Chapter 1 #2
He eased himself down onto the cold ground. Drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them and rested his forehead on his knees. I stood behind him, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders as he sucked every painful breath in and then let it out again.
My whole life I’d looked after Cash. That was what I did, what I was for. And I hated that he was sick. I hated that there was nothing I could do—nobody I could punch—to make it stop.
The five minutes was probably closer to fifteen by the time he lifted his head again. I helped him to his feet.
“We gotta keep moving,” I said and he nodded, and we continued down the slope.
It took us about an hour, moving at a snail’s pace, to get to a Sheetz.
It wasn’t a truck stop, which sucked, but at least it was warm inside and had clean bathrooms. I made Cash drink the last of the little DayQuil bottles I’d bought back in Boone, and we bought a black coffee each and sat in a booth to drink them.
I hated the taste, but it was cheap and hot.
I scoped the place out while we sat there.
Most of the people coming in looked to be families, and the chances of a family picking up two guys seemed pretty slim.
I could be charming, if I tried, or at least I could stop being openly hostile, but Cash didn’t talk and people found that weird and creepy.
More fool them, because he was the nice one and I was the asshole.
And now, with him being so sick that he looked like death warmed up, I figured our chances of talking our way into a ride were even worse than before.
I grabbed some sugar packets from the caddy and tipped four into my coffee, then pocketed the rest. It wasn’t food, but it was better than nothing.
We lingered at our table while I tried to spot someone who might give us a ride and did my best to ignore the scent of fried food that wafted through the air and made my stomach cramp with hunger.
I told myself I didn’t need anything to eat.
We hadn’t had much money to start with, and buying those meds had taken a bigger chunk of it than I liked.
The DayQuil seemed to be helping, though. Some of the color was slowly coming back into Cash’s face, and he seemed to be breathing easier—although that could have been because we were sitting down instead of trudging along the freezing highway.
Eventually, it got to where our cups were empty and the guy working the counter was looking at us curiously. And it might have been because we were twins, sure, but the last thing I wanted was trouble, so I said, “We should get going.”
Cash nodded, his eyes flicking to the guy behind the counter, who was still watching us. At least he was taking full breaths now, even if his lungs still wheezed and rattled like a broken-down pickup.
I looked around the parking lot one last time before we left to see if there was anyone who might give us a ride, and we started walking.
We walked for a couple of hours, through the late afternoon and into the darkness, our cheap-ass jackets doing nothing to fight off the cold, until finally we spotted lights up ahead.
It looked like it was a truck stop, and my whole body sagged with relief.
I pointed. “We’ll stop there and see if we can get a ride. ”
“Yeah,” Cash rasped out before doubling over in a coughing fit that had tears streaming down his face as he fought to breathe.
Panic clutched at my chest and I thumped him on the back because I didn’t know what else to do.
Eventually, he dragged in a huge, gasping breath, then another, and started to breathe—ragged and shaky, but still breathing—and I found I could breathe too.
He straightened up, his face pale, and said, “Do you think we can stop there for the night?”
“Sure,” I said, already trying to figure out how I could make that happen. We dragged our asses to the truck stop. I left Cash propped up around back near where the dumpsters were, covering him with my jacket because he couldn’t stop shaking. Then I went and checked the place out.
That first truck stop in Atlanta had spoiled us, because this one wasn’t as big or as well lit.
The store looked kind of dingy, though I wasn’t in any position to judge it; I looked kind of dingy myself.
But I could see the restaurant area through the wide front windows, and the truckers all looked to be eating big meals.
Would sure as hell be nice if I could get Cash and me one of those.
There had been a cold pit in my stomach since the trucker in Boone, and it got colder and bigger as I looked into the restaurant.
But it was inevitable because we didn’t have enough money to eat unless I did this.
And it wasn’t as though it had taken a lot to wrap my head around the concept of what I’d done.
I wasn’t in denial or anything, pretending it hadn’t happened.
How many times when we were kids had our mom made Cash and me go sit outside when one of her “friends” came to visit, or wait in the car while she visited them?
When you were desperate—for meth, in her case—you did what you had to do.
And we were hungry, and Cash was sick, and we were too fucking far away from Macon now to wonder what would have happened if I’d just asked Brad if we could crash on his floor for a while.
He’d liked me, I thought, but what if he hadn’t liked me enough for that?
Would have been a hell of a time to find out, right?
And it wasn’t like I could have said, Hey, so I think I just killed my dad.
Can we stay at your place? Anyway, Cash and I were better off on our own, just us together.
That was the way it had always been, and once Cash was better, we’d be fine.
I had to believe that like I’d never believed anything before in my life, just to stop that cold pit inside my stomach growing big enough to swallow me whole.
As I lingered near the front entrance, a guy walked past, then paused and looked me up and down. He was younger than the guy in Boone and fitter.
It wouldn’t be the worst thing.
I tilted my chin up at him—part what are you looking at? and part interested?—and waited to see which way he’d lean.
His lips curled up in a knowing smile, and when he opened the door he held it open, waiting. I followed him through the store to the bathroom and then into a stall. He was already unbuckling his belt when I dropped to my knees, pressing my palms against my thighs to hide the fact they were shaking.
“Twenty,” I said.
He nodded once and pulled his dick out.
It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t the worst thing, and at least it was over fast. I kept my eyes closed and tried not to choke when he held me in place until I swallowed.
I was still on my knees when he zipped up his jeans and went to shove past me, and panic flared in my chest. I needed that twenty. I struggled to my feet and blocked his exit. “You gonna pay me?” I demanded, my voice hoarse.
His expression turned nasty. “What are you gonna do if I don’t? Call the cops?”
Anger flared, and I shoved at his chest. “Pay me, asshole!”
The punch caught me across the cheek, and pain exploded.
I saw stars when the back of my head bounced off the door of the stall on my way down and I hit the floor.
The guy glanced down as he stepped over me and paused long enough to spit on me before the door swung open and he disappeared from view, leaving me sprawled out on the floor with my head ringing and my eyes watering from pain and frustration and the un-fucking-fairness of it all.
Anger and helplessness surged through me, and I might have stayed there except the bathroom door swung open, and I scrambled to get to my feet before anyone came in and saw me.
I bent over the sink and splashed cold water on my face and rinsed out my mouth, and when I dared lift my head the only person in sight was an old guy over at the urinal who didn’t give me a second glance. I kept my head down until he’d gone.
When I sucked in a shaky breath and finally checked my reflection, the face that stared back at me from the mirror looked the same as always.
There was a mark on my cheek that would probably turn into a bruise, but otherwise there wasn’t anything that would make Cash ask too many questions.
I dried my face and walked out of the truck stop, head down and jaw throbbing.
When I got back to where I’d left Cash resting, he wasn’t there.
A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold, but right before I freaked out I heard it—a familiar rattling cough, coming from the space behind the dumpster.
I peered into the narrow gap, and in the shadows I saw what looked like a pile of flattened boxes.
The heap moved, and the lights from the parking lot caught on a corner of a familiar jacket, a pale face, and dark hair poking out from under the stack of cardboard.
Cash.
His eyelashes were dark smudges against his pale skin, his chest rattling even in his sleep. I crawled into the tight space next to him, my heart still hammering, and wrapped myself around him. He startled awake, then relaxed.
“Did you find a ride?” he whispered.
“Nah,” I said, and he slumped against me. “We can sleep here, though. This is a pretty good spot.”
And it was. It smelled fucking terrible, but the dumpster blocked out most of the wind and there was a layer of cardboard underneath us that kept us off the cold ground.
The rest of the boxes acted to hold in our body heat, so it was almost warm.
It was private, too, so maybe we’d both be able to sleep.