Chapter Three-Hundred and Thirty-Six

Andy settled into a seat beside Claire and John, keeping a close eye on John as he stared blankly out the window. "He's okay, right?" He asked, noticing the way John's fingers twitched like they had when he'd been detoxing from the Meth.

She nodded; her dark eyes fixed on the cut across his nose. "I think so…"

"He looks like he's detoxing again." He took in the dark circles around John's eyes, the pale coloring of his skin, the way his health seemed to be failing even though it hadn't even been twenty-four hours since Ben had grabbed him.

She brushed John's hair back, revealing the soft skin of his neck and the little hollow behind his jaw and beneath his ear. "I know…" She pressed her lips to that spot, knowing that was his spot. The spot where pleasure was easy to give to him. The spot that made his blood boil with joy, where she kissed him when they were alone. It was the spot that, when it was kissed, could clear any fog in his mind, and even snap him out of a flashback. "It's just what Ryan gave him though."

Allison paused in her sketches, going over the list of features John had described to her of what the prostitute Reya had looked like. She wasn't sure how they would find her, after all, there were thousands of whores in the world, and Reya was only one of those thousands.

Kaylie yawned, taking her headphones off as she looked over to the sketches. "Is that the girl John's looking for?"

Allison nodded, carefully refining the sketch to show Reya's warm eyes, her full lips, the gentle slope of her nose. "She's so young…" She whispered, folding the paper up and placing it in her bag before she pulled out her other book that held her comic strips. "I can't believe Jacob would do that to them."

Brian watched as her pen glided over the paper, and the image of John, Claire, and the rest of the Breakfast Club appeared to be rebuilding a town. "John was right when he said his old man was sick." He met Kaylie's eyes. "I'm glad we got him out of there."

Allison bit her tongue, forcing herself to keep John's secret inside. She couldn't tell Brian that he wasn't the only who'd been contemplating suicide… not only because he was still fragile in his recovery, but because he looked up to John like a big brother; if he found out… she didn't want to think about it.

Dominic peered into John's bedroom, swallowing when he saw how exhausted he was.

His cousin was curled on his side, his eyes shut though he wasn't really sleeping.

Dominic could tell that John was feeling sick, his labored breath was a sure sign of his ill stomach. He stepped inside, lifting a wet washrag from the small basin they kept on the dresser. "John, sit up for a second." He pulled John to sit up, pressing the rag to the back of his neck and letting him lean against his chest. "Why don't you sleep?"

John shook his head, swallowing when Dominic dabbed some ointment over the cut on his nose. "Nightmares." He whispered hoarsely, his throat dry from the plane ride.

Dominic sighed, pulling John's hair back and weaving what he could into a tight braid to keep it away from his face. "Well, if you're not gonna sleep, how about you eat something?"

John pushed Dominic away, lowering himself back to the mattress and into his fort of pillows and blankets. "It'll come back up."

Justin paused outside of the room, listening to the two younger boys inside. He peeked around the doorframe, gasping slightly when he saw the all too familiar upside-down cross scars on John's lower back. Those same scars were on the inside of his mother's bicep, the mark of the Dead Cross Gang… the gang that his father had been part of. The mark of a victim... the mark that was meant to bring shame.