By the time I make it to my car, I’m panting and struggling not to count the poles in the parking garage. I grab the door handle, my hand trembling.

Inhale…exhale…inhale…exhale…

“Nova.” Tristan’s voice floats over my shoulder. “Are you…” His feet scuff against the pavement as he steps toward me. “Are you okay?”

I’m on the verge of crying and the last thing I want to do is turn around and let him see that fact. “Yeah, I’m good.” I lift my hand to discreetly dab my eyes with my fingers and pull myself together before I turn around to face him. “I’m just not feeling very good all of a sudden.”

There’s speculation in his eyes as he looks me over. “Maybe we should get going, then.”

I nod and am about to climb into the car when I spot a tall guy, with sturdy arms and broad shoulders, wearing black pants and a nice button-down shirt, strolling toward us, with his eyes on us. He has this strange look on his face, like he’s found something he’s been dying to get his hands on and finds it amusing.

“Well, well, well, look who I finally ran into.” Tristan tenses just at the sound of his voice, then gradually turns around. “Trace, what’s up?” There’s a nervous laugh under his stressed tone.

Trace stops just short of us with his arms folded. He’s probably in his mid-twenties, tall, with a very sturdy body and intimidating gaze. He also has brass knuckles on his hand and a scar on his cheek, just a light graze, but it screams drug lord to me. As soon as I think it, I shake my head at myself at the absurdity. There’s no way that could be going on—no such thing.

“You know, you’re a hard person to track down,” Trace says broodingly. “I show up in the parking lot and you let your friend take the blow. Then I go over to your shitty-ass house and Dylan takes the blow for you that time, although if you were there he probably would have ratted you out.” A small smile touches his lips, as if he’s entertained by Tristan’s nervous manner. “Things would have been a hell of a lot easier if you would have just stepped up instead of being a fucking coward.”

Tristan deliberately inches to the side, placing himself between Trace and me. “Yeah, sorry about that. But you know how things are…you’re high and shit and you just do stupid stuff.”

“High on my drugs,” Trace says, ambling forward and cracking his knuckles. I’m not sure what to do—stay put? Get in the car? But I can feel the tension in the air, so thick it’s smothering. “Drugs you owe me money for.” He stops in front of Tristan, towering over him, and Tristan isn’t that short, which means the guy is tall. “I’m going to make this real easy on you. Give me the money you owe me, plus interest, and I’ll let you walk.”

“I don’t have the money right now,” Tristan mutters with his head tipped down. “But I’ll get it to you. I just need some time.”

“Time, huh?” That’s when the Trace guy looks at me for the first time, but it feels like he noticed me long before. “And who’s this lovely thing right here?”

I’m not sure if it’s a rhetorical question or not, but I opt to keep quiet, cowering behind Tristan. My pulse is racing so fast I feel light-headed and woozy, like I might pass out.

Tristan stands up straighter, sweeping his hand through his hair. “That’s none of your business, so leave her alone.”

“None of my business.” His low laugh reverberates around us. Then suddenly his hand shoots out and he grabs the bottom of Tristan’s shirt. “Right now, everything you do is my business until you pay me back.” He pats Tristan’s cheek roughly with his free hand. “Got that?”

“Yeah, I got that,” Tristan says though gritted teeth, afraid to budge.

Trace lets him go and Tristan stumbles back toward me, bumping into the front of my car. “Good.” Trace seems to have calmed down and I start to relax as he turns away to leave, but then he unexpectedly spins around and rams his fist with the brass knuckles into Tristan’s gut. I hear the wind get knocked out of him as Tristan collapses to his knees, gasping for air, and I start to rush for him, but Trace’s eyes land on me and the dark warning stops me in my tracks. He looks back down at Tristan crumpled on his knees and then raises his fist again. This time his knuckles collide with Tristan’s cheek. I hear a pop as Trace pulls back again, preparing to hit him again. I cry out for him to stop, but he slams his fist forward again and I watch in horror as he punches Tristan in the stomach again. Tristan’s legs shake, wanting to collapse as he hunches over struggling to breathe.

Finally, Trace lowers his hand, the brass knuckles and his hand splattered with Tristan’s blood. “You have one week to pay me back or you won’t be walking away. Got it?”

Tristan nods, not saying a word, and the Trace guy turns and heads back out of the parking garage, taking his cell phone out of his pocket.

I rush for Tristan and help him get to his feet. “Oh my God, are you okay?” I ask as he wiggles away from me.

He wraps his arm around his stomach as he stands up straight and his face is twisted in pain, blood dripping out of his nose, and the entire side of his face is red and swollen. “Just peachy.”

I eye him over with concern. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital.” I reach out to touch him, but he leans back.

“No hospitals,” he says sharply. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Well, I am.”

I shake my head, irritated by his stubbornness. “What was that about?” I cast an anxious glance in the direction of the exit Trace wandered off through.

“Just an old debt,” Tristan says, supporting his weight against the car, working to breathe properly.

“For drugs?”

He shrugs as he wipes some of the blood off his nose with his hand, then winces from the pain. “Sometimes I do stupid shit.”

I remember how last year I saw Dylan, Quinton, and Delilah dealing drugs to those guys. “You guys deal drugs now?”

He looks like he wants to roll his eyes at me, but resists the urge. “You seem surprised.”

“I am a little,” I admit. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see the truth. “Is Quinton in trouble, too?”

He shakes his head. “Nope, just me and my own stupidity.” His voice lowers when a couple of people walk by us, heading to their car.

“Are you going to be able to pay that guy back?” I ask.

“Of course.” Tristan brushes me off. “In fact, I need to get back to the house and get a few things done that will get me extra cash.”

I want to ask him what those few things are, but fear the answer. “How much do you owe him?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, then, keeping his hand on the hood, he starts around the car to the passenger side.

“Are you sure…because I could maybe help you. Loan you some money or something.”

“I said I’m fine, Nova.” He opens the door with his arm still across his stomach.

I grab the handle of the door. “Well, if you ever need any help with anything…I’m here.”

We climb into the car and Tristan gives me a cold look. “What? Are you going to save me, too, Nova? Pay off my debt and drag me out of this hellhole along with Quinton?” He rolls his eyes. “Because things don’t work that way, especially when people don’t want to leave that hellhole they live in.”

“I…” I have no idea how to respond to that. Even though I offered to help him with his debt, I don’t have a lot of money. And when it comes to getting him out of that hellhole, I can’t even handle Quinton, let alone someone else.

“I didn’t think so,” Tristan says coldly, facing the window and dismissing me as he lifts the bottom of his shirt up to his bleeding nose and tries to wipe away the blood still dripping out.

Shaking my head, I reach into the glove box and take out a napkin. “Here,” I say, giving him the napkin.

“Thanks,” he mutters and then presses the napkin to his nose.

I back out of the parking spot and head toward his house. I try to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem too interested, staring out the window the entire time as he drums his fingers on his knee to the beats of the songs. By the time I park the car, I expect him to get out without saying anything like Quinton did the last time I dropped him off.

But as he grabs the handle to get out, he pauses and then pulls away. “You got your phone on you?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He turns his head toward me with a reluctant look on his face, sets the napkin down on his lap, and extends his arm toward me. “Let me see it.”

I retrieve it from my pocket and give it to him, watching as he punches a few buttons on the touch screen before giving it back to me. “His name’s Scott Carter and he lives in Seattle.” He reaches for the door handle again. “I’m not sure if that’s still his number, since the last time I talked to anyone from the house was over a year ago when Quinton used to live there, but that’s your best shot.”

“Thank you, Tristan,” I say as he cracks the door, stunned he actually gave me the information. “And if you ever need anything—help getting yourself out of trouble—please, please ask me.” I want to say more, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do.

“Whatever. I’m only giving the number to you because you asked. Not because I want your help with anything,” he replies, pushing the door open all the way and ducking his head to climb out. “And I don’t think it’s going to help Quinton at all. Trust me when I say that he’s only going to quit doing what he does when he wants to quit. I know because that’s how I roll and it’s hard to quit something that makes you feel so fucking good.” He says it so causally and before I can respond he’s shutting the door and walking away toward his crappy apartment, moving slowly because he’s in pain.