ready to leave right now, but it is what it is.” He pauses and puts his hands on his hips. “Now, how the hell do we get down from this roof?”
“Gunner,” Nash pleads, staring at me with his hands out, but what the fuck can I do about a delinquent piece of shit like Hitch Finnegan? I have more important things to worry about.
“Screw him. Let's go,” I say, climbing down from the edge of the roof onto the rusty surface of the van that belongs to the home. The Buzzard uses it as her own personal vehicle even though it's supposed to be available for anyone with a valid license that lives in the home. Sure would be nice if I could drive the four miles to the grocery store at night instead of having to walk. “Help Mad down,” I tell Nash, and even though he's still scowling and glaring at Hitch, he guides our friend to the edge of the roof and helps me get him down safely.
It's basically a fucking miracle considering how wet everything is. Even as we're standing there, the skies open back up and drop a deluge of rainwater down on our heads.
Nash follows after, and the three of us hop down to the driveway just in time to hear sirens
in the distance.
“Shit. We better hurry,” I say, throwing up my hood and starting off down the sidewalk. The crash that follows stops me dead in my tracks, and I whirl around to find Hitch lying on the sidewalk clutching his ankle.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” he's cursing, clutching at his foot and leaning his head back against the side of the van. To his credit, he doesn't scream, just closes his eyes tight and purses his lips, his breathing coming in rapid, shallow pants.
“Wow. Talk about karma,” Nash says, looking unsympathetically in Hitch's direction. With a shrug of shoulders, he turns away, taking Maddox with him. I follow after.
“Wait!” Hitch shouts as the sirens draw closer and the rain starts to fall harder, crashing down on my hood and muffling the sound of my own frantic thoughts. Where are you, Mer? Please be okay. Please, please, please be o-fucking-kay. “You can't leave me here, alright? They'll send me to jail this time.”
I ignore him and start after Mad and Nash, waiting for me at the end of the block.
“I have money!” Hitch calls out as I move away. “Lots of it. It's buried somewhere in Monterey. If you take me with you, I'll give you half!”
That gives me pause.
I have no idea what's happened to Merit, but if she's a runaway, she'll need money. We will need money. We'll need a place to stay, food, clothes. I purse my lips tight and spin back around to kneel down next to Hitch.
Pushing my hood back, I give him my darkest look, the one that reveals every scar I've ever received right there in my eyes. Hitch stares right back at me, defiant and haughty, even with his swollen ankle clutched tight in his hands.
“If you're bullshitting me, you'll regret it,” I warn him and he nods. “Fuck.”
I swipe rainwater from my eyes and put my back to Hitch, grabbing one of his legs with either arm. He snarls with pain, but manages to thread his arms around my neck, both of us grunting with the effort as I struggle to stand up with all that extra weight clinging to my back and shoulders.
Beautiful Survivors Page 7
