Drain You (7 page)

James set the note on my nightstand next to a Diet Coke can.

“Told you she thinks I’m with Morgan. Libby
saw
you and she still probably thinks I’m with Morgan.”

Libby. Where was she now?

James knelt down next to the bed and touched my flushed cheek with the back of his hand. I faded in and out of sleep while he said things I couldn’t really understand about Libby and Stiles. Then he took off my Docs and put my Garfield stuffed animal under my arm and laid a light blanket over me.

“Obviously we’re supposed to kiss now,” I mumbled.

“We already kissed. You’re delirious.”

“Not on the lips.”

“You’re asleep.”

“You’re not taking advantage. I want you to do it.” I reached my hand to touch just below his neck, that area of exposed skin above his shirt’s V where our necklaces hung together.

“Maybe I don’t want to kiss a sleeping pill.” He flashed a slanted smile and said, “Maybe I want a little proactive contact sport,” but I knew that wasn’t it. Some other reason kept his mouth so specifically off mine, but I wasn’t going to find out tonight.

I thought I fell asleep again, but when I opened my eyes he was still there, holding my hand, and it was in this hallucinating state that I offered up the only real secret I had.

“James, I think I love”—but something stopped me—“stuff. I love stuff.”

I
was
delirious. It wasn’t much of a secret anyway.

Then James pulled away from me and followed the path back to my door. “Stuff…is cool, Quinn. I’m really, really into stuff too.”

It was the best.

But if it was the best, then why wasn’t it easier, as I floated into dreams, to pretend not to hear the doubt in his voice?

Woke up at
four thirty in the afternoon feeling steamrolled. Bulldozed. Yeah, I loved the nightlife. Apparently being with James meant trading all my lazy sunny days by the pool for midnight walks and five a.m. long good-byes. Which would’ve been fine except that the bags under my eyes were becoming deep dark pools of their own. I was learning that bodies didn’t like the sleep-all-day, hang-out-all-night schedule. And yet James seemed to be pulling it off, so who knows.

I only had an hour to get ready for work, and I wanted to make it count. First of all, after yesterday’s humiliating dismissal, I knew I’d have some serious butt-kissing to do. That meant dressing like a semi-sane girl and a responsible employee, having all emotional meltdowns before six, and volunteering to handle even the most menial tasks, like calling customers with late fees and rewriting
the entire New Releases dry-erase board. Also I had to prepare for the potentially worst coworker ever, which for different reasons entirely might be either a judgmental version of Alex or a pissed-off version of Morgan. I preferred the pissed-off Morgan, but bratty, selfish beggars can’t be choosers. Secondly, I needed to call Naomi and accidentally mention I had a shift tonight in hopes that she’d then happen to mention it to James, whom I’d forgotten to tell last night when I was trying to lure him into my bed. Third, I had to find Libby somehow, even if that meant tracking her down by phone at the Spader sanctuary and then commanding her to come visit me at the store. Finally, had to feed myself real food. And sneak out a Diet Coke for emergencies. Which, after last night, I was pretty much banking on.

I set about my tasks in order. My loveliest look was a vintage rayon forties dress that my mother had bought me at Aardvarks on Melrose. I paired it with a ripped, too-small denim jacket and some scuffed lace-up boots, because I could only stand to look so precious. With all the gold jewelry, the black eyeliner, and the knotted bird’s-nest hair that I tried to comb to no avail, I appeared exactly the same as I did on other who-cares workdays, except that somewhere beneath all the junk was a dainty rose print instead of a dirty Beat Happening shirt. So much for put together.

I skipped ahead to my mother’s request and ate some
fruit. This would please her and prove to both of us that I could survive without being hand-fed. I wasn’t sure if a tangerine and seven raspberries sufficed as a full meal, considering I’d slept straight through breakfast and lunch, so I rounded it out with seven Saltines and guacamole and a stick of string cheese. I scribbled her a note of my own on the kitchen counter:

I had about fifteen minutes left to make my calls. I climbed on a bar stool at the counter and grabbed the phone. Naomi first. I knew I needed to seem like a cool cucumber, like, keep it smooth. I let the dial tone drone for a full fifteen seconds while I fixed my hair, straightened myself, and swiveled around a few revolutions. Then I practiced saying, “Hi, Naomi,” into the mouthpiece a half-dozen times. I dialed and exhaled a long sigh before she answered.

“Hello?”

I said, “Hey, lady,” but the “Hey, lady” wasn’t me, it was Tom Jones.

“Quinn?”

“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”

“Um, nothing. Just got back from riding, about to take a shower.”

“Cool, shower.” I yelled at myself:
Get to it. Get to it.
I tapped the top of the phone against my forehead. Screw the cucumber; I was a zucchini.

Naomi drew out the word, “Ohhh-kay,” and it made me feel crazy. Crazier. “What’s up with you?”

“About to go to work. You know, got a shift at the store like always. I’ll be there all night. Until eleven. Then I’m just going to walk home. No plans.”

“You can come over…if you want.” Naomi sounded sort of disappointed, like she thought we were already done with the “awkward acquaintances” phase. And we were. Sort of. But she’d misunderstood my nervousness and overly specific outline of the evening, and now things were worse. I couldn’t say no to her because I was basically begging her, but if God made miracles and James showed up to walk me home, I couldn’t actually say yes to her either.

So I said, “Maybe?”

“Whatever, okay.”

“So…I’ll just be at the store.”

“Right. And I’ll be here if you want to hang out.”

“Okay, well, I get off at eleven. Like always.” This was a mess.

“Like you said.” I heard Naomi turn the shower on.

Now my inner monologue ordered:
Hang up the phone, Quinn. Hang it. Up.

“And Morgan’s not taking me home either.”

Wow.

“Be safe then?” The sound of running water was getting louder.

Something was seriously wrong with me, because I literally said, “Safe isn’t always the best way to be.”

“What?”

“Bye, Naomi. Bye.”

Surprisingly painful, actually.

This second phone call would be easy breezy as long as I didn’t start crying. But then again, if I was going to cry, I’d better do it now.

Stella answered on the third ring, sounding totally out of it. She said Libby wasn’t home, that she’d spent the night at Stiles’s and was probably still there now. Okay, no big deal, I’d just call Stiles…at his underground lair, where he most likely had Libby chained to a radiator and she was loving it. Stella gave me the number, which contained not even one six, let alone the three in a row I’d expected. His answering machine beeped a single beep with no outgoing message.

“Oh. Okay. Hi, this is Quinn Lacey, I’m looking for Libby. I know she’s with you, so just go get her.” I waited a second. “Libby, listen, sorry about last night.
Whatever my friend James told you, it’s not how I feel. I still want to see you, so please come by the store tonight and we’ll talk about whatever’s going on. Or we can talk about other stuff, doesn’t matter. I just want to see you and make sure you’re okay. I’m going to guess for both of our sakes you were just having a rough night. Okay, so come by. Love you, bye.”

The phone beeped back at me while I rushed to get the last words out. I contemplated calling again, just to make sure my message hadn’t gotten erased or cut off, but I could only stand to be so much of a weirdo. Even if Stiles ignored me, Stella knew I was looking for Libby. I’d covered my bases and done my best. Psychic powers were out, meal was in, best dress was on, and I’d gotten more done in one hour than I had in three days.

I ran to Morgan when I saw him behind the front counter. He wanted to be moody and dismissive, I could tell, but once I was bounding toward him he opened his arms for me with only the smallest reluctance. I babbled about whatever, not allowing for a single moment of awkwardness or self-reflection from either of us. We put
The Basketball Diaries
on. During one particularly intimate scene, Morgan turned to me and yanked on one of my tiny braids.

“Hey, aren’t you going to marry Leo? Once you get to Paris?”

“Oh, Morgan, you’re so smart.” I wasn’t being sarcastic either; he remembered everything.

We were back in full swing. Okay, maybe more like semi-swing, but it felt great. I didn’t care if it was denial or repression or just teenage madness, but pretending like he didn’t love me and I didn’t not love him was a refreshing change. We weren’t talking about anything that wasn’t directly in front of us: an annoying customer trying to return a busted copy of
Beetlejuice
, how the Jim Carroll book was way more disturbing than the movie, my new silver nail polish, licorice whips. Morgan even mentioned the recent heat wave; we were talking weather! I waited for things to turn, braced myself for the total bitch-out I deserved, but Morgan kept it light and pleasant. Until a certain point.

“Hey, so you remember at Libby’s party the other night?” He sounded composed, but I still pretended to stare at a copy of
Terminator 2
like it was a Dead Sea Scroll.

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, well, after you left,” he said, and I tensed up, digging my fingernails into the small cardboard box, “this freshman girl kind of hit on me. I thought you’d think that was…funny, or something.”

I peered over at him, and his face was normal.

“Nice,” I said, and high-fived him. “Fresh meat.”

Morgan laughed, and I felt my whole body relax. He wasn’t trying to make me jealous or pivot the conversation into some lecture about how he was lovable and better than my repeated rejection. That’s of course how I would’ve played it, but Morgan was better than that.

“Just a stupid turn of events. You lose some, you win some. Kind of.” He laughed to himself again, but maybe this time there was a little edge.

“What kind of hat did she have on?”

“Bride’s veil.”

“She came looking for love. Did you get her number?”

“Yeah, I did, and she seemed really into it. But when I left, I saw her standing outside, talking to Sanders. Fresh meat? He was probably thinking the same thing.”

Somebody had to take those dudes down, stat.

“Speak of the devil…,” Morgan said, and his voice trailed off as the store’s doorbell rang.

Please be Sanders. Please be Sanders
, I prayed.

But Morgan had mistaken Stiles for his twin. Damn it.

Stiles was devilish—no doubt about that—but not in a predictable way. He’d literally fallen into the Gap and come out a netherworld poster boy. He was wearing a tucked-in, plain white button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His khaki chinos were formfitting but casually wrinkled in the total “Who, me?” kind of way that
usually worked on teenage, crush-having suckers like myself. Loafers with no socks. A silver Seiko watch. A fifties straw fedora pushed back on his head. He was a pale, preppy nightmare, and he was coming right at me.

“Quinlan,” he said, wrapping one hand around my wrist and flashing a nasty sweet smile, “come over here and help me choose something.”

I stared at Morgan, who was clearly freaked, and tried to curve my lips into something resembling a smile. Then I turned back to Stiles and pointed over to the side wall, and my smile was gone.

“Those are the Employee Picks. You don’t need any help.”

“Oh, but I do,” he said, leading me to the corner of the store where Morgan and I had displayed our personal faves.

“Fine. How about
Sleeping with the Enemy
? Or have you seen that too many times?”

He ignored me and eyed me up and down. “You look delicious tonight.”

“You look like a psychotic yachtsman. Where’s Libby?”

“Oh no, did I forget to give her your message? I know I wrote it down but…I don’t remember where I put the paper.” He reached out and felt my dress’s rayon fabric between two long, bony fingers.

“You can’t keep her from me forever. And whatever it is you’re doing to make her act like a bad acid casualty, you better stop.”

“I can’t tell Libby what to do.” He spoke slowly and methodically, never blinking. If someone could be totally empty, he was totally empty.

I imagined James’s voice telling me to run.

“Well, I can, and I will. And you’ll be old news. Rent a movie and leave.”

I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm, harder.

“Libby wants to be with me. Just ask her.” Then he leaned in and breathed the words in my ear: “She likes it.”

“I don’t care if she likes it, she’s not a person anymore. She’s just some cult chick.” I was petrified, shaking.

Stiles was thrilled. “Don’t be such a drama queen. She’s still a
person
,” he said, then added, “With banging legs.” Then he traced along my jawbone, devouring me with his eyes. “Not that I wouldn’t mind breaking off a little piece of you…”

I wrenched my arm free and stepped back and glared at him.

“Besides,” he said, lightening his tone and surveying his manicured nails, “Libby’s not your ‘bestie’ anymore. Things change. If you love someone, set them free.” Stiles didn’t sing it like Sting, he said it like Satan, and he laughed.

“Listen, you Dahmer,” I seethed, balling my fists, “I will set you on fire.”

“How adorable, the feisty thing really works for you.” Then he cocked his head and shot me an icy look. I could handle the look, but I couldn’t handle the question: “Do you put up this much of a fight with James?” Stiles raised his dark eyebrows, hoping he’d hit a nerve.

He’d hit one, ripped it open, and left it thrashing around like a live wire.

“You…do…
not
…know James.”

“Not personally, no.” His lips curled up around his straight white teeth. “But Libby mentioned him. Said he was a lot like me, actually.” His smile grew meaner, and there was nothing left to do but hate him with all my strength—and that was draining my strength.

I was out of things to say, so I said, “You’re a terrible person.”

It must’ve sounded hilarious, because Stiles just laughed. I stared at him, dumbfounded. So dumbfounded I didn’t even move when he stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, this is good, priceless,” he said. “You’re a little pet now, I see the fun in it, I really do. But if you don’t like what Libby’s become, then you’d better find yourself another boyfriend, pumpkin.” His lips popped on the
P
s.

It was either the word “boyfriend,” the word “pumpkin,” or Stiles’s long fingers twisting a strand of my hair that suddenly summoned Morgan to my side before I could even respond.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Body Snatcher,” Morgan said, shoving his hand against Stiles’s chest to back him up. “What are you, freebasing? Take a walk and a chill. We’re out of videos.”

Morgan pointed to the front door, tapped his foot on the carpet, and waited. Thank God my head was buried in my hands so I didn’t have to see Stiles’s last horrifying leer in my direction. The bell rang with his exit. Morgan had rescued me again. For now.

“Quinn,” he said, putting his arms around my shoulders.