The Nowhere Girl

17. Who is the Nowhere Girl

Jason takes me back to his place, with no blindfold this time.

He parks the bike and kicks down the stand. In the alley wall next to us there a WANTED poster for the Joker. It looks relatively new. I had been hoping me being with the Suicide Squad when the broke into Arkham would have prevented him from escaping.

Apparently not.

The Joker on the poster mightn't be Mark Hamill from The Killing Joke, but this version is just as bad. Greasy green hair is slicked back over his head and red eyes glare lazily out of sullen sockets. Chemical bleached white skin and red lips grin at me from the wall. John DiMaggio, the Joker that killed Jason.

I can remember what Jason face looked like before the bomb went off.

I jump off the bike, taking off my helmet. Jason is frozen, glaring off into space. Even though I place my hand gently on his shoulder, he still flinches.

"Seems you need that drink as much is I do, Red," I say, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Come on."

We're half to the alley's exit when he asks, "When you broke into Arkham... did you see him?"

"Yes," I say quietly.

We head up to his apartment in silence, and Jason lead the way into the kitchen. He grabs two beers from the fridge, along with cheese and crackers.

"You're not having anything?" he ask when I don't touch the drinks.

"I am, but American beer is like having sex in a canoe." I chew on some cheese. "It's fucking close to water."

"What about Fosters?" I glare at him. His eyebrows raise and his lips quirk up, amused. He knows what he's doing. Jason grabs a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from the cupboard before sitting next to me.

I pour myself a glass and take a swig. I've never really had whisky before. It makes my throat burn.

"You want to talk about it?"

I rub the rim of the glass with two fingers. It feels cold and wet beneath them and starts to ring. "It's none of your bloody business."

"I think it is."  He cocks his head to the side and arches a brow. "Something had you crying like a teenage girl. And you're my friend, annoying and clingy as you are."

"It's nothing," I mutter, tipping back my head, letting it swish in my mouth as I try get used to the taste. I swallow and the alcohol burns like fire as it slides down my throat. "The way I see it; someone always has it worse. I don't have any right to complain."

"That doesn't make your problems any less valid." Jason takes a swig from his glass. "So spill."

I mutter under my breath. "Fine. It's stupid though. Stupid because the dream was – I dunno – more intense than it actually was."

"So, a memory gone wrong?"

"Kinda."

"I get them all the time. Nightmare for a nightmare?"

I glare at my glass. I want to let it all out. I also don't want to be one of those kids who complain just because their mum said something mean, but this is Jason. Jason revealing a nightmare, a fear, is out of character. I think we're alike in that way, we prefer to be seen as all big and mighty and fearless.

He must really want to know. But he must also trust me enough to open up.

"You don't have to," I say quietly.

Jason watches me over the top of his glass. He downs the last of the last of the whisky and sets the glass down on the counter. His brows furrow, then reset. His shoulders drop and his jaw sets. "You already know, don't you?"