Junkie: A Driven World Novel (The Driven World) Read online

  “What do you mean cars?” I cry out. Two men appear through the flames and wreckage, catching my attention. Jerad’s head whips to where my eyes are locked. “What the fuck, you piece of shit! You almost got us both—”

  One of the men lifts his hand, his expression blank. Before I can register what he’s holding, a round of gunshots slices through the night. Jerad’s body convulses with each bullet that sears through him. My blood freezes, rooting my feet to the ground as the life in his eyes fizzles out and he drops to the ground.

  “Jerad!” I scream, my pulse pounding in my ears. I dig my feet into the ground to run to him, when the same man points his gun at me. “Whoa! Please, don’t shoot me!” I cower and cover my head with my hands. “Please.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Our boss has different plans for you.”

  I lift my head to the two men. “Your boss? What do you mean?”

  The man stays still, his gun locked on my head, while the other man walks over to my car. My eyes follow him as he messes with the hood, then pops it open. Bending over, he reaches for something, then pulls back, a large white brick. “Still here. One split open, though.” He eyes me. “You’ll pay for that one.”

  I watch in horror as he pulls brick after brick of what has to be cocaine or heroin from under the hood of the car.

  “I…I…that’s not mine—”

  “No shit, you little bitch.” He hands the drugs over to the other guy, who lowers his gun to inspect them. “Boss isn’t gonna be happy about the singed ones.”

  “Hey, slow down. What boss? I didn’t know those were in there, I swear!” Panic spreads through me, and my throat becomes too thick. I can’t breathe. If these goons don’t take me out, my fear is going to. The man holding the bricks starts to stuff them in a duffle bag while his partner brings his hand back up, again pointing his gun at my head. “What do we do with her?”

  “She comes with us. Little girl needs to be taught a lesson about stealing.”

  I throw myself backwards, avoiding the quick grip of the goon. He’s bigger and quicker and latches his large hand around my throat. I start to kick and scratch at him, hoping to free myself, but he’s a giant compared to me. “Let go of me! Stop! Let me go!” My throat is on fire. With each kick I attempt, the goon laughs harder. “Let me the fuck go!” I scream, my voice cracking.

  “Not a chance. You made a mistake stealing from the Leoni cartel. Nobody walks away from wronging Vincent Leoni.” He wraps his free hand in my hair, ripping my head back. I scream at the pain, and he laughs harder. “Keep fighting, bitch. I was only instructed to hand you over alive. Before I do that, I think I’ll fuck you until I split your cunt in half. Maybe cut your fucking tongue out for speaking to me that way. Which is nothing compared to what Vincent will do. Detach your arms, then your legs. You think you’re some hotshot punk kid stealing cars? When we’re done with you, you’re gonna wish you—”

  The ground rattles under our feet as a blast ignites behind him. Heat sears across my face, and I use my arm for coverage as the fury of flames and smoke erupt.

  Jerad’s car explodes, glass shattering as it bursts into an angry beast of fire. The deadly blaze billows outward, throwing the other man into the stolen car, his head slamming into the side of the open hood. The horrid sound of his neck snapping pierces through the night, and he falls lifelessly to the ground. The fire continues to take no mercy, blasting through the air as another explosion erupts, destroying everything in its path. The man’s grip on me releases. White stars shoot behind my eyes and I scream when my leg smacks against the pavement as I lose my balance and hit the ground.

  “Fuck! Anthony!” the man shouts as gasoline lights a trail from Jerad’s car to mine. A gush of flames rise from the ground. His eyes follow the soaring fire from his dead friend to the duffle bag. “Oh, shit!” He launches at the bag as the inferno changes routes, crackling and consuming its next victim. Just as he puts his hands around the bag, the flames wrap around him. A blood-curdling shriek of agony expels from him as the fire swallows him whole.

  My heart beats out of my chest like a steel drum. The heat from the fire threatens to melt my clothes right off me. My eyes refuse to pull away from the two burning bodies. My head starts to bob back and forth between the two men and Jerad. Dead. Dead. Dead. The fire engulfs more of the duffle bag, and a loud crackle ignites. My back hits the wall. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  The blaring sound of sirens resonates in the distance. My head whips toward the oncoming commotion. Seconds tick by when the sounds of cars and loud voices follow. Fuck. Fuck! I need to get the hell out of here. Forgotten is the pain in my thigh and the wound on my forehead as I take off across the parking lot into the dark field. I run until my muscles burn and I can no longer feel my legs. And I don’t for one second look back.

  I can’t. Jerad’s dead. His blank eyes flash through my mind, and my stomach twists in agony. Fire. So much fire. Two men, their flesh burning them alive. My steps falter as the memories consume me. Bile fights its way up my throat, burning my esophagus. The smell. Flesh melting to bone. I almost trip over my own feet as I vomit onto the road in front of me. My muscles spasm as I bend over again, sickness burning through me. “Fuck,” I pant. I’m shaking from head to toe. The reality of what I just witnessed settles in deeper, and I barrel over again. The lack of air into my lungs is strangling. I can’t breathe.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Tears burn my eyes. What if Jerad isn’t dead? I could call the police—“No.” I can’t. But what if… My brain screams for me to go back, but my common sense shouts for me to keep running. Run until they can’t find you. After what I did and saw…there’s no turning back.

  Headlights from the street ahead grab my attention. A faint neon sign in the distance. A gas station. I ignore the throbbing in my thigh and sprint toward the street. My body is on overdrive. The sign gets closer, and I break into a run. There are a few cars, but I keep my head down, throwing my hoodie over my head to hide the blood oozing from my cut.

  “Honey, are you all right?” a woman asks as I walk by. I keep my eyes to the ground and hurry past her. “You’re bleeding. Do you need—?”

  “Fine. Thanks,” I mumble, picking up my pace. I want to stop so bad. Tell her I’m not okay and fall into her arms and sob my eyes out, but a voice of caution stops me. Cops. Stolen car. Three dead bodies. My stomach churns, and sickness rises up my throat again. I start to run, thankful to see the bathrooms are outside. I throw myself into the small space and lock it. My body trembles as I sink to my knees and tuck my head between my thighs. My chest heaves, and I bang my tight fists against the dirty floor. A guttural sob expels from my lips, and I break. My cries are loud and agonizing. I struggle to breathe. Shit, I can’t breathe. I grab at my shirt as if there’s a hundred-pound weight crushing my lungs.

  Rapid thoughts of what’s going on back at the race hold me hostage. Has someone found them yet? Have the police made it to the crash? Will the police know, being it’s an illegal race scene? Has their boss been notified? At least eight bricks were pulled from the engine bed.

  “Fuck!” I cry harder. This is all my fault. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” I sob into my hands, wishing I could say those words to Jerad. He may have been an asshole, but he didn’t deserve this. This is my fault. I got him—

  A loud bang on the door startles me. “Hurry up in there!” a voice on the other end yells.

  I suck in a deep breath, fighting back my emotions. I can’t do this now. Anything I feel needs to be put on the back burner. “Just a minute!” I climb to my feet. Heading to the sink, I get a good look at myself. My breathing hitches, and I threaten to lose it again. A thin gash stretches down my forehead. Streams of dry blood coat my face. My hair is a mess, and my clothes aren’t in any better shape. Hold it together. I need to until I get far away from here. There’s no way to know whether those guys were telling the truth or lying. If there was a boss, he’s about to find out that not only was his car stolen, but the drugs i
nside were destroyed.

  I’ll fuck you until I split your cunt in half.

  Which is nothing compared to what Vincent will do.

  Detach your arms, then your legs…

  I lean over the sink and dry heave. The banging starts up again. “I said I’ll be right out!” I hurry and wash my hands, wetting a paper towel and dabbing at my forehead. I wince as I scrape over my cut. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem too bad. I gaze down at my jeans. There’s nothing I can do about that now. I need to get out of here. Head home and grab some necessities and disappear. Who knows if anyone is searching for me. Or if anyone gave up my name. They could be looking for me right now, and I’m a sitting duck in this bathroom. That thought drives me even more. Blood pumps though my veins, injecting a whole new kind of adrenaline.

  I exit the bathroom on high alert, ignoring the gasp from the woman waiting outside the door. I hitch a ride with a trucker, who doesn’t ask any questions, and dumps me a mile away from my apartment. It’s late. Darkness clouds the building, the occasional streetlight the only form of light. I enter through the back, which is always unlocked. Live in a shithole place, get shithole security. I climb the stairs two at a time, ignoring the burn in my thigh. As I round the corner, I freeze. My door is open. Not just open, but hanging from the hinges. Panic surges through me. Alarms blare in my head. They know who I am. They know where I live. Dread pushes my feet back two steps, knocking into the corner of the wall. My knees shake, fear threatening to take me down.

  “Shit!”

  Turn around and run, Luna.

  I can’t. I need money. I need clothes. If I don’t plan on ever coming back here, I need the essentials to get by until I can find a safe place and figure out my next move. I stare back at my demolished doorframe, weighing my options. I can run, or I can go in there and grab my shit. They could still be in there. They could be waiting. “Shit.” My voice trembles. My gaze moves between my door and the stairwell.

  “Goddammit,” I hiss and sprint toward my apartment. I lean against the wall and listen for movement. My stomach tightens with unease, knowing how stupid this is. But I don’t have a choice. There’s no avoiding this. Just go. Get in, get out.

  I hold my breath and enter my ransacked apartment. The minimal things I own are broken, sliced, or shattered. The old couch is overturned, each cushion split in two. My tiny table is broken into pieces, and any sort of keepsake I’ve collected along the way has been smashed to the ground. My composure starts to unravel at the sight of a shattered photo frame with the one memory I had of me and Henry, the only foster parent who ever cared about me. Using the back of my hand, I swipe away a tear and push into action, heading toward my bedroom. The blow-up mattress is deflated, a huge gash down the center. Grabbing my backpack, I take anything that’s still in one piece. I fight through my ransacked closet and bend down, working the loose board in the floor until it pops up. Under it is my emergency stash—a stash I’ve never been more thankful to have. Relief floods through me because they didn’t find it.

  Time is ticking away, and so is the probability of getting out of this unscathed. I grab my toiletries and book it, leaving the rest of my things and the place I was finally starting to call home.

  Luna

  “Is there anything sooner?”

  “No, ma’am. California is the next bus out. After that, no busses leave until mid-morning.”

  I blink up at the clock behind the man sitting at the ticket desk. It’s almost four in the morning. The next bus leaves in thirty minutes. My options are slim. A flight is too expensive and it flags me. A bus ticket is untraceable. And right now, that’s the smartest move. My main priority is to get as far away from here as possible—and quick.

  “I’ll take it.” I slide the money under the glass. The clerk takes the cash and prints me a one-way ticket to Santa Monica, California. A loud bang in the distance startles me, and I jump out of my skin. In the far back of the station, a bum, who must have fallen off the bench, climbs back onto his seat.

  Stay calm.

  Stay calm.

  I muster up a lame smile as I thank the clerk and snag my ticket before searching out a secluded bench in the corner of the station.

  You made a mistake stealing from the Leoni cartel.

  Nobody walks away from wronging Vincent Leoni.

  “Stop,” I scold myself, needing to shut off my brain. The bum a few benches away eyes me, and I get up and move farther away, keeping my eye on the clock. The more I stare at it, the more I swear it’s going backwards. A chill skates down my arms despite the warmth, and I tug my hoodie tighter around myself. My foot won’t stop tapping against the ground, wondering…remembering. I grab my phone out of my back pocket and do a Google search on Ohio cartels and Vincent Leoni. If I’m in as big of trouble as those men said I am, I should at least know what I’m up against. Dread creeps down my spine with each article. The horrid bold titles. Murders, unsolved crimes, drug cartel. I make the mistake of clicking on a news article. Graphic photos showing an unsolved double homicide, all signs pointing to the Ohio drug cartel.

  By the time I get through the first page of articles, my skin feels clammy and I cover my mouth, fearing I may be sick. The reality of the situation hits me like a sledgehammer to my throat, restricting my airways. They’re going to find me. They’re going to kill me. They’re going to find me… Panic seizes my muscles. I start to violently shake, dropping my phone on the floor below me.

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  I scream as a hand presses against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to inform you the bus is here. You can board now.”

  My heart thuds inside my chest. I stare at the clerk in horror for too long before my mind registers he’s not the enemy. “Yeah, sorry. Thanks.” I snatch up my backpack and hurry toward the bus.

  “Excuse me, miss! You forgot your phone.” I stop and turn back. “Can’t forget this. Where would we be without our trusty phones? Our lifelines, ya know?”

  I accept my phone and turn back around to walk to the bus. His words trigger something, though. Trusty phones. Our lifelines. I make a quick detour over to the trashcan next to the bus, toss my phone on the ground, stomp on it until the screen shatters and the device goes dead, then throw it in before hopping on the bus to California in hopes I make it there alive.

  Two days later…

  Pop. Pop. Pop….

  The life in his eyes fizzles out and he drops to the ground.

  I shoot forward in my seat, searching around, the nightmare still fresh in my mind. A bead of sweat trickles down my brow. I wipe it away, taking in the scenery. The bus driver announces that we’ve reached our destination, and I sit up straighter, noticing someone has taken the seat next to me. “Hello there. Not sure if ya heard, but we’re here.”

  “Yeah…” I wipe drool from the corner of my lip. Shit, how long was I asleep?

  “You know, you should really get your leg checked out. Can’t be good if it’s soakin’ through your jeans like that.”

  Frowning, I look down to see I’ve bled through the makeshift bandage I applied when we stopped at a rest area in Oklahoma. “Yeah, uh…thanks.” I lift my backpack onto my lap to cover my thigh.

  The bus deboards, and I sway on my feet. I’ve barely eaten anything in over forty-eight hours, and I worry about how much blood I’ve lost. I just need to find a place to lay low until I can figure out my next move. I can’t check into a motel or anywhere that will make me show my ID.

  Think, Luna, think…

  “No,” I argue with myself as the thought shifts through my mind. I won’t go back. But they’ll take you in. They’re there to help. Not for someone like me. Foster care spit me out every chance it got. Their safehouses won’t be any better. And someone my age? Once you hit eighteen, they release you into the wild, whether or not you have a roof over your head or even know where your next hot meal is coming from. An old counselor’s words become louder. Foster homes
like this…they aren’t there to judge. They’re there to provide a safe environment to lay your head and fill your belly. I swore I’d never step foot in another foster care center. I was done with them. Just like they were done with me. But I’m not sure I have another choice. I’m hurt. I’m scared. I’m alone.

  I get off the bus and walk to the nearest superstore for some clothes, bandages, and a prepaid phone. While using their bathroom to clean up and bandage my wounds, I type in the site for a kids on the street chatroom. Times when I hadn’t been fortunate to win a race or make a friend with a spare couch, I’d hit up this chatroom for help. A ‘no questions, no judgement’ place. It never requires information to log in, and it’s a safe place to chat with others in your same shitty situation.

  Once I’m in, I start a chat topic for local safehouses or foster houses. It doesn’t take long for the comments to come in.

  FkDaSystm12: Try da House. Usually full, but best place out here.

  Runaway23: The House. No questions asked.

  BadByz18: Agree. Jackson’s the bomb. Tell him Banger sent you.

  SexyJay_18: You can come stay with me. My roommate’s out of town.

  OnMyOwn22: The House. Ask for Rylee.

  Spitfire_@@2: House.

  Jeremy_onDaRun: Stay away from Connor House. Bunch of dicks there.

  The chat continues to flood in with replies, a solid amount leading me to The House. I type in the address and see I’m a fifteen-minute walk away. My body wants to give up. Everything is starting to weigh heavy on me. I’m not sure I have it in me to make the trek. My leg is on fire, and my stomach clenches in pain from hunger. My eyes fill with tears, but I refuse to let them fall. I need to be tough. I need to suck it up. One foot in front of the other, I push my body, until I’m at the doorstep of The House.

  The sun is setting, and it takes everything in me to lift my hand to the door and knock. I hear a faint voice from inside telling me to come in, so I do. When I walk into the quant house, a guy just about double my size rounds the corner. He’s wearing jeans, a flannel—which is strange since it’s insanely hot—and a genuine smile. His eyes reach mine, and he sticks his hand out.