I get out of the car and shut the door. In a hurry to fall in line with Finn, I leave the sweatshirt unzipped. We walk in silence before we come across an old, abandoned candy warehouse. Cement chocolates are formed into the front of the building around the entrance and Coco’s Chocolate Warehouse is imprinted on a sign above it. The building takes up the corner of the block. There are a few broken windows on the second floor, but the brick work is absolutely stunning and reminds me of the university buildings in Chatham Hills.
We round the corner of the building and end up in an alley. “What now?”
Finn points to a door twenty feet ahead. “I’m going to knock on that door. You’re going to keep your mouth shut and pretend you’re just another ditzy airhead until we get inside.”
I stifle a response because is he always this rude?
All night, he’s seemed to know more than me, so once again, I have no other choice but to trust that he has my best interests at heart. Colson’s best interests.
We approach the door, and he glances over his shoulder. “Now would be a good time to tell me if you have a problem with blood.”
“Huh?”
“Blood,” he repeats, enunciating every letter in the word. “Do you get faint or queasy when you see it? You gonna go down like a sack of potatoes at the sight of it?”
The image of scarlet liquid enters my mind, and my attention flicks to the heavy metal door in front of us. This weird sensation takes over my stomach, a twisting and burning feeling that trapezes into my limbs.
What the hell am I doing?
Have I really lost all common sense? Is my love for Colson persuasive enough that it made me get into a car with a stranger in the near-middle of the night just because hesaidColson is in trouble?
The heaviness in Finn’s question loops in my mind even though it’s probably not that big of a deal. Blood. We all have it. It’s in us all and yet…I don’t know if I’d faint at the sight of it. I didn’t when I helped Colson all those weeks ago or all the times Olive and I scraped our skin open as kids.
But that was different. So mu?—
“Get rid of that look on your face. You can’t fucking bail when we’re this close. We’re one door away from you seeing exactly what I’m talking about. So, I’m going to ask one last time, Violet. Does blood make you want to throw the fuck up or can you handle seeing it gush from a dude’s nose without getting real close and personal with the floor?”
I shake my head, finally catching up to the moment even though apprehension finagles its way into my bone marrow. The door is daunting, staring me down like a detective wanting answers.
I hate how I’m backstepping. That I’m wondering if I should even walk in there. Colson and I have drawn a clear line. He wants to deal with his life on his own terms, and I’m supposed to be giving him that.
Then I think about what Finn said. I consider that if it wasn’t as bad as it was, he wouldn’t be trying to help. And he definitely wouldn’t have camped outside my apartment to wait for me.
I give him all I can muster, which is a nod.
“Stay close in there, and we’ll be fine. As for Colson…don’t be surprised if you don’t recognize him.”
That’s what I’m most worried about. Then again, I haven’t recognized him in weeks, so how bad can this be?
“Remember him the way he was and try to stay out of sight.” Finn pauses for a beat then finishes with, “He can’t see help coming. Otherwise, he’ll just prepare an escape route.” And then he pounds his fist on the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
COLSON
“Last Resort”by Papa Roach roars in my ears, and I look down at my bare hands. My knuckles are scraped open and barely scabbed over from my last fight, but I can’t seem to find a single fuck to give. When I go out there, my scabs will tear off and my blood will mix with my opponent’s. That should worry me, except it doesn’t.
I’ve moved past caring about things out of my control. Things like death, Mom’s secret marriage to Harrison Heights’s biggest drug dealer, and the intrusive fact that I share his DNA. Oh, and that my half brother is a replica of him who put me through hell.
It doesn’t get worse than that.
It can’t.
Which is why I said,fuck it all,and sought Eli out the way I did.
I could bury myself in endless amounts of Jack Daniel’s, or any other bottle of liquor for that matter, but this is the better of two options. Getting my hands dirty wins out over continuously twisting up my insides from the booze and risking an addiction of my own.
In a weird sense, I’m at least mindful of that.
