“Latest addition?” he asked conversationally, pulling a stethoscope from his bag.
“Just a friend. A good friend,” Quinn added after a pause. “Do I need to get her to a hospital?”
“She doesn’t need one,” Steve said, after listening to her heart. “A detox would be more appropriate. Do you know what she took?”
“China White. Heavy shit, right?”
“Right.” Steve began repacking his bag, a disgruntled look on his face. “She’ll be okay.”
“It’s not an OD? The guy who shot her up said she’d never done it before.”
Steve pushed up Shan’s shirtsleeves and examined the insides of her arms. “He’s right,” he said, after a moment. “I don’t see any tracks. Just the one,” he pointed to a pinprick in the crook of her elbow. “This is fresh. Probably from tonight.”
“You think it’s true? That she never did smack before?”
“I didn’t say that,” Steve said. “Just because she never shot up doesn’t mean she isn’t a junkie. Most of them don’t shoot up anymore. They snort it, or smoke it.”
“I’ve never seen her high,” Quinn said, but his eyes were narrowing.
“Maybe you’ve never seen her straight. Junkies are on all the time, you know.” Steve shrugged and Quinn nodded. “You’ll be able to tell tomorrow, when this wears off. If she wakes up twitchy with watery eyes and a runny nose like she has the flu—well, then you’ll know.”
“Hey, wait!” Quinn said as Steve closed his bag and stood up. “What do I do with her?”
“Just ride it out. She’ll probably stay this way through the night.” Steve closed his bag, stood up, and headed for the door. “There’s an inpatient detox at the clinic. You can bring her if she wants to try,” he added, not sounding hopeful. “Call me if you get nervous.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Quinn said, his eyes still on Shan. Steve departed, shaking his head.
A junkie? She couldn’t be. Could she? Suddenly he recalled the way she’d start sweating, how her eyes would get glassy after a long practice or when a gig ran late. The way she’d head for the bathroom, saying she needed to splash some water on her face, then look perfectly normal when she returned. And that scumbag from the roof, a lowlife drug dealer if he’d ever seen one. “Son of a fucking bitch,” he whispered.
It was true. He knew it, and couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it. He glared at her, still prone on his couch, which was also his bed. She was nodded out, he saw, floating in a semiconscious state, so he decided to leave her where she was rather than struggle with moving her to unfold the convertible sofa. He took off her shoes, spread a blanket over her, then retrieved a comforter and pillow for himself.
It was only about eleven-thirty, but he was exhausted. He snapped off the light and, with one last scowl at Shan, stretched out on the floor.
chapter 15
When Shan opened her eyes, the light from the window invaded her corneas like a million tiny needles. With a moan, she squeezed them shut. Dope hangover, she noted. She’d never slammed before, but works were all the roadie had with him. Obviously she’d done too much.
She lay motionless for several minutes, then cautiously pushed herself up on her elbows. She was lying on a couch in a sparely furnished studio apartment. She saw a bathroom to her left and another door straight in front of her that opened into a kitchenette. The last thing she remembered was her blood draining from the syringe while the red-haired roadie shot her up. Where was she now, and how had she gotten here?
Then she spotted Quinn’s leather jacket hanging over the back of a chair. Oh, shit.
A moment later, Quinn himself appeared in the kitchen doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand. “How’re you feeling?”
Like she’d been run over by a train. “Better,” she lied. “Must be a twenty-four-hour bug.”
He vanished into the kitchen, reappearing a minute later with a second cup. She accepted it with shaky fingers and took a bracing sip. “Is this your place?” she asked.
He nodded, watching her with the oddest expression.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure.” He inclined his head in the direction of the bathroom, and she winced as she stood up. Even the soles of her feet hurt. As she shut the bathroom door behind her she saw that he was still watching her, his habitual half smile markedly absent from his face.
Quinn wondered if she was in there fixing, but realized she hadn’t as soon as she emerged. She was whiter, shakier, sweating like an ice cube in the sun, and he could see the hunger in her eyes, now that he was looking for it. It wasn’t the hunger of a first-time user.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” Shan put on her shoes, then edged toward the front door. “Thanks for helping me. Again,” she added, attempting a smile as her hand found the knob.
“Don’t leave,” Quinn said. “I want to talk to you.”
Shan hesitated, then returned to the couch. Her fingers found the bottom of her shirt and began twisting it into knots.
He was gazing fixedly at her. “So you’re feeling better?”
“Yes, I told you,” she said irritably. “I really need to get home though. What do you want?” She continued to tug at the hem of the shirt repetitively as her knee jittered up and down.
She was coming undone right in front of him. “What do you suppose made you so sick?”
“I told you it must be some bug,” she snapped, starting to rise. “I need to get home, so…”
In a flash, he was on his feet and towering over her. He put his hand on her chest and shoved her back down on the couch. “Don’t you fucking lie to me!” he roared.
Shan recoiled. No wonder. He’d never raised his voice to her before, let alone put his hands on her. Never once, in all their arguments.
“So tell me,” he inquired, “how long have you been chasing the dragon?”
She cringed as if he’d struck her.
“Answer me!”
She threw her hands out in supplication. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me the truth,” he shot back. “What did I tell you, right at the beginning? No booze, no drugs when we’re gigging. So what the hell was that last night, onstage, in front of three thousand fucking people? Do you know the trouble you could have gotten us into? Not just yourself, but me, and Dan, and Ty? Do you have any fucking idea?”
“Stop yelling!” She clapped her hands over her ears. “I couldn’t help it!”
She was quivering like a vibrating string. He scowled, resisting a sudden stab of compassion. “You had an obligation to tell us you had a drug problem, if it was going to affect the band. You are sixteen years old. And I’m not winding up in jail because you’re a fucking junkie!”
She pulled her hands away from her ears. “Yes, I’m a junkie!” she cried. “You can consider every one of our gigs a lie, because I’ve been using every time!”
“Using smack?” She nodded, eyes wild. “And you’ve been doing it every fucking day?”
“More like three or four times a day, so go ahead. Fire me.” Her voice broke.
He relinquished his aggressive stance, flopping beside her to regard her silently. “You could have told me,” he said finally. “Maybe not in the beginning, but now. We’re friends, right?”
“It’s not your problem. It’s mine. I’ll deal with it.”
“Don’t tell me you can take care of yourself, because you’re obviously not doing a very good job.” She glared at him. “I’m not going to kick you out of the band, but there’s a condition. You have to get treatment. I don’t even want to hear it,” he said, as she began to protest. “People die doing what you’re doing, Shan. Don’t expect me to stand by and watch. Now, tell me how this happened,” he continued. “I mean, I thought I knew you pretty well, and this doesn’t seem like you.”
She stared at him silently for a moment. Her face was pale, her eyes and nose beginning to glisten with moisture. “You don’t know me at all,”
she said. “I’m not who you think I am.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Well, tell me who you are, then.”
She pulled her knees in against her chest and huddled in a ball, staring down at the floor. “You know I lived on the streets for a while,” she began, “and that was when I met Jorge.”
“You mean that guy from the roof? The one who tried to—”
“Yes. I told you that he let me crash at his place sometimes, and we’d party. He’s a dealer.”
“So, when he was letting you crash, he was helping you acquire a nifty little habit, too, is that it?” Quinn’s face darkened. “I wish I’d killed the motherfucker.”
“It’s not his fault, Q. I can’t blame him because —”
“Bullshit. He was in it for something. What was it?”
She hesitated, then spoke very slowly. “One day he told me he couldn’t keep feeding me dope. It was too expensive, he said, but he thought we could work out a deal.”
Her voice trailed off as his face changed. “Are you telling me you fucked him for drugs?”
She turned away. “I…I didn’t know what else to do. You don’t understand what it’s like, Q. When the dope is gone, it goes bad so fast. You feel like you’re going to die, like you’ll crawl right out of your skin, so when someone says they’ll give you what you need if you just…”
Her voice broke and then Quinn was circling her with his arms. “I do understand, and I’m so sorry, angel.” His voice was gentle. “So, so sorry.”
She ducked her face against his shoulder. “I don’t want you to be disappointed in me,” she whispered. “What you think matters to me, Q. So much.”
“I think it’s a miracle you managed to survive at all, after everything you’ve been through, but you can’t keep this up. You have to stop.”
“I don’t know if I can. Stop, I mean. I’ve tried.”
“I’ll help you,” he said and drew her closer, suddenly assailed with that warm internal glow.
And he did. He dragged her, kicking and screaming, to the clinic near St. Vincent’s that very day. She protested continuously, becoming louder and more insistent as they approached the place. Her eyes were wide with stark terror, or maybe it was just that her pupils were dilated to huge black circles.
When he reached for the door she yanked away, but he caught her wrist and jerked her back to his side. “Listen,” he barked. She flinched, but a trace of lucidity crept through the panic in her eyes. “You said you trusted me, didn’t you?” She nodded mutely. “Then do it. Trust me. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
He pulled open the door and towed her to the front desk. “I need to see Dr. Markowitz.”
The receptionist looked up. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he’ll see me. Tell him Quinn Marshall is here, okay? And tell him I brought a friend.” He turned his blue eyes on her and the receptionist smiled. She was a pretty blonde with big brown eyes, but he didn’t give her a second glance as he led Shan to a couch against the wall.
A few minutes later, Steve emerged and knelt in front of her. “We met last night, Shan. Do you remember?”
She wiped her eyes. “No. Well, maybe,” she ventured, taking his proffered hand gingerly.
“Why don’t you come into my office so we can talk?”
Fear sliced through the dullness on her face. She yanked her hand away and pressed against Quinn’s side, hostility radiating from her green eyes. “Quinn can come, if you want,” Steve said.
“Sure,” Quinn agreed, standing and hauling Shan to her feet. She reluctantly followed Steve down the corridor, but wavered when he paused outside an office. Quinn gave her a shove to propel her through the door. “Stop pushing me,” she said, her eyes glimmering like wet glass.
“Then move,” he hissed, giving her another nudge.
When she was ensconced in an armchair, Steve sat down behind his desk. He focused his attention on Shan. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
“Because Quinn dragged me here.”
Steve kept his eyes on her. “Why do you suppose he did that?”
She swiped a hand over her perspiring forehead. “I think he’s worried about me.”
“And why is he worried?”
She met his gaze reluctantly. “Because I have a drug problem.”
Within fifteen minutes, he’d coaxed most of the information he needed from her. She was fairly cooperative, until he asked her age. Then her face slammed shut, but Quinn spoke up. “She’s sixteen, and she’s a runaway.” She glared at him. He glared back. “She’s afraid you’ll turn her in.”
Steve kept his gaze on Shan. “Shan, this isn’t a detention center. Our program is completely confidential. Now, when are you going to be seventeen?”
She bit her lip and groped for Quinn’s hand. “September second.”
“Well, legally you’ll only be a runaway for a couple more months, then. In the meantime, we can start you on the program today. The first step is detox. You had your last fix last night at around ten?” She nodded. “Then you’re probably feeling some withdrawal symptoms. The worst of that will pass over the next day or two.”
“It takes a lot longer than that,” she corrected him. “I’ve tried this before.”
He inclined his head sympathetically. “Well, there are a few medications that’ll make it easier to get through the first few days, but that’s really the easy part.”
She regarded him doubtfully. “I wouldn’t call it easy.”
“I hear you, but getting off heroin is one thing. Staying off it is another. Ours is an outpatient program, once you get through detox. You’re responsible for coming in every day for the medication. What we prescribe is methadone, which is really just a substitute for the smack. Over time, we’ll decrease the dosage and I hope you’ll eventually be drug free.”
“I will,” she said resolutely, “but how long will it take?”
“We want you off heroin for at least a year before we address the methadone dependency.”
Her throat swelled in horror. “A year? I was thinking, like, a month.”
“I wish that were the case, but you have to do this at your own pace. And you should know up front that a lot of addicts never get off methadone. It’s not much different from a diabetic needing insulin.”
“But I want off,” she insisted. “I hate living this way, always worrying about the next fix.”
“We’ll do everything we can to help you get there,” Steve promised, “but it really comes down to motivation and strength of character, and that’s completely in your hands.” She thrust her chin out and Steve grinned. “I’m glad to see you have some chutzpah. You’re going to need it.” He placed his hands flat on the desk. “That’s the program. You think you can handle it?” She nodded. “Good. I’m assuming you don’t have insurance?”
“No, but I can pay, at least some.” Quinn shot her a questioning look. “I’ve been saving for a new guitar,” she explained, “and I don’t need anybody’s charity. I can—”
“I know.” Quinn rolled his eyes. “You can take care of yourself.”
“Okay, let’s get started,” Steve said, standing “One of our nurse practitioners will give you a physical exam, then I’ll refer you to one of the rehab doctors, okay?”
Shan looked at Quinn. “Do you have to leave?”
“Yes,” Steve cut in. “He does. You need to concentrate on getting better now.”
Quinn held her gaze. “I’ll come and get you when you’re ready to leave, okay?”
As the nurse led her into the examining room, Shan shot one last yearning look at him over her shoulder. She looked lost and terribly small.
Quinn watched until the door swung shut behind her. “I hate to leave her here alone.”
Steve clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s not,” he said. “She’s with people who can help her, but you can be there when it’s time for her to face the outside. She’ll need some sup
port and you’d be a good one to give it. I get the feeling she’s very attached to you.”
Abruptly Quinn pulled away. “I’ll call you in the morning,” he said.
“Hey, did I say something wrong?” Steve called after him, puzzled.
Quinn did not reply, just headed out the door. When he hit the street he headed for the subway, to take the A train to Spanish Harlem.
chapter 16
Five days later, a pale, shaky Shan emerged from the clinic. She’d been assisted through the withdrawal process with a host of chemicals and had begun the treatments that would transform her from a heroin addict into a methadone addict. The methadone was creepy stuff. It came in an ampoule, a tiny bottle filled with thick, orange liquid that had an odd sort of solidity to it. Imagining what it looked like once it hit her stomach had made her vaguely uneasy as she chased it with the requisite glass of water.
When Shan came into the reception area, Quinn was waiting, looking over the plethora of Narcotics Anonymous propaganda tacked to the wall. She approached him with a mixture of relief and embarrassment but, when he turned toward her, she was momentarily distracted. There was an ugly purple bruise under his left eye.
When he smiled, she noticed his lip was swollen, too. “Are you okay?” he said.
“Yes. Are you?” she asked and he nodded. “What happened to your face?”
“Nothing much,” he shrugged. “You hungry? Want to go somewhere for lunch?”
She shook her head. “All I can taste is methadone. But, Q, your eye—”
“Doesn’t sound too appetizing,” he interrupted smoothly. “I’ll take you home, then.”
He had the van and drove her home. She was silent, but kept sneaking glances at his eye. He was quiet during the ride as well, and, when they got to the loft, she went into the living room and wearily dropped into a chair. Finally she spoke. “What did you tell everyone?”
“That you were sick. They think you were at my place.” He grinned. “Be prepared to get the third degree from Denise. I’m sure she thinks we’ve been screwing our brains out.”
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