I feel the shift—the reminder snapping back into place between us. This isn’t just caretaking out of guilt. This is a bloodsucking hunger. The thing I keep locked under my skin doesn’t stay quiet for long. And she needs to be far away from me before it comes asking for more.
She exhales hard when I set her down. “All these years, Jax…” Her voice shakes. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Be around you.”
“Sisk, it’s just for?—”
“No.” She cuts me off. “Don’t ask me questions. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t come close.”
Her breathing turns sharp, furious. “I am so fucking tired of you telling me what I can’t do.”
She looks straight at me. “If you want me to stay here, I’m going to ask questions, Jax. And you are going to answer them.”
Eighteen
THEN | SISK
I’m not sure what I was expecting this to be, but this is not it. The parking lot stretches wide—a wasteland of asphalt with oil stains baked into the ground and a heat that rises in visible waves. It’s less a place for cars and more a buffer zone, a pathetic few miles of space carved between the city and the pit, like distance could ever make a difference.
A bunch of old cars are parked crooked in the lot, their tailgates down and speakers rattling with a heavy beat.
Beyond the lot, I can see the Pit through the bent and broken fence. I can smell the chemical tang that’s always in the air here, a constant reminder of what this city is built on. I expected something monstrous, something dramatic, but it looks ordinary, a mockery of a dark still lake.
Growing up here, you just avoid this part of town altogether. Or so I thought. There’s music playing although the bass is so distorted I’m sure it was recorded in a basement on purpose. People shout to be heard over the awful noise. And to add to the pleasantries, it’s summer-hot. The kind that clings to you, that gets under your skin and makes you feel dirty no matter how many showers you take. My denim suddenly feels like a shroud, too much fabric, too much coverage. I should’ve left more ofmyself at home if I wanted to blend in, if I wanted to look like I belonged.
“Come on, ballerina, loosen up.” A guy says as he leans over a girl with smeared eyeliner and chipped black nail polish. His cup of ashbrew is sloshing dangerously close to her chest. “We don’t bite,” he adds, his eyes crawling over me. The girl shifts as if she’s making room for me to become the next victim in his line of sight.
“Stop teasing her, Whistle,” Becca says, rolling her eyes. “Come on, Sisk. Let’s get you a drink.”
Whistle. I take a long look at him. Blonde hair, gym-built muscles, green eyes that already think they’re entitled to my attention. I have seen him around. He’s handsome, of course. Trouble? No doubt. And the perfect instrument for what I need.
I look down at the black plastic cups everyone’s holding and the dark liquid inside. Ashbrew really looks like straight-up tar water.
“Here.” Becca presses a cup into my hand.
“I’m good,” I start to say, but she’s already turning away, refilling her own.
I lift the cup and take a cautious whiff. It’s bitter and warm, exactly like something fermented in a radiator.
I dump it onto the asphalt without thinking, the dark liquid pooling in a crack like a fresh oil stain.
“Hey!” someone shouts. “Don’t waste the good shit!”
Becca watches me, head tilted. “It’s not strong,” she says, taking a long sip of hers. “Harmless.”
A few people nearby glance over curiously.
“I can’t,” I say, forcing a lie. “Dance. If I get caught?—”
“I know, I know,” she cuts in, already bored with my excuses.
Her attention slides to a group of guys who definitely aren’t seniors. They’re older, college, maybe. Not that many people from around here actually make it that far. Two of them wear redhoodies despite the suffocating heat, the fabric darkened with sweat at the collar and pits. Another has red-tinted sunglasses on, the cheap lenses catching the firelight. The last one has uneven streaks of red spray-painted through his hair, done in a very sloppy way. They’re louder than everyone else. Looser. Comfortable in a way that tells me they’ve been here before, probably a few years in a row.
One of them pulls a roll of red tape from his pocket and tears off a strip with his teeth. He lets it hang loose from his wrist. Another guy wraps some of the same tape around his knuckles just for fun. I look around, lots of people have decorated themselves with it. I notice how a few girls nearby already have red bands tied around their wrists, laughing like it’s a joke they’re in on.
Behind me, someone near the pit lights something on fire. Not a bonfire, just a controlled flame in a metal barrel. The heat rolls outward and the sparks snap into the night.
