in closer.
“Q, please,” I plead. “Just let them go. Wes scouted more than enough supplies to cover all four of our shares while he was here.”
“Well, he ain’t here no more, now is he?”
“No!” I shout, feeling my face get hot. “He’s not! And if you don’t let us go, you’re gonna get to watch him die on live TV in two days!” I shove my finger in the direction of the fast-food menu screens lining the left side of the food court.
Q’s dark eyebrows shoot up as she reaches out and grabs my face with her right hand. Her chunky silver rings collide with the fading bruise on my cheekbone, and her long, sharp fingernails dig into my flushed skin.
“Bitch,” she hisses, baring her teeth, “you done fucked up fo’ da last time. You think you can come up in my castle and talk shit to the queen?” Sinking her talons even deeper into my flesh, Q drags me by the face toward the food court entrance. “Errybody say, Bye, bitch.”
“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 …