“You know I hated you when you arrived at Walker,” I say. “You weren’t just another prisoner to me. Making you suffer was personal.”
Quinn goes still, her eyes darting back and forth, processing what I’ve said. “Why?”
“Because Lance was my friend. Or, I used to think he was.”
She nods. “You thought?”
“When you told me what really happened that night, what you said made me rethink some… occurrences with Lance I’d written off as isolated incidents, rather than a pattern. He’d always been a player, but there were a few times where he crossed a line. I should have seen it sooner, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“Thanks,” she says. “It’s not always easy to see when it’s someone we’re close to.”
“Well… we weren’t that close. I thought we were, but I was fooling myself. I’ve thought a lot lately how if he was really a friend, he’d have invited me to that party. I’d have stopped him from attacking you and your friend… and we’d have met under normal circumstances.”
Quinn smiles. “Yes, that would have been nice… although then you’d still be in the dark about Lance, about his father and the others. If there’s any silver lining about my being here, it’s helping you see the truth about them.”
“About Lance,” I correct. “And now Byron, I suppose. But if Darren knew what his son was up to, he would have been furious.”
“No he wouldn’t,” Quinn snorts. “Prescott didn’t give a shit about his son. He told me so himself.”
That can’t be true. Bristling, I lift Quinn off of me and set her down on the bed. “Darren might not be father of the year, but I happen to know he cares about Lance. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
Quinn’s face darkens as she finds a comfortable position lying on her side. “Tell me.”
I sigh, dredging up the memory of the night I met Darren for the first time. “When I was in my early twenties I was a dishwasher and delivery driver for my dad’s pizzeria. I also sold weed to my friends on the side.”
“Really?” she says, brushing her hair back. “I never would have imagined.”
“It wasn’t a big deal — the restaurant’s other driver, Frankie, was my supplier. I knew Lance from high school, though I was a couple years ahead of him, we had some mutual friends and he became one of my customers. So when he was home for the summer doing fuck all, he’d invite me to his dad’s mansion to party. I’d bring weed and everyone would be happy to see me. It was great. I thought Lance was my friend, but in retrospect, he probably just saw me as his dealer.”
“Sounds like he was an asshole back then too,” Quinn says.
“Yeah, but I didn’t have any other real friends, so I didn’t think about it. I probably should have known that a rich congressman’s son wouldn’t slum it with a guy like me without a good reason, but what did I know? His crowd was cool, and it felt good to be part of it. I was too young to know any better.”
“So that’s how you met Prescott?” she asks.
“Sort of. We met because of a bad decision — my whole life could have been completely different if not for it.”
I hate fucking thinking about it. If I’d just told Lance no for once…
“It started because Lance had the hots for this girl he knew from school, Alicia Korchynsky…”
—
After a night of driving around town, only to spend another three hours cleaning up at Nick’s, I’m dead on my feet. At least there’s a hundred and fifty bucks in my pocket from the tips.
Hey, is it on?Lance texts me at eleven.
I down a Stacker shot and respond,Yeah, on my way.
It takes ten minutes to drive out of the center of town, through the neighboring village and into the Flintlock Estates. The guard at the neighborhood gate waves me through, seeing the Nick’s logo on my car.
Lance’s house looks like it should be the home of a movie star, located in Beverly Hills, not some Philly suburb. Manicured hedges, three-car garage, heated in-ground pool — can’t ask for much more. His dad’s a congressman, but everyone here knows he’s rich because he owns the prisons. The irony of being here to sell his son drugs isn’t lost on me.
Flintlock Estates feels fucking spooky at night. The houses are all lit up, but there’s no one outside. With the community gated, there’s no traffic on the road. Rolling with the windows down, all I hear are crickets and lawn sprinklers.
I text Lance to let him know I’ve arrived. There’s not much point, but I’m nervous. I’m paranoid, even though now I’m golden — I got here without getting pulled over, I got Frankie’s envelope in a pizza box. Even if Lance has nosy neighbors — which I’m sure he does — all they’re gonna see is a dude with a pizza going to see his friend. Bypassing the front door, I head straight around back, finding Lance by the pool.
“Hey man!” he says when he sees me, getting up from his chaise lounge. Water drips from his swim trunks and his feet leave dark footprints on the concrete. “You made it!”