Lost Angeles (14 page)

“Christ,” Xaine blurts out. He shoots me a sidelong glance but returns his eyes to the road almost immediately. “Think you could
not
do that again?”

“Sorry,” I mutter, turning my face toward the passenger window. There’s a feeling of heavy dread sitting on my chest and a heavier lethargy weighing down my limbs. My body’s still reeling from whatever Benicio did to me, but the adrenaline’s long gone, leaving me with an impotent feeling of anticipation in my gut. Something’s happened, happening, about to happen; whatever it is, it’s got me curling in on myself until my arms are wrapped tightly across my breasts and my shoulders are hunched to my ears. A quick look at Xaine tells me he’s not unaware, and judging by the flashes of blue I keep catching in return, he’s watching me like
I’m
the unpredictable predator here.

Now
that
is funny.

“Either sleep or don’t,” he mutters. “You’ve nodded off like three times, and it startles the shit out of me every time you jolt awake.”

“Trust me, if I could sleep, I would,” I snap back. “I’m tired as hell.”

“Then go ahead,” he says, like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “I’m not going to eat you.”

“It’s not you.” I give a little shake of my head. “I don’t ever sleep well.”

“They have pills for that.”

I deliberately change the subject. “Who’s Elizabeth? You said her name, back at the club when you… um…”

Kissed me.

“Who’s Daniel?” he counters swiftly. “You said his name right before you screamed me off the road.”

“He’s ancient history,” I shoot back. “And Elizabeth?”

“Also ancient history,” he says. “Except
actually
ancient. Didn’t your mother teach you not to ask people private questions?”

“Saying someone else’s name while shoving your tongue down my throat wasn’t exactly a private moment,” I offer up wryly. “And who are you to lecture me about what my mother taught? Aren’t you the harbinger of sin or something?”

He almost laughs at that. “Hardly. I keep my sin to myself, thanks.”

Sighing lightly, I let my head fall back against the leather seat. Everything’s still hazy around the edges, and I feel more tired than I can ever remember feeling in my whole life. Everything is so
heavy—

Limbs like lead, too weighty to lift. Can’t move the fingers. Can’t turn the head. Struggling to breathe. Feels like the world is sitting on my chest as fire burns through my veins. Can’t scream, can barely open my eyes, and then I only want to shut them again.

Tubes. Tubes and blood.

Pale faces stare at me, blank and lifeless, no sign of empathy or kindness. My mouth is dry, but everything else feels like it’s underwater. I’m floating, sinking, struggling to find enough air. Paralyzed; not even my throat works, so I settle for moving my lips.

The worst part is…

… I’m alone now.

“Please…”

“Please, what?”

My eyes pop open, and I roll my head to the side to look at Xaine. “What?”

“You said…” He waves me off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“I’m really sorry.” And I am. I’ve only known Xaine a few days, yet somehow I’ve ended up here, in his car, on the way to his house after
all the things ever
. “About Benicio and your show and everything.”

“It’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.” He pauses for a second and then asks, “Where did you get the lyrics to my song? It’s not like they’re on the internet. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

I manage a bleary kind of smile. “My mom was there that night.”

“What,
she’s
got the didactic memory? She couldn’t share the wealth a little?”

“I’m adopted.” The irony hits me right about the time another yawn does. “My dad won the tickets off a radio station. It was one of those invite-only things, a few hundred people, well, I’m sure
you
remember. My mom’s a bit of a fangirl, wrote the lyrics on a bar napkin and brought that home as a souvenir because they couldn’t afford anything else in those days. There was a meet-and-greet after the show; you signed the damn thing for her.”

“I did, huh?”

“Yeah, ‘To Laura, nice tits.’ With a big ol’ X right across the bottom in black permanent marker.”

“That was nice of me.”

“Her name’s not Laura.” The memory tickles in the best kind of way, and seeing Xaine’s expression is the frosting on the cake. “I got that napkin on my sweet sixteen, along with a ticket to see your show in Buffalo. ‘Passing the torch,’ or something like that.”

“You still have it?” Xaine’s voice sounds odd, like he’s trying to wrap his brain around something. “The napkin, I mean.”

“Oh, no. Sold it on eBay ages ago.” Total lie. It’s back at my apartment, framed and hanging on the wall next to the ticket stub. “Used the cash to buy a pair of Noah Carmichael’s underwear.”

That gets a chuckle. “Now I know you’re lying, because I have it on good authority that Noah goes commando under those jeans.”

“Pics, or it didn’t happen,” I say, smiling faintly, my head lolling on the seatback. “I can put those on eBay, too.”

Xaine smirks, but after that, the conversation lapses. It gives the
tired
an opportunity to catch up with me, to cocoon me in a lulling blanket of near-silence until a hand reaches out to chuck me under the chin.

“Hey, we’ll be at the house in a few minutes. I need you to stay awake so I can stuff some food into you.”

But my eyelids are already closing, sliding unerringly downward despite my struggle to keep them open. “You’re not the asshole people say you are. I don’t know what…”

…to say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to offer that will make them stop.

The pain gets worse every time they come back. A new bed and new blood. The sheets are soaked with it, painted red and brown. It weeps out my pores, oozing through my skin, absorbed by the cuffs that hold my wrists and ankles, drying and cracking, making me sticky and itchy by turns. The acidic, sanguine stains eat through my flesh, leaving raw patches that burn when they finally come to wash it away.

Like a looping nightmare,
he
returns, with his amber eyes and pristine suit, storming into the room like he did before. “Will someone
please
tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“She’s alive.”

“Trust me,” Xaine’s voice interrupts, “I’m shittier than even
they
realize.”

“Hm?” I draw in a deep breath, sitting up straighter as his voice pulls me back again. When I finally manage to process what he said, I frown. “No, you’re not. You’re kinda nice, actually.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone.” A hand grasps my chin again, lifting my head. Blue eyes come into view—
Xaine’s
eyes—and I’m suddenly aware of the galloping pace of my heart. His dark brows pull together until there’s a crease in the space between those vivid aquamarine irises. He actually manages a pretty good imitation of concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say with a nod, but I’m not entirely sure that’s the truth. “Just sleepy.”

“So what about your friend back at the club?” Xaine lets go of me, but I keep my head tilted in his direction. “Do you follow strange men into the night very often?”

“That seems to be a recent development.” I shoot him a wry smile, but he actually looks a little horrified. “Well, it’s not like I had a choice, he’s kinda
convincing
, you know?”

Too
convincing.

Benny and his magic hands.

Xaine nods, giving me that small concession. Whatever Benicio’s gig is, it’s based on his ability to dope someone out of their gourd and drag them into a dark alley for a little one-on-one. I don’t know what would have happened if Xaine hadn’t intervened, but I’m glad he did, and although I barely know the guy, I feel safer in this car with him than I’ve felt anywhere in nearly a year.

“So,” I venture, “I get the feeling like you know something about it?”

“I might,” Xaine tells me. “But even knowing what I know…”

“…it doesn’t make sense.” The voice is harsh, angry, a jagged knife slicing through my lacerated mind. “Is there any sign of change?”

“None at all,” a second voice intones; softer than the first. The doctor, I think. “We’ve drained her and replaced it thrice from varying donors. If we do it again, she’ll most likely die.”

It hurts to breathe, but I keep dragging the metallic air into my lungs, gasping every few seconds like a fish out of water. I’m weak. So weak that I can’t move a single muscle in the entirety of my body. So weak that I can’t drum up enough saliva to swallow. My mouth is parched, my lips are cracked, my throat is raw from the screaming I did at the beginning. I want to die, but I can’t. Bodies don’t give up like minds do, like hearts do. As much as I want it all to end, I keep taking breaths, one after the other, because out of Pandora’s Box came Hope.

And I have to hope that this will come to an end.

“Find another donor. A stronger one. An older one.” The sentence is handed down without a sliver of compassion. “Do it again.”

“Please, not again…”