Page 86

Zuzu’s eyes light up with alarm. “What? You⁠—”

Before she can answer, I get to my feet, hook my thumbs in the waistband of my jeans, and slide it down. Not far, but enough.

Her eyes go right to the X.

“Tink.” Zuzu bolts to standing, too, her arms clutched to her chest and her eyes wide. She does a slow back-and-forth shake of the head, like she doesn’t want to believe what she’s seeing, and that, along with her usual dark lashes and bold eyeliner, make her look as doll-like and girlish as I’ve ever seen her. “No,” she all but whispers.

“Yeah.” I swallow and hitch my pants back up. “So. I know about that. More than I want to, really.”

And yet also not enough, I realize with a sinking feeling.

Because I’d never heard of Michelangelo Darling before I knew that was Wendy’s brother. I have no intel, no insight, nothing useful beyond the knowledge of how fucked up and cruel these men can be.

I fold my arms, unable to bear looking at Zuzu anymore, and let my own gaze pull toward the gym window, just in time to spy Wendy, braids spinning in a whirlwind, as she jabs a vicious uppercut to the dummy’s eraser-colored abs.

I smile, in spite of myself.

“Does she…” Zuzu’s followed my line of sight. I snap back around.

“No,” I say firmly. “She doesn’t know, and the guys don’t know. Well—” I catch myself. “Blue knows. He…found out. When he found out about me. But the rest of them don’t. And I don’t want them to.”

“Absolutely, xhan.” Zuzu’s beside me now, at the window. She presses a hand to her heart. “I would never. It’s…probably for the best, too.”

I dart a glance sideways. “How do you mean?”

Zuzu exhales with a hard sputter of the lips and shrugs. “Let me say it like this. There’s a reason what I teach the kids is self-defense, you know?” She nods out at the gym. “Because…what is the phrase? Discretion is the better part of valor. You must be safe, you must keep boundaries, yes, and resist if someone wants to hurt you. But you should not seek out fights, not out in the world. That is the real skill to learn. Vengeance is a child’s game, and the child always loses.”

I look at Wendy, cross-legged on the mat, chugging a bottle of water, and my mind flicks back in time to her in my room, her face resolute over her takeout.

I want revenge.

“Sure,” I agree.

“So I am saying.” Zuzu dips her head. “Your Lost Boys? They are young like that. Hot heads. Pan, especially. And if they hear this, about you…” She glances at my hip, then looks dead into my eyes. “They would kill, Tink.”

CHAPTER 19

KIT

I need to take my mind off what I just saw. What all of us saw. I don’t know if Fox felt as weird about it as the rest of us, but I for one could use the distraction.

So, for some reason, I decide it’s high time to organize my sketchbooks.

My room—our room—isn’t ever exactly tidy, but I do try to keep my archives, such as they are, in a browsable shape. Just in case I ever want to look through old work for references, get some inspiration, or…well, kill time and bleach my brain away from thinking about my twin brother making out with the first and only girl I’ve ever found beautiful.

I’ve got two stacks going so far, and honestly, most of what I’m pulling out of the desk and shelves are recycling material. Amateur work, stuff I was so proud of at the time—hyperrealistic eyes, butterfly wings that morphed into stained glass windows—that now just makes me cringe. I hit the last page of another teenage-era book and chuck it on the pile. It’ll do the world more good as wood pulp than as a record of my art.

The next one, though, is nicer than the last few—thicker pages, sturdier cover—and when I flick it open, I recognize it. Some of my first-ever flash. Back when I just toted an actual sketchbook with my offerings. I was fresh out of apprenticeship, and got a chance to set up at a few events—biker reunions, and I mean real bikers with gray beards and beer bellies and loud-ass Harleys. I’d figured that I’d move the most with your American Traditional clichés: roses, anchors, snakes, skulls. But to my surprise—although maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised—I got the most business, and the best tips, with tattoos of girls.

Pinups, mostly, I see, flicking through the pages. Retro girls, girls with bullet bras and thigh-highs and Bettie Page bangs, cheesecake kitsch—that was what was in my portfolio, and those did okay.

But I learned quickly that there was another flavor of art that did better business.

Whips, chains. Rope.

A shimmer of illicit thrill skates over my skin as I turn another page. After those flash sessions, I didn’t have much need for these. I still don’t, really. It’s not like I’m going to bring them out for a tutorial with Wendy.

And yet…