Page 16 of Something like Redemption

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 hope he will get sick of me and leave. Turn his back on me and go back home. And when he does,thenI will go to the police.

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

I know my altercation with Brad is the reason I’m in this mess. In hindsight, picking a fight with the sheriff’s son was probably not the smartest thing to do, but I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. 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 were a believer in fate and kismet, then I may be fooled into believing that destiny sent me to South Boston.But how can I believe that when Hank is dead? And that’s why I’m a realist. I know fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, had no hand in my life.

Only I did.

The clock reads 9:00 p.m.,and Quinn has been gone since he stormed out of here over three hours ago.

I wonder where he is.

Is he with someone?

That’s what I wanted, right? At the moment, that’s thelastthing 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.

As I strip out of my clothes, stepping 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. It burns 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 that barely covers me and wipe down the bathroom mirror to look at my reflection.

I look and feel like shit. But I don’t really care what I look like, unlike most on a Saturday night who are letting loose.

Me?

I’m sitting around on a Saturday night, wondering if my dad and the police are getting closer to finding us.

At times like these, I wish I could drown my sorrows in a bottle of tequila, but after living the life that 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, and I decide to wear them with my ripped black jeans. I slip on my Harley Davidson T-shirt, and although it is too big and slips off one shoulder, it’s the only clean thing I have. I don’t leave the room without tucking 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 that wherever the hell we are has a vigorous nightlife. The area where we’re staying has enough bars and nightspots to keep the population happy.

Walking past a pizza place, which smells amazing, I know I really should eat something because I can’t remember when my last meal was. However, the thought of eating sends a wave of nausea through me, and I’d rather have that feeling without food in my stomach. Because if I ate, I would puke it all back up.

As I pass partygoers on the busy street, I can see they’re dressed to impress and ready to have a good time. 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.

“Five dollars,” the girl at 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 my arm and stamps my wrist with a happy face, which sits just above my moon tattoo.

So there is no way I will be able to see if Quinn is in here. The small place, which looks like a run-down coffee shop, is packed. Fortunately, I score a table at the back of the 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’m attentively looking for Quinn, but I still can’t see him.

Once the band finishes, they pack up their gear in no real hurry.

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