Fuck that. That’s a desperate move. I’m not desperate.
I trudge back to the room, resigned to lay off the booze and keep my head clear so I don’t fuck up. When I walk through the door, I’m smacked in the face with the aroma of some good smoke. I step inside the hazy hotel room and spot Yuri Takahashi, number twenty-six in the world and one of my best friends, sitting at a table near the window toking it up, smoke curling from the small pipe in his hand.
A hand clasps the back of my neck and I can tell by the size and the way it grips me softly that it’s not one of the guys. I turn around and the girl I just saw getting boned by Paul is giving me a come-fuck-me look. Her dark hair is tousled and her black eye makeup is smeared across her left temple. I’m surprised I notice these details since she’s standing before me topless, wearing only a short skirt.
“Not gonna happen,” I say as I push her hand off my neck.
She curls her lip in disgust. “What? Are you gay?”
I shake my head as I turn my back on her and make my way toward Yuri.
“Hey, it’s the fucking comeback kid,” Yuri says when he sees me.
He grins broadly as he passes me a freshly packed bowl and a lighter. I think of Claire and I almost hand it back to him, but I need to hide inside myself tonight. I bring the pipe to my lips and suck in as I hold the lighter’s flame to the bowl. It’s been more than a week since I’ve toked so the hot smoke burns my throat and stings my lungs. I hold in the smoke as I pass the pipe back to Yuri.
He shakes his head. “That’s your bowl, bro. Finish it.”
I let the smoke out of my lungs and finish off the bowl. I hand the pipe to Yuri and he taps the ash out into an ashtray before he packs it again. The music coming from the iPod clock radio on the nightstand gets inside my head. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes as I lose myself in the music.
The sounds of giggles and whispers can barely be heard over the song. I don’t know what’s going on until I feel someone’s hand in my crotch. I open my eyes and the topless girl is back and she’s trying to undo the button on my shorts.
I push her hands away and she laughs. She’s fucked up. So am I. But I’m not stupid.
I stand up and she reaches for my shorts again. “Fuck off,” I mutter as I step around her and make my way out into the corridor again.
I stand in the corridor for a minute, unsure of what the fuck I’m doing. I’m fucked up and my mind keeps circling back to the same thoughts over and over again. I think of texting Claire, but she needs to study. Then I think of going back inside, but I’m too stoned to deal with the temptation. I need to get out of this hotel. Fuck the backpack. I have my wallet and my phone. That’s all I need.
I make it down to the lobby and jump into the first taxi I find outside the hotel. “Orlando International.”
The cabbie looks at me and I wonder if I look as stoned as I feel. Something about my appearance makes him skeptical and he appears about ready to kick me out of the cab, but he relents and pulls away from the hotel entrance.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m running; that’s what I’m doing. I don’t trust myself.
The taxi pulls onto the highway and I realize I left my trophy in the hotel room. I can call the front desk and ask them to ship it to me tomorrow, if it’s still there.
When we reach the airport, I’m a bit more sober—at least, I think I am. I hand the driver a wad of cash and make my way to the first airline check-in counter I find. The girl behind the counter looks bored as she chats with a burly guy in a security uniform. I glance at her nametag: Wanda.
“Can I help you, sir?” Wanda asks.
I blink a few times thinking this might sober me up a little more. “When’s the next flight to Raleigh?”
Chapter Two
Claire
I NEVER WANTED TO BE like my mother. And for a brief moment in time I thought I had escaped that fate. But life has a lovely way of reminding you that you are no better than anyone else—even a dead heroin addict.
It wasn’t until three weeks ago I finally understood that being like my mother isn’t such a bad thing. She may have brutally removed herself from my life when I was only seven years old, but she left behind a foundation for me to have a better life than her own. She taught me how to keep myself safe, which really came in handy as I was shuffled from one foster home to the next for eight years after her death. And, of course, there’s the enormous trust fund she left me—though I have no interest in ever claiming a dime of that money.
So I guess things could be worse, but it’s hard to imagine how as I lie here on the twin bed in my dorm doing statistics homework on a Saturday evening while my boyfriend is surfing in Florida. Of course, judging by the tone of the conversation we just had, it doesn’t seem like Adam is really enjoying his trip. Just remembering his words and the sound of his voice makes my stomach stir.