I lift my hands in front of me to halt her accusation. “Whoa … hold on there! I didn’t break this shit.”
“Maybe not,”—she disregards me again to continue her task—“but you’ll all leave your cans, bottles and cigarette butts and shit down here, won’t you?”
I’m incredulous. Fuck this. Fuck her.
I start to turn away, but for some reason my eyes search around to see who’s here with her.
“Who are you here with? Where the hell are your friends … or parents?” I demand.
“Like you give a shit.” She climbs off the pedestal. “Look, I know who you are, Liam Knight. You’re a sophomore at South.”
“You know that?”
“The school’s not that big. Not to mention that last year you went to a dance with Alexis Nichols.” She faces me as she straightens her red sweater and pulls on her black quilted jacket. She’s wearing ripped-at-the-knees jeans and a pair of worn black Chucks.
I feel my ego puff at the idea that she’d learned who I was. But then she continues, “And she’s still talking about what an asshole and user you are.”
Nice.
She smirks and says, “Plus, we met at North House during the summer.”
“LIAM!” a female voice rings out. I look over my shoulder to see Tina waving me over.
“Don’t want to miss your party.” The girl turns away.
“Hey!” I grab hold of her arm and spin her around to make her pay attention. “It isn’t safe down here by yourself.”
She yanks her arm back. “Leave me alone,” she growls defensively.
“All right, calm down,” I say, backtracking. “Why haven’t you been at school? Graduate already?”
“Something like that,” she quips with a tilt of her head. Her bright blue eyes are the color of a perfect afternoon sky.
Trying to call a truce, I say, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“My name is Quinn,” she says softly then snaps, “Are you finished with your interrogation?”
“Okay … Quinn. That wasn’t too hard, right?” I ask. “Why don’t you come over and have a beer with us?”
She looks past me to the group. “I don’t know.”
There’s something about her—it’s like she’s trying to act unaffected, but she can’t mask the sadness.
“Come on, none of us will bite,” I coax. I consider her. What kind of teenager comes down to the graveyard, alone, to clean up random acts of vandalism?
“Okay, one beer.”
I smile.
She doesn’t smile back.
At least she follows me over to the party.
I lean into the cooler for a couple beers, when Randy comes over.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?”
“What the fuck does it look like?”
“Tina’s waiting for you, and you come back with the fucking bag lady!” he exclaims. “Albeit, a hot bag lady.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I shove him. “And I can handle Tina.”
Walking back over to Quinn, I hand her the cold can.
“Thanks,” she says without meeting my eyes.
“I thought you’d never get back over here,” Tina whines and slides her hand into the back pocket of my jeans, subsequently stroking my ass.
“I’m here now,” I remind her and drape my arm around her shoulders.
I catch Quinn as she rolls her eyes at me and Tina. She’s so blatant I almost laugh, but again, the gnawing won’t be ignored. I went over there to quell my curiosity, but instead, it’s become deeper. Why is she here alone? What was she doing at North House during the summer? Why hasn’t she been at school? What’s her story?
Tina’s hand rubbing my ass is making my dick grow, but I’m staring at and thinking about Quinn. This is probably not the best combination.
I watch as she cracks open her beer and chugs it down for all she’s worth. Liquid streams escape from between her lips and create channels running down the sides of her chin. She quickly lowers her head and eyes as she brings her sleeve to her mouth to catch the errant drink. She must have been really thirsty.
“Now that’s the fucking way to drink!” Dylan Porter, who’s a senior, comes over and casually snakes his arm around Quinn’s waist. “First time getting drunk?”
She stiffens, but doesn’t look up at him or make an effort to move away. Meanwhile, Tina begins to run her lips up my neck. She whispers something, but I don’t make out the words.
Dylan drops his hand to Quinn’s ass. “I bet that’s not your only first.”
“Leave her the fuck alone,” I say to him.
Dylan, who’s a head taller than me and the varsity quarterback, gives me a once look-over. “Fuck off, Knight. You got your piece of ass.”
Tina giggles beside me.
He waves his half empty bottle of Jack in front of Quinn’s face. “This will get the job done faster.” When she doesn’t take it, Dylan leans in closer. “I’ve never seen you at South High. Are you a freshman?”
“No. A sophomore. I just wasn’t around last year,” Quinn says, looking at the ground.
I can see why Dylan thinks she’s a freshman. There’s something innocent about her. That something an asshole like Dylan would like to take. I’m one of the oldest kids in the sophomore class, so I know she’s probably younger than me, but she seems way younger—like she could be fourteen, easily.
“I’ve got to go,” she says, still staring at her shoes.
“Not yet, you don’t, I just got here.” Dylan licks his lips. “Have you ever been kissed before?”
She winces and tries to take a step away, but he holds her fast against his side.
“Oh, you like to play rough …” Dylan smiles.
“Hey, dick, leave the girl alone,” I say, making sure to emphasize dick.
“What the fuck did you call me, asshole?” Dylan looks surprised anyone would ever challenge him.
Our words are getting everyone else’s attention, and people are starting to gather around us.
Quinn’s deep blue eyes are tainted with fear when she lifts them to mine. It does something inside my gut I can’t explain; like her eyes are a conduit to the electrical current that flows through my body, the voltage shoots through me. An extreme shot of adrenaline is injected into my muscles.
“I know I didn’t stutter, fuckface,” I warn, very seriously. “Move on.”
Tina stops sucking at my neck and nervously steps away.
Dylan’s eyes turn hard and his smile turns wicked. Dramatically, he lets go of his grip around Quinn. It’s apparent she was pulling away from him as she stumbles under her own force. Douchebag doesn’t even attempt to help her; he just holds his arm out straight.
“Knight, you should have minded your own fucking business,” he warns before he takes a pull from his bottle.
“Maybe,” I retort. “But something about you holding a girl against her will just doesn’t set right with me.”
“I’m going to kick your motherfucking ass.”
“You only think you are, douchebag.” I hate assholes like Dylan. He has an over-inflated sense of his own popularity and thinks he’s entitled.
He hands his Jack bottle to a nearby friend and pulls his coat off unsteadily. I shake my head. Smug bastard is already half in the bag; I’ve only had a few beers, which means I’m going to sweep the fucking floor with him.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch Quinn—who had been slowly and cautiously backing away from us—now running through the dusk covered graveyard.
Fuck! She ain’t coming back.
Dylan’s fist collides with my jaw, but the only thing I’m thinking is that Quinn’s going to disappear into the night, and I’m not going to be able to find her again. Now, I don’t know why I give a shit, since I’m guaranteed to get laid with Tina, but ever since the girl entered my field of vision tonight, I obviously haven’t been able to think of much else.
A fight would have been entertaining.
Oh well.
I position my right foot behind my body to anchor myself, and then I hit him beneath the chin, just right, so he goes down.
He hits the ground hard and stays there. My friends start laughing, while his friends look like they expected it.
“I’ll deal with you more thoroughly another time,” I promise before I turn and start a quick stride after Quinn.
“Hey, man! Where are you going?” Randy calls out.
I wave him off. “There’s something I have to take care of.” I doubt he hears the entire sentence because I’m already halfway down the hill, weaving between the old granite headstones—and over the dead bodies with no voices to protest or encourage me. The only sounds I hear are my breath and my boots crushing the dried leaves underneath my feet.
“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-Tart
s 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.”
Burn (Brothers of Ink and Steel #2) Page 2
