The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) by Nikki Roman Page B

say.
    “Are you sure nothing is bothering you? I know what you sound like when you are crying. I’ve heard it.”
    “It’s the phone Trenton,” I say, my voice on the verge of breaking.
    “Okay, well, be ready. I’ll be there soon,” he says.
    “Goodbye.”
    “Oh, and Bailey? I can’t wait to see you,” Trenton says before I hang up.
    I stretch and pick myself off the bed. I sulk into the living room, to see if Mom has come down from the drugs and booze yet. She is asleep with her eyes open.
    “Mom,” I say and shake her.
    She grunts and closes her eyes. She is still alive.
    I am just about to go to the bathroom to get ready, when she leans over the couch, and vomits on the carpet.
    “I love you,” she says, and wipes her mouth with the back of her shirt sleeve.
    I shake my head at her, and set off to the bathroom to fix my hair.
    I comb out all the tangles, and pull part of my bangs into a waterfall braid running along the left side of my head. Next, I spray some vanilla scented perfume on myself, in case the rain at gym today wasn’t enough to wash away my sweat.
    A car horn blares, outside the apartment. Trenton .
    I look down at myself: my stomach is showing some and I’m wearing the same jeans I wore to school. I dig in my pocket and find a tube of bright red lipstick. I swipe it across my lips and hope I look decent enough.
    I give a quick glance to Mom, checking if she has heard the honk. She is knocked out, sleeping on her side, a pool of vomit under her face. I kiss her on the forehead and walk out the door.
    Trenton dons a leather bomber jacket, a collared long-sleeve shirt, and tight dark-wash jeans; his hair is in a faux-hawk. I look and feel like crap, but still he raises his eyebrows approvingly when I slip into the passenger seat of his black 2012 Camaro.
    “You look hot,” he says.
    “You do too,” I reply.
    “You think I’m a hot guy?” he asks, bringing his hand across the spikes of his faux-hawk.
    “Who doesn’t?” I say. “You think I’m a hot girl?”
    “Who doesn’t?” he says, and we both laugh at our conceitedness.
    The windows are down and the cold air blows my hair back.
    “You are stunning,” Trenton says.
    I shiver. It must be thirty degrees out and I’m only wearing a small T-shirt. Trenton reaches into the backseat and retrieves his hoodie. He puts it around my shoulders.
    “Wear it. You are shaking like a Chihuahua,” Trenton chortles.
    I pull it on and zip it up. I’m still shaking so he rolls up the windows.
    “Who else is going?” I ask.
    “Ashten and Holden, and who knows, Alana might randomly show up too.”
    “Sorry about that. She’s a pest. She won’t be coming, we aren’t friends anymore,” I say.
    “That was quick.” He blinks, surprised.
    “It’s a long story,” I say, not wanting to explain.
    “Is that why you were crying over the phone?” he asks.
    “No,” I say, slipping up.
    “Oh, so you were crying then?” he says smugly. “I knew it.”
    I wrap the ends of his hoodie sleeves around my hands in a nervous gesture. “My Mom is drunk and I think she took acid,” I say looking out the window.
    “Your Mom is a druggie and an alcoholic? Nasty combination,” Trenton says. “That’s it?”
    “No, she invited a guy over,” I say. “His name is Saint .”
    “That’s funny. Was he nice to you and your Mom?” he says, pressing me.
    “No, he wanted to punch me in the face. I pulled a knife out on him and made him leave,” I say with trepidation.
    “Wow,” he breathes. “All by yourself? And you can’t stand up to Miemah?”
    Miemah is different .
    “So he didn’t hit you?” Trenton asks.
    “Does my face look all bashed up to you?” I say.
    “Your eyes are red. Did you take some acid too?” he says lightly.
    My blood simmers.
    “No! I was crying. There I admit it. I’m a stupid, scared little girl, and I was crying because that man almost beat me.”
    “You are not stupid and even I would’ve been scared.