Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(97)

Matt stands, not quite dwarfing Jonah, but posturing to him nonetheless. “And don’t bring her to places like this. I trusted you, and this is what you do to repay that trust?” He sways a little before the alcohol he’s already ingested pushes him back to his seat.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Sweet Jesus. It’s Roland. My palms sweat, shaking as I put my phone in my back pocket.

With a shaking voice, I kneel in front of Matt, who hasn’t made eye contact with me since some time yesterday. “Matt?” I ask, putting a hand on his knee. “Look at me please.”

Casting a dark glance downward, he says nothing but his eyes connect with mine. Dark, hollow pits. “What?” he finally mumbles.

“Please just leave here with us and get in the car. You need to get out of here. Please. I care about you, Matt. I love you and I don’t want you doing this to yourself.”

He curls his lip. “You don’t love me. You’re just saying that because you want me to do what you want. That’s how people are—tell you what you want to hear in order to get what they want.”

My eyes fill with tears. “I’m saying that because it’s true, and because we need to go. We don’t have much time before people come looking for us.” My phone vibrates nearly constantly, highlighting frantic phone calls from Roland. Or my mom if he’s already told her I’m gone. I don’t think he’d do that though. He knows how to choose his battles with me and her.

“Kennedy,” he growls. “Get out.”

“Is there a problem over here?” another annoyingly beefy bouncer asks, approaching from behind.

I have a split second to make a decision. Either I can tell this bonehead that Matt is in here, drinking underage after having snuck in alcohol—which will involve an ugly exit for Matt and a trip to jail most likely—or I can lie.



When in Rome …



Shaking my head, I give Beefcake #2 a smile and a wink. “No problems here. We’re on our way out.” I interlace my fingers with Jonah’s, giving him a small tug to follow me. He does, and we exit the club without issue. And, without Matt.

“What now?” Jonah paces the sidewalk in front of The Pink Pony.

“We’re in deep shit,” I admit freely. “Roland is calling me.”

His eyes bulge so far out of his head I think for a moment he’ll need an ambulance. “Are you kidding?”

“Yeah,” I snap. “Because this is the time for jokes.”

Jonah holds out his hands, his voice trembling dangerously. “What are we going to do?”

Taking a deep breath, I pull my phone from my pocket. “It’s going to be okay,” I say. “Trust me. I’m not scared, which must mean this is coming from somewhere other than me,” I mumble, pointing to the sky.

“Trust you with what?”

I shake my head. “I don’t care if Matt never talks to me again, but we need to get him out of there.” Tapping Roland’s contact information, I take a deep breath and hold it in as the phone rings, a lifetime of needing him brewing in my throat.

“Kennedy?” Roland answers in a sheer panic. “Where are you? Where’s Jonah? Are you with him?”

His concern is so primal, so tangible, that I let the cool brick wall behind me hold me up. “Dad,” I sob, “Matt’s in big trouble. I need you.”

Saying the words is too much. I slide down the wall, leaving me crouching above some rocks, questionable wrappers scattered around my feet.

Dad, I need you.

In a split second, Jonah is squatting next to me, arm around my shoulder.

“Okay, Kennedy. It’s okay,” he breathes a sigh that sounds like relief, “just tell me where you are.”

“I …” I start, but can’t say the words. Instead, I hand the phone to Jonah.

“Sir? Yes, this is Jonah. Right. I’m sorry. Um … The Pink Pony,” poor Jonah says with a record amount of shame. “Yeah … that’s the place.”

They say more words, but I can’t hear them. I’m crying so hard into my bent knees that I can’t hear, see, or feel much else other than abject sadness. Suicide isn’t always a physical act, and leaving Matt in those walls feels like watching him pull the trigger with a twelve-inch thick glass wall between us. I didn’t see it coming. I couldn’t see the spiral. It was too steep, too fast. Too real.

“Sweetie?” A soft hand perches on my shoulder. Looking up, I find a middle-aged woman with thick blue eye shadow crouching next to me. “Are you okay?” She eyes Jonah suspiciously before quickly returning her attention to me.

Right. Because I’m a young female crying in front of a strip club with a broad-shouldered dude next to me.

“Oh,” I sniff, forcing myself to stand, “I’m fine. This is my boyfriend,” I lie again, because that’s what you do in and around these places.

She smiles. “Don’t beat yourself up, honey. Men are pigs. Just bring him home and remind him why he doesn’t need a place like this.” She gives me a wink and slides in a side door labeled Employees Only.

Jonah returns my phone. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“They?”

He nods. “Roland and Mr. Wells.”