AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Fifteen
Slate’s muscles screamed at him, but he couldn’t relax. He had to get out of Austin right now.
Right now, right now, right now.
The city wasn’t fading fast enough in his rearview mirror, and he pressed harder on the gas pedal. The problem was, a lot of people seemed to have the idea to leave the city on Sunday afternoon, and the freeway was packed.
“Come on,” he muttered, his desire to lay on the horn to get the ridiculously small white car in front of him togo.
He yanked the wheel to the right and got off on the exit there, coming to a jerky stop at the end of the ramp. “What are you doing?” he asked himself, trying to find a coherent thought that wasn’t full of cheap cologne and a leering smile.
He could practically smell the marijuana that had been on Jackson MacBride’s breath. Slate closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “He’s not here. He’s gone. He’s not going to bother you.”
A horn sounded behind him, and he opened his eyes to find his light had turned green. After making the right turn, he pulled into the gas station down the block and got out to fill up. He patted his back pockets for his wallet and didn’t find it. His heart sunk to the tips of his boots when he didn’t find his phone either.
His first thought was that Jackson had stolen them. The man obviously needed money for his next fix. Slate knew, because he’d been in that exact same position dozens of times before. He knew the stench of desperation. He understood the call of the substances that would make him forget everything hard in his life. He craved a release from his thoughts, from time taking forever to pass, from having to beso goodall the time.
He got behind the wheel again and flexed his fingers. As he rolled out his shoulders, he mentally coached himself to return to the house he’d just fled fifteen minutes before. “You have to,” he told himself. “Dallas and Luke are there, and they have no other way to get back to Sweet Water Falls.”
He’d have to explain what had happened at the house, and Slate didn’t know how to do that. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. His mother had asked him to go inside and get more bottled water. He had, and while he was in the kitchen, someone had knocked on the front door.
Slate had answered it, only to come face-to-face with the one person from his past that could drag him back to hell speedily. Jackson MacBride.
Jackson had been the very first person Slate had bought drugs from. He knew everyone on the street and in the underground, and he could get whatever anyone wanted—for the right price. Slate had been willing to give him anything for these little pink pills that worked like wildfire in cleansing his mind from all the unpleasantries of life.
When Slate had seen the man standing on the front porch, he’d blacked out for a moment. The next thing he knew, Jackson was in the house, asking Slate where he was now, and if he had any money. He’d opened a couple of Slate’s mother’s books, like twenty-dollar bills would be carefully pressed between the pages.
Slate had fled the house without looking back. He’d swiped his keys from the front table and left everything else. “Stupid,” he muttered. Surely someone would’ve noticed he was gone by now.
“Go back,” he said. “Just say you went to fill up but forgot your wallet.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He had tried to fill up the truck and hadn’t had his wallet.
Before he could move, someone knocked on his window. Yelping, Slate jumped away from it as he looked over.
Jackson stood there, his greasy black hair drifting lazily into his eyes. The smile that formed on his face was calculating, and Slate had seen him use it on others before.
His heart pounded, and an instant prayer streamed through his mind.Help me, he thought.Help me get out of this.
Jackson’s dark eyes glittered like the tips of black water in the moonlight, and he slowly raised his hand to reveal he was holding Slate’s wallet.
Anger roared through Slate, and he opened his door and pushed it out in one swift movement. “Give me that,” he snarled, snatching the wallet from Jackson as the man stumbled backward. That was one thing Slate did not miss about being high all the time—the complete lack of reaction time. He didn’t bumble around anymore. He didn’t stutter or trip over his words. He didn’t have to use eyedrops all the time. He didn’t lose his balance very easily.
Jackson did, though, and he fell after stumbling backward for several steps.
Slate gripped his wallet in his hand and glared at the man, his chest heaving. “Leave me alone.”
“Come on,” Jackson said with a goofy smile on his face. Slate blinked, realizing the person he was looking at used to be him. He used to grin like a fool all the time too. He used to scramble to his feet, his next words a plea for money.
“No,” Slate said, opening his wallet. “If you’ve taken even one penny from me, I’m calling the cops.” Just the idea of dealing with the police made Slate break out in a sweat. But he’d do it, because he was not going back to prison. He wasnot.
“Where are you now?” Jackson asked.
“Far away,” Slate said.
“You were home.” Jackson’s brow furrowed as if he really didn’t understand the idea of visiting.
Slate wasn’t going to explain it to him. All of his credit and debit cards seemed to be in their pockets, but he didn’t trust Jackson at all. He’d have to cancel everything inside and get new cards, because Jackson could’ve taken pictures of the fronts and backs of them.
“Give me your phone,” he said, holding out his hand.
