Lead Me Not (26 page)

I watched Maxx for a few minutes, making sure he wasn’t going to be sick again. When I was sure he wasn’t, I got back in the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

The drive to Maxx’s apartment was silent except for the occasional groan. I pulled up in front of the Quikki Mart and hurried around to get Maxx. He was coming around somewhat and was able to get out of the car on his own.

“Come on, Maxx. Let’s get you inside,” I cajoled, trying to get him to move, but he was so stoned that stumbling was the best he could do.

“I just want to sit outside for a bit,” he said, weaving his way around the side of the convenience store and sitting down heavily on a wooden staircase. He leaned his head against the side of the building and brought his hand up to his face. He didn’t seem to be feeling a lot of pain, which was good, because he’d be feeling it in the morning.

“My face feels weird. What’s wrong with it?” he asked, still slurring. I pulled his hand away from his wounds and held it between mine.

“You just need to get inside and get some sleep,” I said soothingly, hoping to convince him to get to his feet. Maxx shook his head.

“I want to stay out here. Just for a while,” he said and then squeezed my hand. “Don’t tell Landon. Mom and Dad would be so pissed at me. I keep screwing everything up. Don’t tell Landon,” he mumbled, his chin hitting his chest.

I gave him a shake, afraid he’d pass out. It was freezing, and I was starting to shiver uncontrollably. Maxx’s skin that wasn’t discolored and bleeding was ashen and pale. I needed to get him inside.

“Come on, up on your feet,” I urged, pulling on his arm. Maxx complained, but after a few moments I was able to get him to
climb the stairs to his door.

“Where are your keys?” I asked. Maxx smirked, though it was a sad impersonation of his normal arrogant smile. The split lip made it hard to take his attempts at seductiveness seriously.

“You’ll have to get ’em yourself,” he garbled. I was glad to know that, even high as a kite, he was still capable of being a jerk.

I rolled my eyes and stuck my hand in his pockets, feeling around for his keys. Maxx chuckled and swayed on his feet, finally using the wall to brace himself. I pulled his key ring out of his back pocket and then went through the process of finding the right one to unlock the door.

After several unsuccessful attempts, I got it open and forced Maxx inside. He was laughing and rambling incoherently. I flipped on the light and deposited him on the threadbare couch that sat in the living room.

Maxx fell onto his side and stayed that way. A cut on his forehead had come open, and he was bleeding onto the fabric beneath his cheek.

“Do you have a first-aid kit?” I asked him. But he was past hearing me, so I started searching for something to clean him up with.

Maxx’s apartment was sparse, and what few furnishings he had were old and used. There was a distinct lack of anything personal in his home, and I found that rather sad. It was the space of a man who cared nothing about his surroundings. The neglect and disarray gave off a quiet sense of despair.

The bathroom was down the hallway, and I was happy to see that at least he kept it clean. I found some Band-Aids and antiseptic cream in the medicine cabinet.

And then because I couldn’t help myself, I opened the only other door in the hallway. I turned on the light and knew right away that this was Maxx’s room. The bed was unmade, and there were clothes on the floor. I saw some schoolbooks and an old
desktop computer on a table by the window.

I found a clean shirt in his dresser, and then, just because I felt like being a snoop, I started to dig around in the piles of clothing. I found two empty prescription bottles and a ridiculous number of plastic baggies.

Then, in the back of the bottom drawer, I found a folded-up photograph. Pulling it out, I saw that it was a picture of a family. It was one of those generic portrait-gallery shots with the cheesy blue background and awkward posing. A woman with fair, wavy hair sat on a stool in front of a tall man who rested a hand on her shoulder. A young boy with a head full of blond curls stood by the woman’s side, and in her lap was a baby, no more than six months old.

I knew without a doubt that these were Maxx’s parents. I studied the picture, thinking that maybe this would reveal something about the man who lay passed out in the living room. Maybe I could figure out who he was and why he did the things he did.

I heard a bang from the living room and hurriedly shoved the picture back into the drawer. I gathered the items I had gone searching for and closed the bedroom door behind me.

Maxx was sitting up and rubbing his shin. “You all right?” I asked, sitting down beside him.

“Fucking coffee table,” he muttered, turning to me with a wobbly smile on his face. I held up the Band-Aids.

“Let me clean you up,” I said. Maxx didn’t say anything, simply closed his eyes and let me do what I needed to do. I wiped off the blood and covered the cut with a bandage. I cleaned out the scrapes on his palms, which he must have gotten when he was beaten to the ground.

“Who were those men who beat you up?” I asked, not sure I’d get any sort of answer in the state he was in.

So I was surprised when he answered me. “That was Gash. He runs the club. I guess he’s pissed at me,” he snorted as though it were
a joke.

“I’d say,” I mused quietly. When Maxx didn’t volunteer any further information, I tried prodding him a little more.

“Why’s he pissed at you?”

Maxx gave an exaggerated shrug, his head starting to droop.

“Don’t tell Landon,” he mumbled again.

“Don’t tell him what?” I asked as I finished my task.

Maxx pried his good eye open and turned to look at me. He grabbed my hands and squeezed them so tightly I winced. “About me. Never about me,” he whispered.

Maxx shook his head and let out a sob. “They would be so disappointed in me,” he cried, gripping his hair in his hands as he became more and more agitated.

I put my hand on his arm. “Who would be disappointed?”

Maxx’s chest heaved, his eyes still closed. “They wanted me to be some great doctor. Something special.” He shook his head violently. “Look at me!” He grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled at it, ripping the fabric. He was getting really worked up.

Maxx put his hand first in one pocket and then the other. “Where are they?” he asked, getting unsteadily to his feet and digging farther into his pockets.

“Where are what?” I asked, bewildered by the sudden change in his mood.

“I need them!” he yelled, pushing past me and lumbering into the kitchen, where he started taking things out of the cabinets and throwing them on the floor. When he didn’t find what he was looking for there, he let out a howl and practically ran down the hallway to his bedroom.

I followed him at a distance. I thought about trying to stop him, but a desire for self-preservation held me back.

He ripped his room apart, dumping clothes on the floor. He gathered the empty baggies and ripped them apart.

“Where are they?” His scream was desperate. He tipped over his bedside table and fell to his knees, looking through the stuff that had fallen out. He picked up a bottle and shook it. It rattled, and the look of euphoria that replaced the hopelessness on his face made me cold. I knew exactly what he had been looking for.

“No, Maxx! You don’t need that,” I cried, falling down beside him and trying to pry the bottle from his hands. Maxx yanked it away from me and scooted backward on his knees. He popped the top off, and before I could do anything, he dropped the white pill into his mouth.

He crunched it between his teeth. His mouth went slack, and he leaned back against the wall.

“Maxx,” I said with bone-weary regret. Maxx looked at me, his normally beautiful lips stretching into a lazy smile that was all too familiar. I used to think that smile was sexy and mysterious. Now it was just sad and pathetic. Now I knew exactly why he smiled that way.

I hated that smile.

I hated how happy he seemed.

I hated how easily he gave in, not even bothering to put up a fight.

This was how he lived his life—from one high to the next, bad choice after bad choice, followed by catastrophic consequences that he cared nothing about, not now anyway.

Maybe in the morning, when he wasn’t fucked-up and could possibly think more rationally, he’d care.

I brought my knees up to my chest and leaned my cheek against my leg, exhausted and angry. But I was also resolute.

Maxx licked his lips, his eyes drooping shut. He put a hand through his blond curls and then let his arm fall limply beside him. His head bobbed from side to side as though he was making sure he could still move it.

I found myself watching the rise and fall of his chest, scared that if I stopped looking, even for a moment, it would cease to move, that he would slip away quietly, without me realizing it.

Before I had the chance to fight for him. Because obviously he didn’t have the will to fight for himself.

This man wasn’t a casual user. He was slowly being eaten alive. It was like watching a car driving full speed toward a brick wall. The sinking feeling of helplessness I remembered all too well made me momentarily immobile.

I would fail him.

I would lose him, just as I had lost Jayme.

I was a fool to think I could make a difference for anybody.

I looked around the trashed room and sighed. I should leave him to this miserable cycle he lived in. I didn’t need to be mixed up in all of this. Brooks was right. My being here was inappropriate. The boundaries were already blurred.

And what would it matter anyway?

Maxx reached out and took my hand. “Stay,” he whispered. I shook my head. I couldn’t stay. Not after everything I’d seen. There was no place for me in his world.

“Please, Aubrey. Stay with me,” he pleaded. I turned back to him. His pupils were dilated, and I wasn’t sure if it was just the drugs or whether he had a concussion. I should have taken him to the hospital. He may have had broken bones. But I had allowed my good sense to be drowned out by the need to care for him. To do it all
myself.

As if I had something to prove by making things right, all on my own.

I was scared to leave him in the state he was in. But I was scared to stay, knowing that if I did, that was
it.
I had stepped over that invisible line. And once I had done so, there was no turning back. It would be too late.

I stared down at Maxx, and he looked so young and vulnerable, his face devoid of its characteristic calculation and seductive allure. He seemed . . . innocent.

I wouldn’t leave him. I couldn’t walk out his door and pretend that this boy didn’t matter to me.

Already, he had become something important. Something I should never have allowed him to be. But that didn’t change the fact that he
was
.

I opened my mouth to agree to stay, but Maxx’s eyes were closed and his mouth drooped open. I found a blanket and draped it over him.

Then I lay down on the bed, wrapping my coat around myself, and watched him while he slept, each rise and fall of his chest binding me to him in a way that frightened me with its totality.

There was no leaving him.

I had made my choice.

I just hoped it was the right one.

chapter

eighteen

maxx

m
y chest felt tight, and my head screamed in agony. Every joint, every limb, ached and burned. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. I felt sick to my stomach, and bile rose up in the back of my throat.

I was going to puke.

I tried to lift my head, but even that small movement set off a wave of nausea that quickened the vomit rising up my throat.

I rolled onto my side and retched. And then I retched again. And just for good measure I retched some more.

I moaned, rolling onto my side. I had the sense to know I was on my bedroom floor, though how I had gotten here was a good question. Everything after I had arrived at Compulsion last night was a complete blank.

There were flashes here and there of things I think I’d prefer to forget.

I tried to hoist myself up onto the bed, but instead I started to dry heave. My face and the back of my neck were slick with sweat. The acrid smell of my puke filled my nostrils, and I started to shudder with the need to spew again.

“Jeesh,” I heard someone mutter, followed by a pair of cool hands on my upper arms as they pulled me back onto the bed. I recognized the voice, though my fuzzy mind couldn’t connect the dots.

I tried to open my eyes but found only one of them was working. Shit, why couldn’t I get my fucking eye open?

I started panicking. I slowly patted my face and hissed in pain as my fingers made contact with very raw flesh.

Christ, I was going to be sick again.

“Hold on,” the voice urged. There was no holding on to anything. I opened my mouth to throw up, but nothing came up. My stomach was officially empty. But that didn’t stop my body from attempting to bring up my stomach lining.

I was shaking uncontrollably, and those cold, soft hands touched my face. I think I moaned at how good it felt.
Don’t stop touching me.

“I’m not going anywhere,” the voice soothed. And for the brief second before I passed out again, I felt comforted. And it made the free fall into blackness that much sweeter.