He exhales. “I can relate to that.”
Yeah, I’ll bet. “Look, West, I can’t give up. And you can’t, either.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, West, that’s exactly right.” I bring the joint back to my mouth. “And you know why?”
“Because you won’t let me?”
I study the wry, faint smile on his face, and find one of my own. “That’s right, fuckhead. I won’t.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Don’t know why you bother with me, man. Seriously, I’m half-crazy. I’m an OCD freak, apparently. Kinda useless. Can’t function unless I go through my rituals.”
I stare at him. “You’re not crazy, West. You’re as normal as any one of us.”
He snorts. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m not joking.” I put out the joint on the rail, leave it there so I can grab his hand. “We’re in this together. I’m not letting go, man. I’m dead serious.” I squeeze his fingers. “And if you’re half-crazy, which for the record, you’re not—what can I say? You’ve grown on me.”
He shakes his head, grins a little. “Fair enough.” He doesn’t pull his hand away. After a second, he says, “You’ve grown on me, too.”
I hide a smile. “Good. About time, Weston.”
“Screw you, Kash.” He’s still grinning. “Wait, is that your full name?”
Ah, what the hell. “Kasimir. That’s my name.”
“Kasimir. Is that Russian?”
“That’s right.”
I expect him to ask more questions, and I brace for them, prepare to stop him there, refuse to say more.
But a loud cra
sh from upstairs shatters the quiet, followed by yelling.
And then a howl of pain.
“Shit,” West breathes. “That’s… that’s Nate.”
What’s Nate doing here? Why the hell is he here? What’s happening?
The questions spin in my mind as I pound up the stairs, West at my heels, another crash setting my teeth on edge.
Hell.
West grabs my arm, bringing me up short. He frowns and points up. They’re right above us, on the next landing. Four of them, white shirts, black pants, surrounding Nate. One is holding him in place, arms around Nate’s chest. I can’t see Nate’s face.
I start again, only to be brought up short by West’s hand clamping on my arm. What the fuck?
“Missed you around here, Nathaniel,” the guy is saying, his voice like a spreading oil stain. “Didn’t your dad tell you? Evenings aren’t much fun without you around.”
My blood runs cold. Nate’s dad’s buddies. Holy fucking hell. I stare back at West. His eyes have gone dark with fury.
“But you thought you could waltz in and not be noticed, didn’t you? Thought you were clever. Thing is, boy, we had an arrangement with your dad. We paid him money for this. So you cheated us out of our hard-earned money. Time for payback.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Nate hisses, “you fucking motherfuckers. I don’t—”