Drain You (8 page)

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Quinlan,” Morgan said, more serious this time.

I dropped my hands and faced him. His eyes were sad; he looked sorry for me. I couldn’t take it. I panicked and pointed a shaky finger in his face.

“I said…don’t…worry about it! Just, just…go watch a movie!”

I stomped away to Jerry’s office and slammed the door. Behind me I heard Morgan mutter “Fine” like I’d punched him in the stomach and poured Diet Coke in his gas tank.

I sat in the office and stared into space until the motivational posters on the walls were just rectangular splotches of hazy color. If I hadn’t been wearing my nicest dress when Stiles touched me, I would’ve burned it.

It was nine. I had two hours until James came to pick me up—hopefully—so I just had to pull my tweaked-out mess together, go beg Morgan to forgive me
again
, and finish this shift like a lady, not a bag of rattled-up bones.

“Okay,” I said, sighing, walking up to Morgan, “was I being more of a brat or a psycho just then?”

“Fifty-fifty, Lacey.” He smiled. It was okay.

Appreciation filled my body; it could be so easy with Morgan.

“Sorry. Just an average reaction to a run-in with a serial killer, I guess.” I shrugged, breathed slowly, but couldn’t really get back to normal.

“Serial killer? More like an Abercrombie zombie with a charge card and a Mazda RX-7.”

“You noticed that too, huh?”

“Yeah, does he have to be so suave?”

“Told you. Total Spader.”

“Nailed it,” Morgan said, raising his hand for a high five. When our palms slapped, he locked his fingers with mine and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Won’t always be around to deliver you from evil.”

“I know. You’re a good friend.” I rested my head
lightly on his shoulder and closed my eyes. “I’m going to work on being a good friend back.”

Morgan said, “What should we watch next?” and he gestured widely to the empty store filled with hundreds of picture boxes.

“Nothing scary, please.”

James, if you can hear me, get your beautiful body over here.

“
Fantasia
?”

Because you’ve got some serious explaining to do.

“Sounds awesome.”

The sinking, suspicious feeling started around ten to eleven. I was beginning to chew the inside of my lip raw, pacing in front of the huge front window, scanning outside for James’s arrival and Stiles’s departure, but I sensed a definite absence and presence—in that order. My stomach was so jumpy I could hardly get the licorice and Diet Coke down, and I was doing a poor job of hiding my anxiety from Morgan. When he offered to close down ten minutes early, I almost bit his head off. I needed those last ten minutes. The problem with psychic powers is that they come with a vicious case of the hunches. James wasn’t on his way and Stiles was out there in the shadows, lurking, waiting. I was certain of both.

How fast could I run? Not that I could in a million
years imagine Stiles daring to scuff his polished loafers just to scare some video store girl. Of course, knowing him, he’d probably be like one of those horror movie villains that moved painfully slow, barely breaking a sweat. Unless Stiles brought his posse to pitch in—or Libby, dear God, as bait—I doubted he could catch me.

On the other,
other
hand, there was Morgan. And his Dodge Shadow. And that shame spiral.

I pressed my forehead to the glass and mumbled, “You suck, you suck, you suck.”

Then the ten minutes were up and we were bolting the front door and dropping the outside gates. Count-out commenced. We shut the main lights off, left the neon overnight ones on. We double-checked the safe’s lock, gathered our bag of junk-food trash, set the alarm, and headed out the back door. I wasn’t farther than two inches from Morgan the entire time.

“You’re going to give me a panic attack,” he said as I followed him to the Dumpster.

“Sorry, too many Diet Cokes. Got me edgy.”

“It’s cool. You’ll walk it off.” He knew better than to offer a ride.

So it was time to beg.

I started to say, “Morgan, would you mind…” and leaned my body against his car, hoping he’d catch my drift.

“Is that a good idea?” He looked genuinely concerned. For both of us.

There was a breeze coming down the canyons, and it shook the trees with a whispery sound. I looked into the dark and felt someone out there watching. I was outside my body, seeing the color in my face run out, but I was inside my body too, feeling my stomach tense with dread.

“Quinn, hey, you look…green. You’re, like, not a color in nature.”

“Green’s a color in nature.”

Morgan petted my hair and I tried to smile.

“C’mon, get in,” he said.

We drove to my house in silence. I leaned my head against the window and looked away into the trees, the alleys, the front yards, all passing by in a dark blur. But there was nothing, no one, no dirty-blond wanderers, no black-haired pursuers, pale angels, or paler devils. The hills were hot and empty and quiet.

I considered asking him to escort me to the door, but Morgan misread the hesitation on my face.

He said, “You don’t have to thank me or get weird. You can always have a ride. It’s not a big deal.”

“Morgan, what can I say?”

“Don’t try to kiss me, I’m not in the mood.”

We laughed very small laughs together at a joke neither of us should’ve found particularly funny.

“Did you ever call your bride? After Libby’s party?”

“Yeah. She didn’t answer, and never called back. Whatever.”

But Morgan wasn’t crushed enough. I wanted him to care, to keep calling, to keep trying.

“You’re some cool, older senior guy. She’ll call.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

I got out of the car and shut the door and pressed my hand against the window. It was a serious high five for a serious bail-out.

I thought I heard twigs snapping in the woods across the street, so I made a straight line for the front door, almost running. When I got to the porch, I turned around and waved to Morgan, who was watching, waiting for me to get inside, and then he drove away.

Once inside I locked the door and stared out the small window into the yard, looking for movement. The canyon winds ruffled the grass, some leaves fell, but otherwise it was still and dark. The house was silent. I turned on the porch light, then the chandelier light, and then, because the switch was next to those, the garage light too. I said “Hello” to no one, just to hear my own voice. Then I slid down my back to the ground.

It was 11:13. I would wait exactly forty-seven minutes for James. And if he hadn’t magically arrived here by midnight, I’d confirm myself as the lamest, most desperate
girl ever by going to his house to look for him.

At 11:42 I stripped to my underwear, snuck into the backyard, and sank to the bottom of my pool. No one was waiting for me in the darkness of the deep end. The water felt good, bracing; it woke me up, got me focused back on my current tasks: find Libby, save Libby, find James, kiss James, maul James, press James for details on Stiles, find Stiles, fight Stiles, find Morgan, find his bride, make them fall in love, make Naomi understand, make Libby normal again, kiss James again, eat a few pieces of fruit. Total order.

At 11:50 I walked through the side door to our downstairs bathroom, dripping wet. I flicked the switch for the red heat lamp and soaked in the warmth, toweling off, feeling new. The chlorine made my hair extra wild and wavy. My makeup hadn’t bled too badly, just blurred, giving me those exaggerated black eyes I usually got from heavy summertime naps. I stared in the mirror, frowning. I looked fine but not awesome, which would only matter if Naomi wasn’t alone at the Sheets’s house.

At midnight I wrote the smallest note in the scratchiest legible handwriting.

Could’ve been true. I had every reason to go pound down the Blocks’ door looking for Libby. And I might’ve
even been back before my parents woke to discover the note and the Lexus missing. But I was on a hunt for James, and striking out was not an option. I wanted to be out all night, all morning, until tomorrow, tomorrow night. So actually none of the note was true. Except maybe the sorry part. And I was getting sorrier every second.

The moment she
opened the door, I could tell Naomi wasn’t surprised to see me. I could also tell she wasn’t exactly happy to see me.

“Hey,” she muttered, then led me into the African sitting room and lay back on the settee and stared at me. We sat in silence while Naomi twisted small strands of her hair, tapped her feet together, and drummed her fingers on the mudcloth cushions. She was clearly waiting for someone, and she just as clearly had no intention of telling me who that might be. Watching her ignore me, I started to wonder, more and more, if maybe Naomi simply didn’t like me.

And if she didn’t like me, then bummer for me, but bummer for her too, because I was feeling defiant. I wasn’t going anywhere; I could play the waiting game.

Naomi broke the silence first. She said, “Look, I know I said you could come over, but I think maybe you should go. I’m exhausted, and you look…exhausted too.”

“I don’t have to sleep over or anything, but couldn’t we just hang out a little longer? I had a bad night.”

“So now I’m the one you call after a bad night?” She paused and peered sideways at me. “I thought that was Morgan’s job.”

It sucked. And it kind of hurt, too. But she didn’t say it like she was trying to be mean, just like she wanted to get the point across.

“Well, I don’t want it to be Morgan’s job.”

“Well, you should. Because he’s a hell of a lot better for you than some people.”

“‘Better’ doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “Some people are the ones I want, some aren’t.” I folded my arms across my chest.

“Doesn’t matter what you want, you don’t know everything.” Naomi reconsidered her words. “You don’t know anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This conversation is over. Would you mind going home?”

“What don’t I know?” I said, standing up, arms still folded.

“I’m not going to talk about this, and you should
thank me for that.” Naomi stood up too. “You should thank me for this, and you should thank me for sending you home before he gets back.” Then she turned away and started walking toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, mondo thanks.”

She turned back to me, more pissed. “I’m saving your life.”

“I like my life fine the way it is.”

“I did too, so get
out
of it.”

This had gone from numb to cold to hostile too fast. But then something broke in Naomi, and when she said, “Please, Quinn,” the sadness was scarier than the anger.

I couldn’t think of what to say. I reached a hand for her shoulder, warmly, and when I touched her skin, it was nice to feel we were both warm.

“I’m not trying to
marry
him, Naomi. God. I just want him to…be my boyfriend, you know?”

Naomi’s eyes bulged, her jaw dropped. She flung my hand off her shoulder.

“Marry him?”

She grabbed both my wrists, tightly, and started dragging me to the front door. I tried to struggle free, but my shoes slid on the hardwood floor.

“Naomi,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you just want him to be your boyfriend.” She was seething, still dragging me. Her hands
were like a trap, and the trap had fingernails.

“It’s not that big a deal!”

And the fingernails were digging in.

“Naomi!”

She was going to rip my arms out of their sockets.

Then we were outside, on the porch, Naomi forcibly wrenching me closer to the Lexus. Her face was red, livid. I was in literal shock. Tears were en route.

I couldn’t fight anymore, so I just sank my body to the ground, to the dirt driveway, but she didn’t stop pulling me. I was weak, limp, trying to understand this and failing, failing, failing.

“Naomi!” I screamed, starting to sob, grabbing onto bits of gravel, giving up.

Then I heard, “Naomi.”

She heard it too. She let go.

James was halfway down the driveway, hobbling toward the house in the dark, hunched over. I squinted to make sure I was seeing it right. I was. He was covered in blood, the front of his shirt splattered, his hands stained.

“James,” I said, getting up and moving toward him. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

He didn’t respond, just held up a hand. His eyes lolled back in his head every few blinks. I glanced at Naomi, but she wasn’t by the car anymore. She was backed against the doorway to her house, repulsed and terrified.

I said to James, “You didn’t come to the store, you didn’t meet me.” But I could see James didn’t want me tonight. His face told me I shouldn’t have come.

Naomi cut in. “I asked her to go, but she wouldn’t listen. So if you’re going to tell her, tell her now.”

I couldn’t keep up.

James told Naomi, “She can stay if she wants.”

“I’m staying,” I said. “You’re hurt.”

Naomi screamed and beat a fist against the stucco wall behind her. “He’s not hurt, you idiot, someone else is!”

Right then James’s knees buckled, and he fainted to the pavement. Naomi screamed again, and her face turned so white it wasn’t even green.

“James!” I crouched down and rolled him onto his back. He was clutching his stomach, moaning in a muffled, distant way.

Naomi shoved me backward and scooped James up so his whole weight was propped against her. “Get the hell out of here,” she said without turning around.

“Stop, Naomi,” James said hazily. Then he managed to raise his head slightly. “Quinn, go home.”

I said the only word I knew to say: “No.”

He closed his eyes and said, “Fine. Just wait outside for a while at least.”

A thought hit me: “Did Stiles do this to you?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but Naomi interrupted. “I told you, you don’t know
anything
.”

She was right.

James allowed Naomi to turn him around, and they went inside and closed the door.

I cried to myself and let the tears dry on my cheeks. Get a grip, Lacey.

I crept around the yard to the garden. During my breakfast with Naomi yesterday morning, I’d noticed a small side door inside the pantry that led out onto the terrace. I tried not to step on Charlotte’s flowers but it was dark, so whatever, and if there were cacti, then whatever too. I had to be in there. I couldn’t
not
be in there. I got to the door. I tried the handle. Unlocked.

Then I held my breath and slowly opened it. I slipped in and silently shut the door behind me and tiptoed farther into the pantry, into a nook rimmed with teas and organic snacks stamped with fancy fonts. I peered through the slats on the cupboard and could see James and Naomi in the kitchen. He was on the ground facing away from me, curled against some cabinets, while she crouched over him, stroking his forehead with a damp towel.

They were already talking. I could hear every word.

“…doesn’t make sense. You never get sick.”

“I know…. It’s…something in the blood.”

“Who was it?” Naomi said it very quietly.

No answer.

“James.” She stopped petting his head. “Who was it?”

“No one. It’s never anyone, really.”

Then he slumped over, facing toward the pantry, and I could see him for real.

His thin, V-neck T-shirt was splattered with a dirty brownish maroon dye, and the dye had to be blood, but I’d never seen blood dried and dark like that. He still had my necklace on. My eyes froze on the small gold chain.

But his hands were caked with a weird rust coloring, and his hair was too wet with sweat. He was still clutching his stomach and groaning lightly, but I couldn’t see any visible cuts on his body.

Naomi stood and leaned against the counter. “So you were drugged?”

I could’ve fallen straight through the floor. Drugs. Mystery solved.

“She was out partying or something. I don’t know. She was alone.” James held his head in his hands. “There was no one else there.”

He could’ve been describing that night he saw me: a girl all alone, wandering in the darkness, some empty part of the canyons where no cars drive. So this girl was drunk? Lost? Then she gave him drugs?

Naomi broke into louder sobs. They were erratic, out of control.

I was crying too—at her crying, at the blood, at this whole scene. Because I knew if Naomi was this freaked, then James was in real danger.

“I have to…throw this up somehow. Get it out of me…”

She crouched down next to him again.

“Will it kill you?”

I couldn’t breathe. Was that what I was witnessing, an overdose? Why weren’t they calling the police?

“No,” James said. He pressed his cheek against hers. “You know it’d take more than that.”

She said, “Okay. Okay, okay, okay.” Naomi’s words were my own.

James felt at his throat, held a hand to his chest.

“How’d you even get home?” she asked.

“I started crawling.” He put his hand in her lap. “Then I managed to walk somehow.”

“But…why were you feeding again so soon?”

James bowed his head. I scrolled through every word I’d ever heard referring to drug use. Every weird verb or phrase any cool kid had ever said about some party pill or pot or whatever. Never ever the word
feeding
. James said nothing. He squeezed around his middle again.

Naomi began to shake her head. At first it was slight and slow, but gradually her head moved faster, more frantic.

“No. No. Because of
her
?”

“I had to.”

Every new sentence multiplied my confusion. Her who? This canyon girl who fed him pills and left him to die?

Naomi said, “Why?” and then she whispered the word sadly into her hands a hundred times.

James tried to prop himself up against the cabinet. “This way I don’t get the urge.”

“Just shut up.” Naomi pushed James away, then straightened her dress to stand.

“She matters to me.”

“You can’t do this to people!” She flung a cup of pens off the counter onto the floor.

“Give me a break, Naomi.”

“
You
give
me
a break. She already knows Stiles, she knows something’s wrong with him.” Naomi glared down at James. “She’ll see it in you. She’ll tell everyone.”

“No, she won’t.”

“We’ll have to move.”

“No, we won’t. I promise.”

“Well, what are you going to say to her?”

Then James started to gag, loudly. He grabbed onto the kitchen counter and pulled himself to his feet, leaning his whole body over the sink, coughing violently. I closed my eyes, heard the sounds of more coughing, liquid, gurgling. Finally I peeked again through the slats and saw
the sink splashed with blood, parts of the countertop, some of it dripping onto the white tile floor. This blood was fresher, brighter red.

My stomach turned. I covered my mouth.

Naomi screamed noise. Then she screamed, “James!”

He twitched and sank back to the floor.

“What’s happening?” Naomi cried, bending down and wiping at his mouth and face where blood had splattered.

“It’s okay, I’ll be okay….”

“Go back to Cambridge. You can leave tonight. I’ll call Whit.”

James nodded, pained. His hair covered his eyes as he hung his head, then nodded again.

Naomi got up, went to the phone by the microwave, and dialed. A few seconds later she said, “It’s Naomi. Come home now, he’s leaving.” Then she hung up.

I was close to passing out. Nothing held my body up but habit and a bulk crate of goji berry granola bars.

James coughed again and said, “I want someone to be close to. You can understand that.”

But she couldn’t. Naomi’s tears were gone, her empathy was all dried up. She stared down at him in pure judgment. “Yeah, I get it. You want to ruin Quinn’s life just like you ruined ours.” There was a cold pause. “That girl’s dead, James.” Then, even colder, the words: “You killed her.”

“Naomi.”

“And Quinn’s either going to end up in a straitjacket or a body bag. This is your mess, you clean it up.”

“Naomi,” James said again.

And that’s when it happened: I fell. Hard. The shelf I was leaning against dislodged from its wall-hanging, and I fell into everything. Tin cans, cylinders of tea, boxes of cereal, couscous, a full spice rack, bags of dried fruit; all of it came crashing down in a heap on top of me.

I scrambled to get to my feet, my heart flipping out. There’d be no need to sneak back out through the garden now. I knew I should just walk into the kitchen, give my regards to the horror scene in progress, and keep walking right out the front door. Except for the fact that I had no legs.

And no one came to expose me. No one moved at all. A part of me prayed that Naomi would swing open the pantry door and reveal they’d only been rehearsing for a summer-school play, that this was actually just a low-budget cable TV candid home video prank show, and wow, what a hilarious comedy of errors this had all been.
But Quinn, that’s just fake blood made from corn syrup!
Anything. But a larger part of me knew that this was all for real. James puked blood and did drugs, and Naomi hated both of us.

The silence from the kitchen was horrible. They were waiting for me.

I pushed the door open. Light flooded into the pantry.

“Of course. Aren’t you
so
happy now?”

My eyes were on the ground, so I wasn’t sure if Naomi was talking to me or James. But then she said, “Quinn,” sharply. “Are. You. Happy. Now? Now that you know?”

“I’m not happy.” I mouthed the words:
I don’t know anything.

James’s eyes were closed; he didn’t even look at me.

I started to walk to James, but Naomi shouted, “You’re pathetic”—to me—“and you’re disgusting”—to him—“and I’m leaving.” She turned and left. Seconds later a door slammed.

I looked over at James. He looked dead.

But then he spoke. “Hit the light,” he said, gesturing at the wall switch. I went over and flicked it.

The kitchen was dark now except for some weak moonlight coming in through a window above the sink. My eyes slowly adjusted, and the terror reasserted itself. Blood was splattered everywhere, James was groaning, and I was in a strange family’s house when I should have been in my own. This night was a nightmare.