Page 79 of Hooked on Trouble

Instead I ask, “Is he seeing someone?”

What if he’s seeing someone?

Two girls dart off the sidewalk, and a driver leans on his horn. When Kolton finally says, “No,” I nearly crumble to the ground. I am such a mess over this man.

“Then what?” I wish I didn’t sound so desperate.

“He’s not moving on, Raven. He’s just stuck. Since Josh’s arrest, Nico’s had tunnel vision. He holds people, including himself, to impossible standards.” He sighs. “All I know is you guys don’t stand a chance if you don’t talk, and he’s a stubborn mule. I think you should make the move. Force him to hash things out. He misses you.”

Hearing he hasn’t gotten over me but is too hurt to call has the cracks in my heart widening. Nico is a giant of a man, his size made up of decency and virtue and righteousness.

And I asked him to lie for a drug dealer.

I can’t decide if I want to throw up the drinks I had or go back in and order more. “I don’t know how to make this right.” The cold air snaps against my cheeks, and I wish it were colder. Freezing. A bout of frostbite might deaden this deep ache.

Shay weaves our way and loops her arm around Kolton’s waist. “This is the best night ever. Isn’t this just the best, best night ever?”

She’s adorable when she drinks, but that’s not the word I’d choose. Wretched sounds more accurate. Or just plain sucky. Sawyer and Lily holler at us as they fall into a cab, as happy as I’ve ever seen them. And as wasted. Shay’s forehead slumps into Kolton’s chest, and he kisses the top of her hair. Envy stings me. I had that in my life, too, and I let it go.

Kolton hugs her tighter. “I should get you home.” Then to me, “Fight for him.”

I nod, sobering up by the second. “I’m a regular Rocky Balboa.”

He winks at me. “You wanna share a cab?”

I shake my head, needing time on my own. As I head for the bus, he calls, “Fight for him!” again.

Unable to turn, I raise a hand in salute, but I’m in quicksand, stuck and sinking. It’s kind of hard to show the man I love that I believe in him and understand what makes him tick when I’ve proven the opposite. That’s like claiming I love the color pink.

Buses run less frequently at night, especially this late. Loitering feels cathartic, though. I walk circles around the bus shelter, scuffing my boots along the pavement, wishing I had my iPod to drown my thoughts. My misery. A man and his dog are a block away, huddled against a wall. I walk over, drawn by the image. The man’s hair is thick and matted, his beard in need of a trim. Under all that grime and sorrow, I bet he’s not much older than me.

I gesture to his dog. “Can I pet her?”

He startles, as though he hasn’t heard a voice in ages. His smile reveals straight, white teeth. “Sure. Her name is Spirit.”

Of course it is—the name Nico used at Neverland Farms. The pup grins up at me, her black-and-tan fur soft, maybe a cross between a shepherd and a collie. “She’s sweet. How old?”

He rubs his nose against hers, both equally fond of each other. “Not sure. I found her roaming the beach and tried to find her owner, but none of the shelters or vets knew anything. I’ve had her for six months.”

He doesn’t have a home, but he’s given her one. “She seems to like you.”

“Man’s best friend,” he confirms, but the sorrow in his voice pains me.

Many vagrants reek of booze a mile away, but not this guy. This man with the clean teeth. I want to ask him a million questions, find out how he ended up here, what went wrong in his life, but it’s not my place to pry. Josh lived like this once, too, calling the street home, no roof over his head. Nico looked haunted when he told me about it, sharing the darkest sides of himself. Now Josh is going to college.

Needing to do something, anything, I clear my throat. “Can I buy you guys a meal?”

Moisture glazes his eyes. “That would be nice.”

As I sink my hand into Spirit’s fur again, an idea sparks. Crazy, maybe…but maybe not. Josh could be the key to my photographic essay on street life. Sasha said if I pull it together with hope, she thinks she can get me a show. Josh’s journey screams hope. He’s turned his life around, banished the boy he was. If he agrees, I could shoot him at his future school and show what he’s made of himself. I could show Nico I see his family clearly. That they have thrived because of him. That I want to support their growth and would never jeopardize their progress intentionally. Fight for the man I love.

It’s either that or reunite our Painted Hearts band and write a string of power ballads.

Pumped, I hurry into a nearby diner and buy several burgers for the man and his dog to share. Then I hunker down at the bus shelter to blast out a couple of e-mails. To Sasha. To Josh. He replies instantly, thrilled to help me out. We make a plan to meet, and I ask him to keep quiet.

Translation: Don’t tell the big guy I’m fighting for him.

Poker players don’t lead with their hands open. They bluff once or twice, ensuring unpredictability, then they attack. This is my chance to go all in, all chips on the table, win big or fold. For Nico, I’ll risk everything.