Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Dragon

Sometimes I wonder if allowing myself a joint and a few beers helped me stay away from the harder stuff.

Already I’m second-guessing my decision to come along.

Because that craft beer is calling to me. And so is the marijuana, its pungent smell drifting around the room.

I used to let myself have that kind of stuff, and I kept it cool.

But this time, I promised my therapist I’d stay clean.

And that means totally clean.

No pot, no beer, no wine.

I never had a difficult time staying away from hard liquor. I don’t really like the flavor, though I certainly drank my share of it when I was younger.

But beer? Wine? Pot? Allowing myself those few vices seemed to help me stay away from the hard stuff.

Not that I think anyone has narcotics at this party. This seems like a pretty tame crowd, despite the fact that Tracy is dressed like a dominatrix. Fishnet, black leather shorts, and a white blouse so sheer I can see the red tips of her nipples. One of them is pierced.

Funny. I have pierced nipples myself, but I don’t really like the look on a woman.

A woman’s breasts are beautiful without any adornment.

Tracy gets me a glass of water and hands it to me. “Here you go, Dragon. Do you want to dance a little?”

I take a sip of water. “Not much of a dancer.”

She walks her fingers up my arm. “What do you like to do?”

“Play the drums. Read. Watch movies.”

“What kind of movies do you like?”

Funny that she didn’t ask what kind of books I like. Diana did at the diner. But Tracy doesn’t strike me as much of a reader.

“I like the classics. They don’t make movies like that anymore.”

“Classics like Pretty Woman ?”

I have to stop myself from laughing. “No. I’m talking about much older classics. One of my favorites is Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner .”

She wrinkles her forehead. “I’m not sure I know that one. Do you like Casablanca ?”

“Yeah, that’s a good one. I also like all the old Woody Allen movies.”

She wrinkles her brow again. “I’m not familiar with his work.” She takes a sip of her IPA from the amber bottle.

Fuck. I can almost see the malty hops sliding over her tongue… For an instant, I want to grab her and kiss her, just for the slightest taste.

I swallow. I will always crave what I can’t have. I can’t change that. I wish I could, but I can’t.

Funny thing is that any other night I might consider relapsing. Just a few sips of beer.

But tonight, with Diana here… I don’t want to disappoint her.

Not that I think she’d be disappointed. I don’t think she cares about me one way or the other. She’s letting me live at her place as a favor to Jesse and Brianna, and I appreciate it, but I certainly don’t expect anything from her.

So why do I give two shits if I disappoint her?

Man, I can’t stop staring at Tracy’s beer.

My gaze is drawn to the amber bottle as if it’s got some magnetic force. The condensation accumulating on the outside of it, and Tracy’s full lips as she clasps them around it and takes a drink of the intoxicating elixir.

“Excuse me,” I murmur as I head toward the door.

I don’t have a clue where I’m going. I don’t know this building, although Diana did say something about it having a great roof for parties.

I scan the hallway and find the stairwell. Once I’m on it, I walk up to the top and open the door.

The roof is huge—a large concrete pad. On one end is a barbecue setup, and on the other end is a bar.

No one’s here, so no one is having drinks.

The sun has set, and I look up to the stars.

There are a lot of things I like about the city, but the view at night is not one of them.

Out on the western slope—without the light pollution of the city—I can see the stars so much more clearly than here. One great thing about Colorado is that we have over three hundred days of sunshine a year, and though the sky’s not cloudy at all tonight, all I can see are a few speckled stars and the moon.

On the western slope, the entire sky lights up at night.

Sometimes I sit outside, especially during the summer when it’s hot, in a lounge chair and just stare at the sky for hours and hours.

It relaxes me.

Makes me realize I’m just a speck in a sea of something so much grander.

Makes my problems seem infinitesimal.

But here? First, there’s no lounge chair, and second, while the moon is beautiful, it’s way closer to the earth than the stars are. Some of the stars I see on the western slope are stars that burned out millennia ago and the light is just getting here.

I love the thought of it.

Just like those stars, there will come a day when I die. But maybe there’s a chance that, if I continue to turn my life around, I will leave a legacy behind that outlasts my physical life. And until then, I can carry on the lights of those who have gone before me. My grandparents, for example.

Or Griffin.

I wipe a tear from my eye, chastising myself for letting my mind wander to my baby sister. Especially with an apartment full of booze and weed below me. I return my gaze to the stars.

If I ever had the chance to go to college, I would’ve studied astronomy. I would’ve also studied music. In some weird way—for me at least—the two go together.

Of course, there are songs about the stars. Lots of pop songs especially. But my mind goes to the song “The Impossible Dream” from the musical Man of La Mancha . The song ends with a line about reaching the unreachable star.

For a long time, my unreachable star was sobriety, a stable life.

Now I have a new one. Diana Steel.

I’m attracted to her. But I can’t have her. Forget that she’s too good for me, which she definitely is. Staying in her penthouse is my one chance at getting my life together in Denver without going completely broke. I can’t jeopardize that by hitting on her. She already feels unsafe with me around. Why else would she have installed that extra lock?

I breathe in, breathe out, breathe in again. Focus on the stars.

And within a few minutes, the pulsing amber bottle Tracy was holding is a distant memory.

I suppose I should go back down to the party. Diana may be wondering where I am. Or she may not.

But on the off chance she is, I don’t want her to worry.

I walk to the door of the roof and?—

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I grouse out loud.

The door is—of course—locked.

How do people in this building throw parties up here if the door locks behind them?

Ah. A keycard reader. That’s how they do it. My gaze falls to a couple of large bricks sitting next to the door. Right. For when no one has a keycard. I should have noticed those when I came up here.

I do have my phone, though, so I call Diana to let her know I’m up here. Good thing she insisted we exchange information.

The phone rings several times before it goes to voicemail.

Hi, this is Diana Steel. I’m sorry I can’t get to the phone, but please leave your message, and I will get back to you right away.

“It’s me, Dragon,” I say into the phone. “I went up on the roof to get some air, and now I’m locked up here. Sorry for the inconvenience, but could you or Teddy or somebody come get me?”

She may not have heard her phone, so I text her as well, hoping she might see it.

Whatever. I guess I’m up here for a while.

I rub my arms against the chill.

I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but still, it’s October, and once the sun goes down, the temperature drops.

Some folding chairs are stacked in one corner alone with a few folding tables.

I grab a chair and sit, looking at the sky.

But this time it offers me no peace or solace.

Not here in the city.

I’d go back to the western slope in a minute if it weren’t for my rehab.

Eventually, though, I’m going to have to trust myself not to relapse.

I don’t feel ready yet, though. Not when that beer pulsated with my own heartbeat and called to me in a seductive siren’s voice.

I settle in. This is nothing. I’m a little bit chilled, but it’s not the worst place I’ve been locked in.

The judge is a large man—his skin is dark, and he wears those half glasses. He looks at me, and his eyes are saying something. He’s a good man. He’s trying to do what’s right.

“This is the matter of Dragon Locke.”

I sit with a person—a young woman with brown hair and blue eyes—who is my guardian ad litem. I don’t know what that means, but I memorized the words. She sits with me while my parents sit at a different table.

The judge, whose name I can’t pronounce, turns his gaze to my parents.

“Mr. and Mrs. Locke,” he says gravely, “do you understand what you’re about to do here?”

“We do, your honor,” my father says.

“You are voluntarily giving up parental rights to your son,” the judge says again.

“Yes, your honor.” My father clears his throat.

“And you’ve discussed this with counsel, and you’ve come to the conclusion that it would be in the best interests of all parties involved?”

My mother sniffles, wipes her eyes with a tissue.

My mother cries a lot.

She’s been crying ever since Griffin got hurt.

They’ve accused me of some very awful things. Things I would never do.

I don’t understand a lot about what’s happening. I’m barely nine years old. I’m getting to be a big boy, but all I know is that I haven’t been living with my parents ever since what happened with Griffin.

I’ve been living in a place that locks me in.

I don’t like being locked in.

It makes me angry—makes me think about doing things I know I shouldn’t do. Things that I know are wrong.

The lady beside me has told me to be quiet. Not to say anything. When I look at my mother and father—the two people who used to love me the most in this world—I can’t help it. I leave the table and run over to them.

“Mommy, Daddy, I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good. I won’t do anything wrong ever again. Please don’t make me leave. Please.”

My mother doesn’t look at me. She looks down at the table.

But my father does. He meets my gaze. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he does look me in the eye sternly.

Mommy always said I have Daddy’s eyes, though I never understood why because his are brown and mine are different. But I used to like that he and I shared eyes. We were close. He gave me a drum.

But as I stare into those eyes now, they don’t seem familiar at all.

It’s almost like I’m looking at a stranger.

A stranger is a person who wants to hurt me. I learned all about strangers first from Mommy and Daddy and then from my kindergarten teacher years ago.

We don’t talk to strangers.

We don’t go anywhere with strangers.

Why has my daddy become a stranger?

They think I hurt Griffin.

They think I did something absolutely horrible to her.

Why don’t they believe me?

Why don’t they believe me when I say I would never hurt Griffin?

That I love Griffin.

That I miss her.

But she’s gone now. They won’t let me near her.

And I guess it’s time for me to go, too.