“Bye, bitch!” a chorus erupts behind us, followed by laughing and clanking and banging around.
I squeal into her palm, but she only tightens her grip on my face. My skin splits in all five places where her nails stab into it. I wrap my hands around her wrist—not to pull her hand away, but to pull it closer. Q cackles as she walks backward in front of me, dragging me down the hall, completely at her mercy. I consider pulling my gun out, but if Q saw me reach for my waistband, she’d probably grab my gun and stick it down my throat before I could even get a hand on it.
I grunt in frustration and dig my own nails into her wrist.
“Ow!” She jerks my face violently, opening the wounds even more. “Calm the fuck down, ho!”
“Let me go!” I scream, but it comes out as three muffled syllables against her palm.
Suddenly, Q shoves me away from her, and I land with a surprisingly soft thud. I open my eyes and find myself in a small room, sprawled out on a mattress on the floor. Q reaches behind a counter, and with a quiet click, a few strands of battery-powered Christmas lights come on. They snake back and forth across the ceiling, illuminating the small space just enough to indicate that it must have been a tiny boutique once, maybe even a candle store or a tobacco shop. Now, it just houses a wooden counter where the register once was, a mattress on the floor covered in black bedding, and an entire wall of shelves that now hold all of Q’s personal belongings.
Out of every store in the entire mall, I never would have pictured her choosing such a cozy, modest spot to claim as her bedroom.
I scramble to my feet and reach for my gun, but Q beats me to it, pulling hers out even faster.
“Goddamn, you suck at this. Put it in the front of yo’ pants or somethin’. I coulda shot yo’ ass fifteen times by now.”
“Why haven’t you?” I snap.
“’Cause it’s mo’ fun to fuck wit’ you than it would be to mop you up.” She shoves her gun back into the pocket of her baggy shorts and smirks. “Put that thing down, bitch. You ain’t gonna shoot nobody.”
I sigh and wrestle the gun into the front of my jeans, the waistband already starting to feel a little bit tighter than usual.
Q walks behind the checkout counter and opens a cabinet underneath. “You really gon’ try to bust Surfer Boy outta jail?”
“Um … yeah. I guess.” I shrug, losing confidence by the second.
“Good. Here.” A pink bundle flies across the room, hitting me square in the chest.
I groan as I catch it, smelling a hint of cigarette smoke and hazelnut coffee wafting off the shiny fabric.
“Is this … my duffel bag?” I hold it out and look it over in the dim light. I haven’t seen it since Carter dumped it out in front of Q yesterday—God, was that only yesterday?—when he tried to bust Wes for hoarding supplies. It feels like everything must still be in here.
“Take ya shit, and go get my boy. Hawaii Five-Oh’s too damn pretty to get turned into muhfuckin’ plant food.” Q shakes her head with sincerity. “Best scout I eva had.”
I don’t even know what to say. I thought she was going to kill me—or at least beat the crap out of me—and here she is … helping me?
“What about Quint and Lamar?”
“Who, them?” Q flicks her chin at something over my shoulder.
I turn my head to find the Jones brothers standing on the other side of the hall, huddled together but still watching my back.
“I ain’t got no use for those pussies. I hope you fuckin’ take ‘em.”
“But you said—”
“Listen, bitch. I said what I said ’cause you was disrespectin’ me in front of my crew. I snatched ya face ’cause you was disrespectin’ me in front of my crew. But the truth is, the faster y’all get the fuck up out my castle, the betta. I got enough mouths to feed.”
“Thank you, Q. Really. I don’t—”
“Eh, eh, eh, eh,” she cuts me off with an aggravated wave of her hand. “Get the fuck outta here. Go on now, ’fore I change my mind and shoot yo’ ass.”
I nod at the dreadlocked lioness and turn around to claim my last remaining friends.
Quint’s and Lamar’s eyes go wide as I walk out of the queen’s lair with blood dripping down my face and a pink duffel bag in my arms.
“Y’all wanna take a ride downtown?” I ask with an exhausted smile.
“Fuck yeah!” Lamar punches the air in front of him.
“You sure about this?” Quint asks, his eyebrows pulling together as we turn and walk toward the main entrance.
“Quint,” I warn. “Without Wes, you’d be—”
“I know; I know. I’m in. I just wanna make sure you thought about—oh shit. Look!” Quint raises a finger, and I follow his stare down the hall to the main entrance doors.
Right outside, perfectly visible through all the panes of missing glass, a swarm of Bonys has descended upon the Renshaws’ truck like it’s a two-ton piñata. Hoots and hollers and glass breaking and metal smashing echo down the corridor as they take their crowbars and spray-paint cans and steel-toed boots to the massive GMC.
“No!” I scream, shoving my duffel bag into Lamar’s arms as I take off running down the hallway.
“Rain! Stop!”
But I can’t. This is the moment when Wes would chastise me for being “impulsive.” Yell at me for “not listening.” Tell me I have “a death wish.” But Wes isn’t here. And the only hope I have of getting to him
