Wrong Ways Down

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EVEN FROM THE opposite side of the room he could see something were troubling her. Something in the way she walked, the way her head tilted down a little … he weren’t certain just what it was, he only knew it was there. He could see clouds in her eyes, he guessed were the best way of describing it. She looked tired, and down. Like she was there causen she wanted the same thing he did: people around her, noise to drown shit out.

She headed for the bar and got sheself a beer, then stood looking around. The red lights shone off her black-dyed hair, made her skin glow and the red shirt she wore look even darker. It weren’t the shirt he liked best—that one had a wide neckline, where he could see how delicate her collarbones were and remember touching em—but she always looked good in red. Well, she looked good in everything. Standing there at the bar it was like she absorbed all the lights and shone em back, like they was all aimed right on her. Made him feel like a punched eye, vibrating and sore and with he skin too thin. He looked at her under the lights and for a minute he were just lost.

Felt like everybody in the room was watching him stare at her, too, but he couldn’t look away. Even though he wanted to. Even though it hurt, a dull ache in his chest because she was in the same room but far away. Because he couldn’t just walk up to her and touch her.

Because she wasn’t his.

But then she saw him. Were he the kinda dude thought that “she wants me but won’t admit it” bullshit, then the way her face lit up, the way she smiled, woulda made him convinced she’d come there looking for him. As it was … it still made him feel awful fucking good. He ain’t could even be embarrassed she’d caught him watching her, she looked so happy to see him.

She started walking toward him right away, too, twisting that slim body in tight jeans through the crowd until she stood in front of him.

Up close he could see it even better, them shadows in her eyes despite her smile. “Hey, Chess,” he said, the way he always did, tasting her name. “You right?”

“Right up,” she said, but he knew it were a lie. “You?”

He shrugged. If they weren’t where they were he’d ask some questions, maybe kind of let her know he guessed something were bothering her. But they were out in public, where it was loud. And he ain’t wanted to chance what happened last time they’d gone where it was quieter inside Trickster’s, last time they’d tried to talk for real in there.

That night he tried to forget. The night she’d put her hand on his chest and looked into his eyes and he hadn’t been able to stop himself, hadn’t been able to keep from grabbing her and kissing her. It’d been like … like his body did it without him realizing it or meaning it to. Like when he lost his temper, cepting the only one who’d ended up hurt that night was him.

Cause he’d had it all fucking wrong. Aye, he’d seen the look in her eyes and been right on what it meant. Aye, she’d kissed him back, twisted those little fingers in his hair, clutched at him tight. She’d invited him into her bed—when a dame put her hand on his cock and asked if he knew how to use it, that was a fucking invitation and no mistaking it.

She’d made him think, for those few minutes, that he hadn’t been the only one feeling since that night at Chester Airport that something was there, that some fucking connection was there between them. She’d made him think he wasn’t the only one feeling like he’d found something, the only one wanting the other, and for those few minutes he’d felt … he’d felt good, like he was really worth something.

But he’d been wrong. Way, way wrong. That night ain’t had been about him at all. It’d been about her being fucked up. She hadn’t been looking at him that way; she’d been looking at some imaginary dude, some dude who apparently looked a hell of a lot better than he did—weren’t hard, just about every dude looked a hell of a lot better than him—and that’s who she’d wanted. She’d been so fucked up she were seeing things. She’d been so fucked up she couldn’t stop laughing at the idea of going home with him, and she’d been so fucked up she couldn’t possibly know what she was doing. Couldn’t have made that so-sexy-it-killed-him invitation for real—not in any way he could accept it and not be a fucking scumbag taking advantage.

And the worst part, the part that told him there was no chance on it ever happening again, was that she’d lied the next day. Told him she ain’t remembered it, that she were too out of it. She’d told him that causen she were tryna spare he feelings, he knew, causen she ain’t wanted to tell him flat out that she hadn’t wanted it to happen. That she were embarrassed that it had. That lie of hers told him the truth, for real.

She were a little fucked up now, he saw, but not bad. Not enough that he worried. She looked around to make sure nobody were watching them. “How’s your thing going?”

“Ain’t good.”

Her head tilted. “Is that why you don’t look very happy?”

One of the reasons, but of course he ain’t said that. Instead he said, trying to smile, “Thinkin people still be scared on me, I standing back here lookin all happy?”

It worked. She smiled back, but a real smile, the kind made him want to grab her again. What the fuck was wrong with every other man in the room, that they weren’t all killing each other just to stand next to her? “Wait, people are scared of you?”

“Aye, well, I ain’t can figure on why, but seems like it.”

“Maybe you should take up knitting.” She sipped her beer. “It’s hard to be scared of somebody while they’re knitting.”

“Aw, naw, don’t tell nobody on that, aye? Got people sellin blankets I’m making in the Market.”

It amazed him that he could think of stuff to say that made her laugh, that when he was talking to her it weren’t as hard to find the words. When he talked to her he had plenty to say. And she always got what he meant, too; none of the dames he saw got what he said the way she did. Iffen he’d tried that with Amy—iffen he’d tried it with Amy before, he thought, and that were another twinge in he chest—or Sela or Evie they’da asked what he was talking on, woulda looked confused and told him to quit it.

But Chess laughed and looked at him like she weren’t so unhappy anymore. Made him feel like a hero, and he’d never been a hero. He was the villain. He was the dude who beat people for money cause he liked it and killed em if he had to, and it ain’t bothered him a bit doing it. And that made him the bad guy. He could live with that. He were right up with that; just the way it was, the way he was.

But when he was with Chess he wasn’t the bad guy no more. He was the one keeping her safe, making her smile. He still wasn’t good enough for her, but he were better than he’d ever been. That mattered.

“I bet you could make a good living that way,” she said. “It’s cold enough.”

“Ain’t warm, aye.” He let his gaze wander over her shoulders and down, a quick look at the way her shirt hugged her body. He wanted to take that shirt off her. “You bring yon car?”

She shook her head. Meant whatever she took were probably too heavy for her to want to drive. Meant she probably weren’t looking for somebody to take home, neither, causen she ain’t usually took chances like that. But why else was she there? Almost enough to make him wonder if she’d come there looking for him, but if she wanted him why wouldn’t she just text him?

Probably she just wanted to get outen her place. No point thinking on it.

He held a cigarette out to her and watched her take it, watched her lips close over it as he fired up his lighter for her. “Drive you back, if you’re wanting.”

He’d meant later, but she said, “Yeah, sure. Thanks. Kind of lame tonight, anyway.”

Shit. He hadn’t meant to take her home now. And … did she mean for him to hang at hers with her, or just drop her off? “How bout heading back mine? Lessin you tired or whatany.”

She nodded. “Sure, okay.”

They didn’t talk much in the car. Another thing that made being with her so comfortable; she ain’t expected him to talk all the time, ain’t seemed to mind iffen he didn’t. And he were too busy thinking on his place to say much, wondering were it cleaned up.

Aye, he tried to keep it clean anyway, but he ain’t wanted her seeing empty bottles or dirty clothes or whatany lying around. Ayla came by twice a week and left some eats in he fridge, but she ain’t done any cleaning and he didn’t want her doing any. She weren’t a maid, just a dame worked for Bump.

Chess had only been to his once, and that hadn’t been for long; now she was coming to spend time, real time—leastaways he hoped she was—and she’d see all of it, and he didn’t want her thinking he were some kinda pig. Was his tub clean? His sink? Chess ain’t seemed to mind things being messy but she sometimes looked a little freaked on germs and dirt; was his place clean, or just tidy?

He tried seeing it through her eyes as he opened the door and watched her walk in. Cement floors—he’d bought a plain rug to cover it in the section he used for a living room, but still—and bare walls. He ain’t hung anything on em or any like that; what would he put up? Pictures of cars or dames in bikinis or some shit? Sunsets? Maybe scary-looking kids and cats like Callie’d had on her walls.

Besides, Chess ain’t put shit on her walls neither. But she had stuff. Magic shit on her bookshelves—he only had one of those, and the rest of his books were just stacked against the wall—and little things she’d collected, and more than two towels, and … just stuff. Her place looked like a real apartment. His was a warehouse floor with a couple walls stuck up to divide off the kitchen and bathroom.

And he ain’t had made his bed.

Chess barely even looked over at it, though. He couldn’t decide if he was glad on that or not. She just walked in, headed for the couch and sat down. “How long have you been here?”

He had beer. He had water, too. She weren’t drinking the beer she had—it were still almost full—so she’d probably rather have water, but if he gave her one it might look like he were tryna say what she oughta have and he ain’t wanted to do that. So he grabbed both along with another beer for himself and brought them back with him to the couch. “Ten years, thereabouts. Since leavin Bump’s. His building, dig, were just empty.”

Except it was his now, or sort of his. It—along with a couple others—belonged to the fake name he had just for Katie’s bank account and the will he had, too, meant everything would be Katie’s when he were gone.

Chess took water. Up close he could see her eyes under all that black make-up—shit she was sexy—looked glassier than they had, less focused. What the fuck had happened that day? Or was it just memories crowding out the happiness. He wished he could fix it some way, or make her feel better. Take care of her like she deserved.

“So you don’t have any neighbors here,” she said.

“Got a couple, work for Bump.” Dirty-work men, muscle men. Like him. Timmy Vee lived downstairs, and Bailey below him. Technically Terrible guessed they worked for him, since he gave em orders usually, either shit he wanted em doing or orders passed on from Bump, but he couldn’t really say they worked for him.

He drank his beer, a little faster than he had the other ones. Because he was home, so he could.

What he couldn’t do was ask what was bothering her, not really. Not direct, like asking flat out. Be invading her privacy. But he could ask general questions, see what she said. “What you do this day? Any happening? You had work today?”

“No. I mean, I went in—there was a mandatory ritual this afternoon—but it wasn’t work, really. There’s no cases or anything.”

“Gets boring, aye? Nothin to do, feels like it ain’t got a point.”

Her eyes lit up a little. “Yeah. Nothing to do but sit around. One of the other Debunkers is having a post-new-year thing tonight, like a hangover party, but … ”

That were it, he guessed. Or part of it, anyway. They hadn’t talked much about what kinda reaction she’d got at work after that Dreamthief thing, but he’d picked up on at least part of it. And that he could ask on. “They all still talking on that Randy dude?”

She shrugged. But she ain’t looked at him. Aye, that were it. He’d hit it.

He cleared his throat, tryna waste time to think of aught to say. “Ain’t got shit in them own lives, aye, gotta talk on some else’s. All pissed up causen they know you better’n them.”

Her eyes flashed toward him then, just a quick glance while color rose on her cheeks, and he could see how she wanted to believe it.

But he could also see that she already felt exposed just saying what she had, letting him know what was troubling her. He could see her wanting to trust him with it and not have to explain it more or chatter on it. She wanted to forget it. And he knew how that felt. So he changed the subject, fast. “You cold? Know it ain’t so warm in here, aye, ain’t got much heating.”

“I’m okay.”

His phone beeped. A text.

From Sela. “Home alone. Bored and lonely.”

He knew what that meant. She probably already had her clothes off; she usually did, when she sent texts like that. Specially when she’d been drinking some, which he guessed she had been with them shrieky dames she hung around.

“Something wrong?” Chess asked.

He glanced at her, glanced at the phone, and set it back down. He could tell Sela he was busy when he got it, be why he ain’t answered. “Naw, naw, just sayin no problems this night.”

“So what’s happening with that?”

He hesitated. He had to be careful what he told her, causen of what Bump might say, and causen he ain’t wanted to give her anything might upset her, when she already weren’t in a great mood.

She mistook his hesitation, and said real fast, “I mean, if you can talk about it. I know—”

“Naw, naw, ain’t that. Just ain’t got more to say on, dig. Almost done up. More worried on Slobag, him sneakin over here make trouble, dig.”

“He’s getting past the border streets? I thought you guys had people watching for that.”

A second’s calculation, before he made the decision. Ain’t like it mattered. Chess kept she mouth shut. And she weren’t gonna try going down there sheself; witches ain’t liked the downs. Ghosts were more powerful underground, she said. “Using them tunnels. Run all under everywhere.”

She hesitated with the water bottle right in front of her lips. The way she held it made her shirt gap at the neck; he ain’t could see the bite-mark anymore. Make-up, maybe, or maybe she did some spell or something to hide it. She could do shit like that. She could do anything. “I thought those were a myth.”

“Naw. Them real. Only no point starting fighting over em, aye? Just keepin eyes out. Figure one day we use em. Til then letting Slobag an they think them got one over, dig.”

She smiled. Aye, whatever she took were hitting her. “Are you ever not having to think about every little thing you do, and have strategies in place and shit like that?”

He cocked his eyebrow. “Like you ain’t do the same.”

“Yeah, but only when I’m working.” She looked at him, caught the raised brow, smiled bigger. “Or, well, okay, maybe not only then. But at least sometimes I’m not working. You always are.”

“Not here.” He glanced around, wished again his place were nicer. It suited him fine, and part of the reason he’d picked it was the lack of walls, the lack of places people could hide, but still. And it was cold, he thought; the back of his neck felt cold, and he reached up to cover it. “Only place I ain’t gotta do shit, aye? An ain’t gotta look over my shoulder, see who’s comin up behind, who’s giving me the try. Only place I’m relaxing, dig.”

“Yeah,” she said. Softly. All of the sudden they ain’t were teasing anymore. “I guess you have to be really careful, huh. The second you let your guard down … You never know what people are planning to do.”

He nodded. His turn to feel all awkward, he guessed. Never could decide if it made him feel good or embarrassed when she knew what he meant so fast on shit like that. When she understood what he meant. Like she knew him. She knew him better than anybody else, he figured, cepting Bump. Maybe even better than Bump.

And she were still there. Still happy to talk to him, to come over his place, to sit next to him and spend time. Made him so fucking lucky.

“Hey,” he said, “you hungry? Or wanting see a movie or whatany? Could put on some music, if you’re wanting. Ain’t gotta sit here in silence.”

They ended up watching an old detective movie he had, and chattering on it while they watched. She took off her shoes and curled up there on the couch, and when the movie ended he realized she were asleep.

Shit. Should he—should he wake her up, take her home? He probably ought, aye. She wouldn’t wanna spend the night there. Probably had work to get sheself to in the morning, too.

He reached out to touch her shoulder. Just touching her … they never did that. He made sure not to. Her skin was warm through her shirt; the edges of her bones were sharp through her skin. Touching her made him heat up inside. “Chess. Hey, Chess.”

She didn’t move.

He tried again. “Chessie. Oughta get you home, aye? C’mon, oughta—”

Her eyelids fluttered. She sorta looked at him, through dazed, sleepy eyes. Then she leaned over and flopped onto the couch, curled up with her head on his thigh.

Her head was on his thigh. Her head rested on it, and her hand wrapped around it so her fingers were on the inside of his leg.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think, neither, causen all the blood he had left his head and rushed down. Thought he were gonna burst right through the buttons on his jeans. Chess’s head was in his lap, on his thigh, her breath soft and even.

And it weren’t just where it was. It were … she’d fell asleep, and she’d fell asleep on him. Like she trusted him that much she could just sleep, she were that comfortable. She weren’t freaking out touching him or blushing or looking all embarrassed or rushing to get away, though he knew she might when she woke up. But for that moment she were just sleeping there, next to him. Like she was his.

He still oughta take her home. Oughta at least carry her to his bed; she ain’t weighed shit, and she’d be more comfortable there.

But it seemed like … like presuming something, putting her in his bed. And he ain’t changed his sheets yet since the last night Amy slept over. If he put her in his bed, too, she might wake up on the morn thinking something happened, and he ain’t wanted that.

Most of all, iffen he put her in his bed she wouldn’t be there next to him no more, wouldn’t be touching him. Because no fucking way could he put her in his bed and get in beside her, no way. Even if she ain’t minded, he couldn’t do it. Hard enough being this close to her upright, on the couch.

He managed to keep himself under control when she was with him. He managed to keep from grabbing her, from just … just fucking taking her, possessing her, making her his the only way he knew how. He managed to stop himself doing it by keeping, always, right up front in his head the memory of her walking away from him that night at Trickster’s, the memory of her face the next morning as she lied to him. He managed to stop himself doing it by not getting real close to her, not touching her, trying not to meet her eyes for too long when he looked at her. By not letting his body take over, fighting with it.

He just … shit, he just wanted her so fucking bad. Wanted her naked under him. Wanted to bury his head between her legs until she begged him for mercy, wanted to fuck her until she screamed and then do it again, and again. It was all he could think about sometimes; seemed like every time he were alone his thoughts went back there, to picturing what she’d look like without clothes on, to imagining her body arched under him, throbbing around him.

The way his was throbbing now, fuck.

This was bullshit. No matter how much he wanted to pretend it weren’t so, no matter how he half-wished it ain’t happened, he oughta quit fucking lying to himself and admit he was in love with Chess. That’s what it was. He’d never felt it real before but he sure as fuck did now. Weren’t just that he liked her, weren’t just that he wanted her in his bed. Shit, he’d gotten a text a few hours past asking if he wanted to head over and have some fun with Sela, and he ain’t even thought for a second on leaving Chess, because he was in love with her so hard he couldn’t even breathe.

A lock of her hair—her lighter blondish roots had started showing, and he wondered, like he had before, if all her hair was that color—had fallen over her jaw; he thought about brushing it back but decided not to. It might wake her. He wanted to rest his hand on her, but that might wake her. He wanted to touch her but couldn’t, and he couldn’t move, and there they were.

He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. Shit, he was in trouble.