Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Devon
Arnie’s neon sign flickers in the dark, mocking me with every flash.
I can't even count how many times I've come back to this place, even when I swear I won't. My ribs scream on each inhale as I stand across the street, hood pulled tight around my face.
I shouldn’t be here.
Christian’s couch is probably still warm. Safe. Part of me wants to turn around and walk back into his apartment, snuggle down. Let him take care of me again, like he did earlier.
That part of me can shut the fuck up, though, because the other side of my brain that freaked when I woke up to someone lifting my shirt just wants some goddamn peace.
I cross the street before I can talk myself out of it, dirty Chucks scraping the pavement eagerly. The bar door sticks when I tug it open, and heads turn the minute I step inside.
Home sweet hell.
Arnie’s already watching me from where he leans against a pool table, greasy smile stretching wide. “Well, I’ll be fucked,” he drawls. “Look who crawled back.”
My jaw tightens, and I barely smother a wince at the ache. “I need an eighth.”
Arnie chuckles along with his cronies around him. “You got some nerve showing your face here again.”
“I don't want to start shit,” I mutter, eyes scanning the room nervously. “Just need something to take the edge off.”
His smile sharpens. “That so?”
“Just a little. Last time.”
God, I hate how easy that word comes out.
“Last time,” like every time I do this shit couldn't potentially be the last. Christian’s medicine cabinet was empty, though.
Not even a bottle of cough syrup. His shed had been locked up, too, so I couldn’t lift any of his tools for some money. I'm out of luck.
Arnie pushes off the table and strolls closer, invading my space. “Looks like your hero friend paid all that money for nothing, huh?”
“Don’t talk about him,” I snap, cursing internally when Arnie lifts an amused brow.
“Oh? He your boyfriend, party boy?”
All I do is look away, silently seething.
“Funny thing about heroes, kid. They always end up getting dragged into everyone else's mess. You sure you wanna be here right now?”
“You got what I need or not?”
He studies me for a long moment before jerking his chin toward the back door. “You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood.”
My stomach flips with a mix of relief and dread, so tangled together that I can’t tell which one is winning.
As I follow after him, Christian’s voice echoes in my head.
“You can hate me tomorrow.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
Tomorrow doesn’t matter. With any luck, tomorrow will never come.
Arnie leads me through the exit of the main building and over to the detached garage where he lives.
Metal screeches in protest when the door groans open, and I let him lead me into his familiar space.
I've seen it a dozen times—same stained couch shoved against the wall, same folding table littered with baggies, scales, and empty bottles.
The air smells like chemicals, making my eyes sting.
Miracle by Bad Omens quietly plays from an ancient-ass boom box.
He shuts the door behind us and locks it tight, the click echoing loudly off the concrete walls. “An eighth, huh? That all you need?”
“Yeah. Just a few lines to get me through the night.” Or not. Either way.
A snort leaves his throat when he sits at the table and pulls out a bag, weighing it slowly. Too fucking slow. My leg bounces uncontrollably with every passing second.
“You know,” he says casually, “most people would lay low after a stunt like the one you pulled tonight.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” Arnie agrees, leaning back to fold his arms. “You're not. Payment?”
My stomach sinks. “You said—”
“I said I was generous. Didn’t say it was free.”
“I don’t have—”
“No shit,” he interrupts, smiling wider. “But you’re resourceful. We can make a deal like last time.”
Once again, the memory of a stranger's hot breath on my neck makes my skin crawl. “I said I’m not doing that again.”
“Then I guess you don’t need an eighth that bad.”
Desperation claws at my lungs, and I stare down at that baggie, craving oblivion. Itching for the numbness that consumes me every time I snort a line.
“You can hate me tomorrow.”
If someone asked me when things got this bad, I wouldn't be able to answer. It feels like I was always destined to end up here.
“You really get off on this shit, don’t you?” I rasp, meeting Arnie’s sleazy grin.
He just shrugs. “Supply and demand, Dev. You know how it is. I've got a business to run.”
I drag a trembling hand down my face, hating myself every time I give in. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just a little insurance to guarantee my money. Same as always.”
Shame floods my chest so hard it almost knocks me over. I blink away the heat blurring my eyes as bile rises in my throat. The air thickens enough to choke on. My fingers itch, a high-pitched ring sounding in my ears even as my nose starts to drip preemptively.
For a split second, I consider leaving, going back to Christian’s couch and the safety of his apartment.
Instead, I nod before getting to my feet. “Whatever. Doesn't matter.”
None of this fucking matters.
Arnie laughs softly. “That’s what I thought.”
When he presses the baggie into my palm, I don’t resist. I just duck into his small bathroom, the window already cracked to let in cool air. City lights prevent the stars from shining, but I know those fuckers can still see me.
“Just a line,” I whisper, emptying the powder onto the sink.
Just one. Just enough to make the pain go away.
Leaning down, I snort it all off the porcelain in one go. It burns so fucking bad, but dizzying relief floods my senses, cruel in how it makes my body feel too light for how heavy I am inside.
Briefly, I forget about Arnie and Christian. I forget everything except the euphoria lighting up my synapses.
When I blink rapidly, my reflection blurs in the rippled mirror. Bloodshot eyes, pupils huge. I look like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin.
A hoarse laugh bursts out of me. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“You can hate me tomorrow.”
Somewhere beyond the door, a voice howls with wicked laughter. The sound crawls under my skin, and I scratch at my face to get it out. Out, out, get the fuck out of here.
“You can hate me tomorrow.”
The high hums in my veins, too loud. Nausea churns in my gut. What the fuck did Arnie give me? This isn't fucking coke.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see those stars—fake and merciless like they've always been.
Before I know it, I'm on the floor, but it's all wrong. How can I be so low when I'm falling from the sky? Alone, cold, and burning up with chills.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Christian’s words float across my vision like a string of lights leading me into the abyss.
“You can hate me tomorrow. You're not leaving like this.”
The laughter outside gets louder—or maybe that’s just in my head. Everything echoes around me. My fingers curl into the filthy concrete as I gag, vomit crawling up my throat. A broken sob rips out of me.
“I didn’t mean to,” I choke, though there’s no one here to listen. “I just want it to stop.”
You can hate me tomorrow.
I'm sorry.
I just want it to stop.