“Fuck you,” he snaps, reaching for his jacket on the sofa. “You’re such a little cunt.”
I ignore his rude remark and step in front of him. “You can’t leave. I have to go to this interview.”
He slips on his jacket. “Get out of my way, Avery.”
I shake my head. “I need you here.”
“Why? I’m high, so I’m useless.” He zips up his jacket, ready to bail. It’s the last year playing all over again, painful, ugly events stuck on repeat.
I shove my hand in his direction. “Then give me your car keys?”
“No fucking way.”
“I’m not letting you drive high.”
He snorts a laugh. “Like you could really stop me.”
I stand my ground, keeping my feet planted to the floor. “Mason needs his father alive.” I figure that’ll get him but instead it seems to push him further over the edge.
“Avery, I’m warning you, move now before things get ugly.”
“Things are already ugly,” I say, gesturing around the living room that consists of a torn leather sofa, a broken stereo, a shelf, and a few boxes. That’s it. That’s all we’ve managed to accumulate over the last few years. “There’s no way things could get worse.”
“Bullshit.” Shaking his head, he rushes forward and clocks his shoulder into my neck. I wince, but don’t budge. “Fuck!” he shouts so hard the veins in his neck and forehead bulge. “I’m in fucking hell!” He looks at me like everything’s my fault.
That he never wanted any of this.
That he never wanted me.
Or this life.
This nightmare.
Then he shoves me without warning. Hard.
I stumble and smack the side of my face against a nearby shelf, right on the corner. My head throbs as the world spins around me.
“Dammit, that hurt,” I say, clutching my head.
For a fleeting instant, he looks guilty, shocked, and appalled with himself. But all the remorse vanishes from his face and then he’s storming out the door, slamming it so hard behind him that the entire trailer rumbles.
After I hear the tires peel away, I sink down on the sofa and cradle my head, staring at the floor while Mason cries from his room. Part of me wants to remain this way and never move again. But a second later, I drag myself to my feet and walk back into the room to comfort Mason. I lie down in his bed and sing him a song, holding onto him for dear life because it feels like I’ve failed, like I failed Jax when I left him behind in Wyoming.
“I love you, Mama,” Mason mutters sleepily right before he drifts off to sleep.
Then I start to sob noiselessly as I hug him closer to me.
That day in the hospital when I had him, I vowed I would take care of him. Vowed I’d do anything for him. Vowed that he’d never have to go through what I went through. But I’ve broken all those vows and it hurts so god damn bad. I love him more than anything and I’m screwing up.
But how do I fix it?
I finally slip out of his room and into the bathroom to look at my reflection in the mirror. The entire side of my face is red and swollen from where it hit the shelf. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d hit it until now, nor did I acknowledge how bad it hurt.
But now it aches.
More than I realized.
Everything aches.
“Jesus,” I mutter as I turn away from the mirror.
In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and gently press it to the side of my face. Then I try to figure out what to do when Conner comes back home. Get angry? Try to talk about it? Honestly, part of me just wants to leave this shithole and go back. But to where? The Subs and live with my mother? God, I can’t do that. Can’t subject Mason to that kind of environment? Yet as I glance around the near empty house, collapsing from age, I have to wonder.
Is this life any better?
But what can I do to change it?
Maybe I could try to track down my father and ask him for help. But how would I even go about doing that? All I know about him is his name and the fact that he was as obsessed with the stars as I am. And really, it’d probably only lead to more disappointment. If he wanted to find me he could have over the years.
Disappointment drowns me. How did things get so bad? How could I let things get so bad? How can I fix this? Make things better?
Removing the bottle from my face, I glance out the window and at the stars, just like I used to do all the time when I was younger. When I had dreams. Hope. When I thought my father would come back and save me, but he never did, and now no one can save me.
I’m damned.
Ruined.
Wrecked.
Forever.
So instead of searching for answers in the stars, I pop the cap off the beer.
And search for answers at the bottom of the bottle.
Chapter 18
Not quite rock bottom, but close.
Tristan
Where am I? I don’t know. I don’t know anything other than the world is spinning. Or maybe it’s me that’s spinning.
“Tristan, can you hear me?” a woman asks as everything continues to spin and spin.
Round and round.
Out of control.
Just like me.
“What… Who’s there?” I moan.
“Baby, look at me,” she purrs. “Are you coming back?”
After blinking several times, my surroundings come into focus. A leaky ceiling is the first thing I see before I feel the pain.
“Where am I?” I mutter, cringing as the aching radiates through my head, like my skull is cracked.
“At your house, silly,” she giggles.
I rotate my throbbing head. An older woman is sitting on the floor with her shoes and shirt off. She has greasy brown hair, an overly thin body, and sunken-in eyes that I don’t recognize.
“Who are you?” I croak, my throat dry as hell.
“That doesn’t really matter, does it?” she says then reaches for a shiny object that’s on the floor in front of her feet.
I realize it’s a spoon and the last several, very blurry months come crashing back to me. I’m in my room in an apartment in Vegas where I’ve been living for months. I live here with Quinton and a few other people, spending all my time doing and dealing drugs. I’m sprawled out on the floor, and in serious pain, because I screwed over the wrong person and they punched me in the side of the head so hard I think I got a concussion. But instead of going to the hospital, I dragged my ass back to my room because I can’t afford a doctor nor do I care enough to fix myself.
I also remember all the other drugs I do.