“You say that now, but what you’ve seen tonight is only half the act. There’s stuff you don’t know. Shit I don’twantyou knowing.”
“The guy that was waiting outside of the apartment building?”
“Yes.”
I knew there was something about that guy.
Colson’s shoulders tense at the mention of him, and he pulls away completely. He might think he’s protecting me, but he's destroying me.
Stepping closer, his name falls from my lips in a plea. “Colson.”
He grips the back of my head, twining his fingers in my hair gently. He pulls my head close and kisses the top.
“Get your bag. We’re done here.”
THIRTY-FOUR
COLSON
If she putsthose mouthwatering lips on me again, I’ll lose the small amount of control I have left, because here’s the thing: I’m not a complete idiot. What she’s saying, about us being there for one another, reminding me of this connection we have…it’s all facts.
What’s between Violet and me isn’t tangible. You can’t pick it up and hold it in your palm.
It’s internal.
Instinctual.
Intrinsic.
It dusts my skin like a layer of flurries coating the ground on their first fall of the season when she talks. When she’s near enough that her body heat coils around me, it’s crippling, like the sensation of drowning but instead of taking all the air from my lungs, she breathes oxygen into me.
As much as I’d like to have more of that, it’d be a bad idea. She’s so much better than this lifestyle. She doesn’t belong lying on my cheap mattress. Nor does she deserve being pulled into situations that have literally made me bleed.
She’s too clean.
Too fucking pure.
I won’t dirty her.
Not even if I’d love to for my own selfish gain.
Mind still reeling since the moment we got here, I watch as Violet grabs her lone bag. Still in the same sweats as before and looking too goddamn good in them for her own good, she exits out the back door. I told her it’d be better for her to go out that way and trail around to the front of the house. I’ll do just about anything to ensure she doesn’t see my mom in the state she’s in.
As I walk back into the living room, it’s written all over mom’s face, how much help she needs. Her skin has this flatness to it, appearing a whole lot more gray than when I was younger. Her cheeks, sunken in from years of drug use and not enough sleep or proper nutrition, only add to the devastation that finagles its way into my chest.
Damn it.
Why does it have to be this way?
Why do people put meth and heroin and cocaine on the streets? It doesn’t care what palm it lands in. It’s not forgiving or particular. It’ll make anyone a victim; I hate how it’s made Mom one.
No matter what drove her to do it that first time… it shouldn’t have led to this.
I reach for her wrist, holding my finger still to check her pulse before comparing it to mine. I’m no pro at knowing for sure if it’s where it should be, but fear creeps up my spine at the thought that I could walk out of here and not see her again.
I pull my phone from my back pocket, dial 911, and hold it up to my ear. It’s not long before an operator comes on the line, and I tell her what’s going on.
Mom would flip shit if she knew what I was doing, but she’s not exactly coherent to tell me what she wants or to reassure me that she’s okay, and Violet is right. She needs help, something I planned to make sure she got again after dealing with Finn, buttonight didn’t exactly go as planned, and this is more important seeing as how she’s fully passed out now.
