1

Buck pours him another shot of whiskey, sliding it to him without a word. The nights are cruel to the hood. Something visits him often, something awful. Buck must know better than to ask what.

Dallas downs the drink without hesitation. Anything to survive until morning. Even if that means bringing one of the girls to his room with him. In the beginning they talk too much, try too hard, cling too tightly. But when he takes them upstairs, if they can distract him, they can have him for a night.

A hand trails down his cheek, to his lips. Teeth nibble at his ear, whispering, "I'll make it all better."

He grinds his teeth together, slamming some change onto the bar. "Hurry the hell up, for Chrissake."

The bartender doesn't argue with him. If Dallas was in a decent mindset, then maybe he'd poke fun at him. But even the stupidest of JDs wouldn't start with him right then and there. There's something in those icy eyes of his that would make even the dead shudder. Just pour him another. Preaching to the hood only makes things worse.

He craves the burn. The way his insides sting as the poison circulates through his veins. Though the feeling...his mind numb, his vision blurry, his memories incoherent...is just something he doesn't know how to survive without.

After his third, maybe fourth, shot is when he goes to the girl who's been trying to get his attention for the pass hour or so. She blinks her long lashes, nervously brushes her chest into his side, mumbles, "My friends call me Ash..."

The corners of his mouth twitch. There's nothing friendly about what they both have in mind for each other. The girl needs time. She's had enough liquid courage to confront him, but not enough to touch him. Not yet.

He doesn't care about what she has to say and he doubts she even knows what she's gabbing about. They both have been sipping away, him more than her, and she keeps bringing up some other guy. Someone cheated. They both lied. He lets her know he's not a fuckin' priest and this surely isn't confession. His hands only know how to sin.

Her fingers graze him with uncertainty at first, like he's electricity and she's playing with water. So the hood takes control, leads her upstairs and lays her down on his stained mattress. The cheap springs groan under their weight, the walls are too close, the room is claustrophobic. The girl starts running her hands in all the right directions, moves her lips with experience. He can tell she's no angel, and he wonders if she knows he's worse than that. A hollow corpse. A man living off a stolen heartbeat.

Her hands are trembling at the buckle of his belt. She already has her clothes off and her eyes linger over his bare chest and the thick gashes of damaged skin. She doesn't touch them. The girls never do. They won't ask about them, neither. He likes that.

"Can I?" The girl bites her lip, focusing on his buckle again. "I wanna make you feel good..."

Claws rip his shirt off, throw his pants to the floor. Cut his skin open. Chapped lips roam his neck.

"I'm gonna make you feel like you've never felt before..."

Instead of answering, he pulls the belt off himself, his jeans and briefs follow shortly after. He keeps his eyes open, watching the girl work him, the tip of a bottle of rum on his lips again. He hears nothing. Not a syllable.

Her nails dig into his back, her mouth attacks his own, moaning and sighing. He drags his hands to all the right places, how he was taught to. All the nerves in his body go numb.

Fingers are long. Warm. They travel to places they don't belong.

"You know, boys become men in the laps of women. You wanna be a man, don't you?"

Something goes wrong. It holds onto him and pulls him under, there's no gasping for air. No escape. He pushes her naked body off of him; it isn't working. It's too strong tonight, too much, too fucking much.

A light gasp sneaks pass her lips. Strands of her hair sticks to her sweaty skin. Her eyes are wide and confused. Nervous. He tosses her dress where his body previously was.

"Get out."

Her voice is strong, confident. But her hands are shaking again. "Why? Did I do somethin' wrong?"

Dallas stumbles a bit as he tugs his clothes back on. She watches him. If she thought she understood him before, she's entirely lost now. He can tell by her stare that's she's hurt. He knows girls like her. They're attracted to damaged goods, something about it is appealing to them. They're fools.

She'll never know him. Never know the parts of his past cling to him like his own damn shadow. She'll start to believe that she wants to really know him, romanticize the hell out of it all, and he'll show her exactly why she should stick to the rich guys with their Corvettes and trust funds.

"Dallas?" She scrambles off the mattress. "Where're you going?"

He doesn't bother to answer. Just grabs the nearly empty bottle and slams the door shut. He'll find his way outside and pretend like he doesn't know where he's going to end up. It's his safe place. The kid knows. Not about him, not his story, but goddamn, the kid just knows.

The street lights guide him. His vision is poor but he knows the way by heart. The uneven sidewalk makes the trek harder, causing him to trip and knock over trash cans. Eventually the neighborhood dogs start barking. Maybe he'll get lucky. Maybe someone'll call the cops and cuff him like the no-good hood he is. Yeah, they really know how to make it stop for a while.

When he gets there, something about it instantly makes him feel a little at ease. Not exactly better, but close as it'll ever get.

He stumbles by the ashes of a fire, only a small string of smoke rises from it. Hiding in the tall weeds is the old backseat of a car, haggard, with gashes of stuffing peaking out. Beer cans, cigarette buds, and jagged pieces of glass are scattered across the lot. None of that matters. The only thing he can focus on is the lengthy boy using his jean jacket as a blanket. His chest rises slowly, his knees and forehead are resting against the car seat. His spine sticks out, bony enough to count each vertebrae through his shirt. Dallas likes seeing him that way. Fearless.

He kneels in the dirt. After he drains the last drop of rum, he tosses the bottle behind him. It crashes with a splintering battle cry, causing the sleeping boy to jolt up, searching the lot with wide, cautious eyes.

"Shit," Dallas mutters, absentmindedly searching his pockets for a Kool. "Didn't wanna wake ya."

"Dal?" The boy asks, his voice strangely deeper and drowsy, still needing to adjust. "When'd you get here?"

He shrugs, starring at the street. The concept of time is too much for him right then and there, in his drunken state of mind. All he knows is that the darkness means it's still nighttime. Three in the morning? Maybe midnight? He has no idea.

He feels dizzy. Tired. His eyelids yearn to close but his heart is trying to punch its way out of his chest. Johnny watches him, almost like he gets why Dallas does what he does. Why he insists on drinking himself to sleep nearly every night.

"I knew you'd be here." His mouth is dry. Everything else is numb. "It's not somewhere you should be sleepin'. I told ya I didn't want you sleepin' here."

Johnny pulls his jacket on, mumbling, "I don't mind."

"I do." He bites back. "It ain't safe."

The Cade boy nods. He looks at his feet, teeth biting his lip. "You should get some sleep, Dal. You look tired."

He ignores him. His eyes say it all. A nameless anger, a boiling hatred, for anything and anyone. Something lurks inside him, waiting for the one thing that will be able to push him over the edge. But what? Hoods like him care for nothing. Not even themselves.

"Alright..." Johnny rubs at his eye, yawning. His foot is tapping against the ground, slowly, nervously.

He lights a cigarette with a bent match. After a long drag, he passes it to Dallas. He takes it without a word.

Smoke chases after his words as he asks, "Ya believe in God?"

Dallas flicks the ash. "Why?"

Johnny shrugs. "I don't know. Guess it'd be nice. Ya know, thinkin' that there's somethin' that gave you the life ya got for a reason. That maybe someone's lookin' out for ya."

He smirks, it's humorless, but he replays that question over and over in his head. Does he believe in God? Some kind of higher power that cares? Maybe one day he'll tell Johnny about the kids he met in the foster homes they sent him to. Or the stories behind the harden faces he met in the big house. Ask them what they think about God.

But today is not that day.

"The gangs lookin' out for ya," He says instead, sucks the cigarette dry before rubbing it out on his shoe. And he'll be there for him, until the last breath he takes. But he doesn't say it. "Ain't that enough?"

His cheeks fluster a bit. "Course, Dal. I didn't mean it like that."

He finds Johnny talking to him about religion strange. He isn't Ponyboy. He doesn't think so fucking much about stuff that doesn't matter to him, like school and novels or sports and sunsets. And Johnny knows that. They don't open up to each other - not like that. Sometimes Johnny might tell him about the look his father gives him, full of disgust and so much fury, and maybe he'll mention the nasty words his mother hisses at him through stained teeth. Dallas understands, and the kid knows it.

"I like thinkin' that bad things happen for a reason," Johnny explains, cheeks still flushed. "That was all I meant."

"Bad shit happens 'cause of bad people. That's the damn reason."

His voice is sharp, unstable. Breath laced with rum. Fists curling with that unspoken rage. Dallas doesn't have to ask, he knows what he reminds Johnny of. Sees his reflection in those somber eyes - almost a spitting image of the kid's worst nightmare. Only darker.

"I oughta go." He pushes himself up, nearly tipping over in the process. "Go back to sleep, kid."

"Where ya goin'?"

Dallas shrugs.

He bites his lip again. "You...you ain't gonna drink more, are ya?"

"Shit, Johnny," He almost laughs. Almost. "You reckon I need more?"

He can see something snap inside the kid.

"I don't get it, man. It doesn't fix anythin'. You'll still wake up with the same problems." His hands are trembling again. "It doesn't...it ain't healthy."

His mind is cruel. Loud. The alcohol helps, most of the time. Other times, he needs something stronger.

But Dallas doesn't tell him that. He doesn't want Johnny hearing that - like the kid needs anything else to worry about. He deals with it, keeps it under control as much as he can. And if that means getting boozed out of his wits every night, then that's what he'll do.

He doesn't elaborate. Just sends a quick hand out to ruffle his shaggy, dark hair. Pretends not to notice Johnny flinch.

"I'll see ya around, kid."

They both know it's not a promise.