Chapter 316: Pinkman and His Girlfriend
"You haven't relapsed, have you?" Frank asked over the phone.
"What are you talking about? I—I stopped touching that stuff ages ago," Pinkman replied quickly. "I don't even look at it anymore. Just seeing it makes me sick. I'm clean, totally clean. I'm not using again!"
His words sounded earnest—but the hurried, overly emphatic explanation carried a faint thou-doth-protest-too-much vibe.
"You know my situation," Frank said quietly. "I can't keep an eye on you right now. Don't let me down."
"…I know, Dad," Pinkman said, his voice dropping a notch.
They exchanged a few more words before hanging up.
"Phew…"
Pinkman exhaled deeply as he stared at the disconnected call. He tossed the phone aside and turned, wrapping his arms around the Jane lying beside him.
"You seem kind of scared of him," she said. She'd been woken up by the call and was watching him curiously.
"Scared? Me?" Pinkman scoffed. "No way. I just… respect my elders. That's all."
"Pfft." She couldn't help laughing.
"Didn't you say before that he wasn't really connected to you?" she asked. "Then why lie to him?"
"Our relationship's complicated," Pinkman replied. "He's kind of like a senior… a mentor. Besides, don't you hide things from your dad too?"
"That's different," the Jane said. She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin up with her hands, her bare feet kicking lazily in the air.
"We're actual father and daughter. You two are just… what, partners? Or maybe people using each other?"
Clearly, what Frank had feared had finally happened. Despite all the warnings, Pinkman had still told the Jane about their business.
"Forget it. I'm not talking about this anymore." Pinkman grabbed the cigarette pack beside him and pulled one out.
"Why not?" The Jane plucked the cigarette straight from his lips, took a drag, and exhaled a thin cloud of smoke. "Is it because all your money is in his hands? That's your money. And what—he gives you less than ten percent of it?"
"He's helping me clean it," Pinkman replied casually.
"You really believe that?" she scoffed. "Maybe one day he'll just take the money and disappear."
She flicked the ash away and continued, her tone turning sharper.
"Didn't you say he's seriously ill? That he's about to die? What if, once he's gone, you never get your money back? It'll be treated as his inheritance and split among his biological children."
"That won't happen," Pinkman said, frowning.
"It's money," she shot back. "No one can resist money."
"Stop making excuses for him. That's money you earned—money you bled for. Don't you want it back?"
"It's not like that. We're partners," Pinkman insisted.
"I'm your partner," she said, lifting a piece of equipment from the bedside and giving it a little shake.
"And if you trust him so much, why did you lie to him?"
"When we teamed up, we made it clear—no drugs," Pinkman said quietly.
She burst out laughing. "What is this, a movie? You sell this stuff but you're not allowed to touch it? Who makes rules like that?"
"That's just how it is." Pinkman lit another cigarette.
"Fine." She changed tack, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Have you ever actually calculated how much money you should have?"
"How much?" Pinkman blinked. He genuinely hadn't.
He'd always been street-level—making a few hundred bucks had once felt like winning the lottery. He'd never been used to big money, never had expensive tastes, never bought luxury things.
Most of the time he'd been with Frank, Frank paid for everything. And Pinkman's share of the profits stayed with Frank, who regularly deposited the laundered money into his bank account—like a salary.
At first, Pinkman had been obsessed with checking it. He'd go to the bank constantly, stare at the balance, even withdraw a few thousand just to prove it was real.
But over time, the numbers grew so large they lost all meaning. They became abstract—just digits on a screen. As long as he had enough to live on, that was enough.
So no—he had never actually totaled it up.
"I did," she said, eyes burning. "Hundreds of thousands. No—millions."
She climbed onto him as she spoke, straddling his waist, pinning him to the bed.
"Do you even understand what millions mean?"
"What that kind of money represents?"
"What does it represent?" Pinkman asked, one hand holding his cigarette, the other tucked behind his head.
"Freedom," she said intensely.
"With that kind of money, why should you listen to that old bastard? You could do anything you want—no orders, no looking at anyone's face, no being used."
"They're all using you. You can break free. You already are free."
"And I could escape my father's control too. I'd be free."
"We could go anywhere. Do anything. No chains. No limits."
"You love drawing superheroes, right? Why do you think Iron Man's a hero? Because he's rich. Money is his superpower."
"And now you've got money. Money is your superpower."
She leaned closer, voice soft and tempting.
"Anywhere you want—South America, Europe, Australia, Asia. We can leave this place behind and start a brand-new life."
"Is New Zealand part of Australia?" Pinkman asked suddenly.
She laughed. "New Zealand is New Zealand. You want to go there?"
"It's where The Lord of the Rings was filmed. I've always wanted to see it. We could move there. You could do your art—paint castles, landscapes. I could be… I don't know, a bush pilot. An adventure pilot or something."
She smiled, clearly pleased. The Jane was a tattoo artist, but her real dream was to be a painter—an artist.
"Yes," she whispered, draping herself over him. "New Zealand. As long as we're together, anywhere is fine."
Then her tone hardened again.
"But your money's still in that old man's hands. We need to get it back."
"He won't agree," Pinkman said, sobering up a little at the mention of Frank.
"Why wouldn't he?" she pressed. "It's your money. Once we have it, we can leave everything behind. Just walk away."
Pinkman fell silent.