Page 88 of Darcy
“Come on, we’re friends. We’ve always been friends. I’m not going to leave you to face this on your own. If the others are helping, there must be something I can do.”
Thirty
Arlo
She doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing to me.
Her earnest face doesn’t hold a hint of guile. No matter what happened, what we did, Darcy would still help me if she could.
It makes me feel like dirt.
She wants an answer like “let me vent” or “buy me chocolate” or somethingeasy.
It’s not her fault she doesn’t understand.
I learned years ago that to get over addiction, you have to have a life worth living beyond the high.
The words—the stupid, selfish, honest words—linger on the tip of my tongue.
Take us back.
Save the band from imploding.
Look at me like I look at you.
Love me as if I’m worthy of you.
I don’t say them. I won’t. Even though I planned this date hoping to undo all the hurt we did, I won’t do it by guilting her into a relationship.
So I swallow the honesty back and settle for something more ambiguous. “I could use a hug?”
Darcy smiles and drags me close. I inhale the scent of her, trying to banish the phantom burnt plastic smell with the fresh fruity flavour of her shampoo.
I don’t want her pity, so I release her far sooner than I’d like to.
God, I’m tired. It’s been days since the initial comedown. It’s not as bad as it was last time, but I only did one line before Dodger found me and dragged me home. Maybe that improves my chances.
Even now, the back of my throat is dry, and for a second I swear I can taste the awful gasoline taste of coke—even addicts will tell you it tastes like shit. The scent of it has been haunting me on and off since I woke up, and to distract myself, I glance back below to check on my sister.
Emma should be fucking mad at me; I deserve it. Instead, here she is, having my back again when she should be out there, living her life. She watched our parents fall to this demon, and now she’s watching her brother fight the same one, even after I swore blind to her that I’d never touch the stuff again.
That time, I was in the hospital after an overdose.
I’m never going to let it get that bad again. It’s bad enough I let myself fall this far.
“How did it happen?” Darcy asks, dragging me back to the present—damn it, I must’ve spaced again. “How did the four of you get mixed up with Miguel? My file wasn’t clear.”
I choke out a laugh. “He was in juvie with us. For a while, he was actually Slate’s cellmate.”
Back then, he was in for dealing, just like me. Unlike me, he was using as well. Slate knew and warned the rest of us to steer well away from him.
Who your rich daddy is isn’t supposed to matter while you’re inside, but it does. Don Rosales, the man who founded the Rosales Cartel, had enough money to grease the palms of everyone who came into contact with his bastard son. It also meant that when rival cartel members turned up, grudges sprang up quickly.
“There was a fight while we were inside,” I continue. “And I accidentally saved his life.” I lift the hem of my shirt, exposing the old, white scar just above my hip for a second before dropping the fabric. “Some asshole from a rival cartel had a shiv. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, I tripped and…” The rest was history.
I was suddenly under Miguel’s protection. A member of the brotherhood, even though I never asked to be.
“When I got out of the infirmary, he offered me anything I wanted. Money. Drugs. Cars. Girls. A reward for saving his life. He even got my sentence reduced by two months.”
