She laughs, but it sounds hollow. “You’ve got other problems to fix,” she says, turning her back to me. “Before you showed up, Trace and a few guys took Tristan out back. And he was barely coherent, since he just shot up.”
“Shit!” I hobble out the door, pushing her out of the way as I stumble down the hall. The pain in my body is blinding, but I know it’s going to be minimal compared to the internal pain I’m going to feel if anything happened to Tristan. If I’m too late again, like I have been in the past. Always too late.
I limp across the balcony for the stairs, past memories swarming through my head like bees as I run into the unknown again, not knowing what waits for me ahead.
“Lexi, God no!” I cry out to the stars. “Please don’t leave me.”
I drag my ass down the stairs, my heart knocking in my chest, my skin coated with sweat. My legs are so sore it feels like they’re going to give out on me and my hand might be broken, but physical pain is nothing. I’ve felt a lot of it over the last few years and it’s the most bearable part of life.
Her body goes limp in my arms, her head slumping against my chest, which is split open, spilling out blood—life.
I look into Lexi’s eyes, but there’s nothing left inside them, and I know that pretty soon nothing will be left inside me, so I lie down on the ground with her and take her hand, allowing myself to bleed out.
The Cadillac is gone, but I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not, since it means that whatever they were going to do to Tristan, they’ve probably already done to him. I limp off toward the back of the apartment building, my arms and legs sore and stiff, my movements lethargic.
Everything is stilling inside me—I can feel it. Darkness sets in as my life slips away. I can feel myself being pulled somewhere and I swear I can feel Lexi with me, so close, yet at the same time so far away. Don’t leave me. But she is, or maybe I’m leaving her. I feel myself being pulled back, people calling out my name. I hear the beeping of machines, feel needles sinking into my skin, giving me life, and I hate them for it. I want them to take it away…
I round the corner and see someone lying on the ground, arms and legs sprawled out, unmoving. Hang on. I rush up to Tristan and I shudder at the sight of his face, slit open and bleeding onto the rocks below his head. His eye is so engorged it blends in with his face and his arm is scraped raw. The only good thing about the sight is that he’s breathing, and when I check his pulse, it’s erratic and unsteady, but I’m not sure if it’s because he’s on smack or because he’s been beaten up.
“God dammit, Tristan,” I say as he rolls over, groaning about needing it to go away while his body trembles. “Why did you have to screw Trace over?”
“I…don’t…know,” he mutters, pain straining his voice, and his syllables are all messed up so it’s hard to understand. “I…fucked up. And I tried to fix it—give them money. But it wasn’t enough.”
I’m not sure what to do, but I know I’ve got to get him out of here, in case the guys come back or Dylan shows up with his stupid gun. I’m not even sure where the hell they went, if they’re planning on returning, or if they’re done here. The entire situation is a mess and I need to get Tristan up and out of here, because from the look of him, if there’s a next time, he won’t make it out alive.
I drag my fingers roughly through my hair, looking around at the desert behind me and then at the stores and old houses to the side of our building. I need to find somewhere we can hide out for a little while, someone who might let us stay with them. I need a lot of things at the moment, like a line or two because I feel like I’m melting under the pressure, heat, and emotions inside me. If I’m going to handle this—keep it together enough to help Tristan—I can’t be crashing.
Blowing out a breath, I lower my hand and reach down and grab hold of Tristan’s arms. “All right, we got to get you out of here,” I say, then lift him as best I can and try to get him to his feet, grunting and cursing as he puts most of his weight against me.
I manage to get him standing, but I’m not sure if he’s even aware of it—if he’s aware of anything going on right now or if he’s got too much smack in his system, or whatever he was on when they showed up. I get his arm around my neck and then support most of his weight as he drags his feet and struggles to walk back toward the front of the building.
I can barely walk myself and I end up going to Nancy’s, since it’s close and she’s a somewhat decent person and I know she’ll probably let us crash at her place, although I’m sure we’ll owe her for it. But I’ll figure out that part later. Right now I just need to get Tristan inside and a few lines into my body because it’s screaming at me to feed this, otherwise I’m going to break. And I can’t break yet.
Tristan leans against me as I knock on Nancy’s door. She doesn’t even look surprised when she answers it. She’s wearing a robe, her hair pulled up, and she easily lets us in.
“I knew he was going to get into trouble one of these days,” she says as she shuts the door behind us and I help Tristan sit down on the torn sofa in the living room. When I move my arm away from him, he collapses to his side and presses his puffy cheek to the cushion. It’s actually oozing out blood on her plaid seventies-themed couch, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
“Do you have something to clean his cuts up with?” I ask Nancy as she stands near the back of the couch, watching Tristan with fascination. Her pupils are dilated and ringed with red and she keeps sniffing. I know she’s on what I want and I wonder if she has any she’ll share, but then again, if she does, it probably won’t be without a price. But I don’t really care. I just want it. Need to breathe again. Forget everything that’s happened over the last couple of minutes. Hours. Days. Forget who I am and what I’m feeling. Things are so much easier that way.
She tightens the tie around the silk robe she’s wearing. “Let me get some towels,” she says, then strolls off to the bathroom at the back of the house. I wait for her in the small living room that’s dark because she has curtains hanging up and no lights on. There’s a pot steaming on the stove in the kitchen and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and it reminds me a lot of our place. As soon as I think it, another problem smacks me in the face.
Shit, where are we going to live?