Maybe her parents will be home, maybe they’ll let me dry off and wait it
out in her bedroom.
My numb feet splash through a puddle and it turns out they aren’t as
numb as I thought. My teeth are chattering, arms folded tight, my wet
cardigan so cold against my skin that it feels like an ice bath. Everything
seems darker here. I can’t hear any distant bass from nearby clubs, just the
occasional drone of a car and the drumming of the rain. The streets are
narrow, a rat run of back alleys, wheeled bins piled high with crap. It smells
rancid, and even though the dim lighting and the rain make it damned near
impossible to get my bearings, I’m sure this isn’t the way to the sea front. I
haven’t got a clue where I am or where the hell I’m going.
Shit, shit and more shit.
For the first time through this sorry mess I feel fear creeping up my
spine. I’m out of my depth, and the tequila is wearing off fast. Way too fast.
My nerves are chattering worse than my teeth. I would kill for a
cigarette, just to take the edge off, and as I turn the corner I may be in luck.
A solitary figure is propped in a shadowy doorway. He’s wearing a hoodie,
so I can hardly see his face, not that I’m looking. I’m far too focused on the
glow of the cigarette between his fingers.
“Hey,” I say, smoothing back the wet hair from my face. “Could you
spare me a smoke?”
He stares at me, I can feel it, but I can’t see his eyes in the shadows.
He’s big, much bigger than me. He smells of weed and stale body spray
mixed with sweat, but right now none of that matters.
I launch into a monologue, telling him my name’s Laine, and how I was
out with a stupid friend who took my phone and keys with her when she
left. I tell him it’s my birthday, that I’m having the crappiest night of my life
and he’d make it just a little bit better if he’d please give me a cigarette. I
realise how stupid I sound, how weak my voice is. How weak I feel.
How alone I feel.
But I’ve felt alone for longer than I can remember, this shit’s nothing
new.
He hands me the cigarette from his fingers, and even though it makes
me feel a bit icky, I take it from him.
“Thanks.”
“Past your bedtime from the look of you,” he grunts. His voice is thick
and raspy, and it makes me feel uneasy.
I press myself against the wall, trying to hide from the downpour and
protect the cigarette.
“Everyone says that.” I take a long drag. “I’m eighteen. Perfectly legal,
at least from today. Yesterday. It’s not even my birthday anymore. Talk
about celebrating in style, things can only get better, right?”
My stupid giggle and attempt at humour seem to go right over his head.
He grunts again. Perfectly legal. I regret my choice of words.
I keep puffing away, looking at the floor, concentrating on nothing but
the welcome rush of nicotine.
“All alone, then?” I can hear the sneer in his tone. He has an accent, a
hint of cockney. It’s gruff and deep and laced with the underbelly of this
place.
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