Chapter Eleven
Nicholas Quine waitedin the shadows by Centennial Park, his entire body tingling in anticipation of meeting with his dealer. He needed a fix so bad that he could almost feel it coursing through his veins, bringing him that high that he craved. He looked at his phone for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen minutes. The dealer was now thirty minutes late. A cold sweat broke out over him as the notion of not getting his fix pricked at the edges of his mind. He pushed it away; he didn’t—couldn’t—go there.
He looked at his missed calls and a sliver of guilt broke through his desperation. Sixteen missed calls from Breanna. He blew out a ragged breath.Why can’t she let me be?He knew she meant well, and he appreciated that she was the only one in his fucked-up family who gave a damn about him, but this washislife,hischoices. Even though she may not agree with those choices, he had the right to live his life the way he wanted to.
“Where the fuck is he?” he muttered under his breath. He knew he should at least text Breanna to let her know he was okay, but he couldn’t even focus enough to do that. All he could think about was getting the drug. The craving was so strong that it was like life itself was dependent on getting and consuming heroin.
Then he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel. His heart pounded, his eyes brightened, and his mouth went dry. He stepped from the shadows, a wide grin spreading over his face. “I didn’t think you were going to show, bro.” His insides exploded with joy; he’d get his fix. All was very good.
“You got the money?”
“Yeah… well, I don’t have cash. I heard you’re good with food stamps.”
“How much do you have on your card?”
“A hundred bucks. That can buy me a couple of ounces, right?” Nicholas picked at the dry skin on his lips.
“With EBT cards, you get thirty cents on the dollar. So that’d be thirty bucks. That gets you a half gram for Mexican Mud.”
“Fuck, I wanted an ounce. How much is that?”
“Forty bucks. If you can cough up ten bucks cash, you’ll get your ounce.” The man kept looking around as he spoke. “You got the extra cash? I don’t have time to fuck around.”
Nicholas shoved his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out two five-dollar bills along with his EBT card. The dealer snatched them from him, switched on a penlight and examined the bills and the card, and then handed Nicholas a baggie. “Enjoy.” He turned around and walked away, disappearing among the black maple trees.
Shoving the baggie in his pocket, Nicholas sprinted to his car parked in the alley and sped away to the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. His synapses jumped like lightning strikes against the sky. When he arrived at the warehouse, he slipped in through a space in the boarded-up door. The random lighters looked like glowing eyes in the darkness. Trash was strewn on the concrete floors, and the walls were scrawled with graffiti. Nicholas made his way to a corner at the far end of a large room, leaned back against the crumbling wall, and took out his baggie.
As he prepared his drug, his phone rang and Breanna’s name flashed on his screen. He turned off his phone, a tinge of guilt weaving through him. But the drug was too big a pull for him; it trumped everyone and everything. In a few seconds he’d be soaring and nothing would matter.
Nothing at all.
Life was good.
