by Stacia Kane
The boy looked up and smiled. Chess expected to see the same wide-open grin as the one on Katie’s face, but this was different; he must have inherited it from his father. Yes, he had. They were almost identical.
So Katie looked like her mother … no. No, she didn’t. Chess knew that smile, knew whose it was. She’d seen it before, dozens of times.
She felt like she was interrupting, intruding on something she didn’t understand. She felt awful. Too many revelations, too much in her head for such a short time. She should have taken more pills.
So it was a relief when Terrible came out of the kitchen, despite the glower on his face. He barely said a word on the long drive back to her place. And Chess had no idea what to say to him, so she watched the snow fall, flakes diving into the windshield like tiny kamikaze ghosts.
It wasn’t until he parked near her building that she came up with something to say. Whether it was the right thing or not she didn’t know, but she had to try. Couldn’t let it go, even though she knew she should.
Feeling a little like she was jumping off a cliff, she turned to him. “Terrible, why don’t you come up for a beer? And you can tell me about your daughter.”
Chapter Nineteen
This was when the Truth finally came out; this was the moment when the eyes of humanity saw it.
—The Book of Truth, Origins, Article 1520
Standing beside the utility shed on top of her building, sheltered by its small roof, was like standing in the mouth of a cave, watching the silent snow fall a foot away. Without the wind, the air around them felt almost warm, the curious warmth that always seems to exist when it’s snowing, as though the snowfall provides insulation.
And like people in a cave, they were hidden. Hidden from the eyes of Downside by the sheer height of Chess’s building. From their viewpoint they could see the entire city, blurred and softened by flurries and thick smoke pouring from chimneys, but they might as well have been invisible themselves, tucked in the shadows. At least she hoped so.
The roof was her idea. Inside he’d seemed restless, caged, and his unease made the walls shrink around her as well. So up they’d come, with the twelve-pack she’d bought him earlier and a bottle of bourbon he’d pulled from his trunk, and they leaned against the shed and stared out at the dusky sky together.
“Knew it ain’t work,” he said, breaking the silence. “Felice, meanin. Rich girl, thought she were darin comin down here. You know. Liked her, though. Me an her, we saw each other maybe five, six months, she came up pregnant. Only find out causen I run into her one day—she quit on my calls, dig, when she found out. Ain’t wanted to tell me. Ain’t wanted me involved. Can’t say as I blame her. My life ain’t nothin for a kid. Ain’t even got a name to give her, aye?”
Chess didn’t answer, afraid that if she spoke, he would stop.
“So finally we agreed ourselves a deal. She already seein Bill—seein him the whole time, but knew the baby weren’t his, if you dig—an he wanted to marry her. I kick in some lashers every month, I see Katie when I can. Ain’t such a bad deal. Least I get to see her. To know her, dig?”
“She doesn’t know?”
He shook his head, took a long drink from the now half-empty bottle in his hand. “For the best, aye. Nobody know cepting Bump. Nobody else.”
“Thanks.”
He glanced at her, nodded.
“She’s really pretty, Terrible. And smart.”
“Ain’t she? Go to college one day an all. Ain’t get that from me. Tall, though, like me.”
“She has your eyes. And your smile.”
In the glow from his lighter flame she saw him flush slightly, but he didn’t reply.
Chess leaned forward so he could light one for her as well. “You ever think about having another one?”
“Naw. Had em cut me, dig. Right after I found out. Only reason any dame want a baby off me is money. Got lucky with Felice. Ain’t takin chances on havin luck again.”
“Me either,” she said, watching her exhaled smoke mix with the snow.
“What?”
“I’m not … I can’t have children.”
“Thought no Church dames could, aye?”
“Well, no, not exactly. The Debunkers and Liaisers aren’t allowed to—anyone who works with ghosts or has a more dangerous job can’t. The Goodys can, and some of the material employees. They really like pregnant women in those jobs, give them a bonus and everything, because of the extra power they have when they make charms or ritual tools or whatever.”
She took a deep breath. It felt weird to be telling him this, to be telling anyone this, but she owed him. She had a secret of his now, one so big it was pushing one of hers out to make room.
“So yeah, they would have given me an IUD, when I got hired, but they didn’t need to. I had … um, when I was thirteen I got pregnant. One of my foster brothers, I don’t remember which one. He … you know, no surprise or anything, they all did, but he got me pregnant, so they took me to this doctor. They said he was a doctor. And he did it wrong, he cut me or something and I almost died. So … I’m too scarred or something. Too damaged.”
“Shit, Chess.” He settled himself on the little ridge on the wall and folded his arms.
Tension she hadn’t known she was carrying left her. Anyone else might have made a big deal about that story, would have wanted her to talk about it, to dredge it all up in her mind again and relive it under the misguided idea that she could somehow banish it by exposing it. Or they might have smothered her with horrified sympathy until she wanted to start crying just to make them shut up, or looked at her with big cow eyes like she was nothing more than an experience, her humanity gone and replaced by a collection of bad memories.
But he did none of those things, simply stood next to her, smoking. Accepting what had happened, accepting her for telling him. He killed a beer and opened fresh ones for both of them, chasing his slugs of bourbon. When he handed hers to her, the neckline of his bowling shirt gaped open a bit, and pink neon from the sign across the street highlighted the tiny script tattooed around the base of his neck, just above the top of his black undershirt. She’d never actually read it.
Chess set her beer down and stood in front of him, angling herself between his long sprawled legs so she could open his collar all the way. Daring herself to read it, to stand this close to him.
Ego vos mergam, nec merger a vobis. I sink you, that I will not be sunk by you.
When she looked up he was watching her, his face immobile. The half-healed wound under his eye made a dark slash on his cheekbone, blending in with the scar above his lip, the bent and crooked nose, the simian brow. Funny, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d noticed any of those things, really seen them, whereas once they’d been all she could see.
“What does it say?”
He shrugged. His gaze transferred from her to a point just beyond. “Only know it Englished, dig. Ain’t pronounce the Latin.”
She could—Latin was a required Church subject—but she didn’t tell him that. Instead she repeated, “What does it say?”
Pause. Beneath her fingertip his pulse kicked steadily. She glanced at it, watching it move. He trusted her to touch it. Trusted her to touch him. To stand this close. Trusted her with his biggest secret. What would he do if she put her mouth over that vein, gave that soft skin a gentle nibble? Would he trust her still, would he let her?
“Says you try and fuck with me, you get fucked,” he said finally. His eyes came back to hers. “Says I get you first.”
He smelled good. Tobacco and pomade, bourbon and beer mixed with something she couldn’t define, and the scent of smoke in the air and the snow itself, faintly metallic but pure at the same time. For a second Chess saw the two of them as if she wasn’t in her body, saw them leaning against the little shed, their bodies almost touching, two black silhouettes against the dusky sky.
She wanted to … wanted to show him something. Wanted to say something. That she was g
lad they were friends again and she appreciated what he’d done for her, how he’d trusted her, and that she trusted him, too. How important keeping his secret was to her.
But there didn’t seem to be words for that, at least not ones she wouldn’t stumble over, so she leaned forward and kissed him.
She’d intended it to be brief, just a peck, really, but once she got there she didn’t know how to pull away. Didn’t know how, and when his chest hitched under her palms, when he responded, she realized she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay. She wanted to kiss him.
Something clanked. He’d dropped his beer, and his warm, hard hands slid across her cheeks, cupping them as if he was reassuring himself she was really there. His fingers pushed through her hair and down to touch her neck, down farther still until her coat tightened around her, pulled taut by his fists. His lips against hers sent shivers down her spine, out through her limbs, heat welling up inside her, and the only way to get rid of it was to give it back to him the same way—like a secret. Like trust.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought if she kept kissing him, she’d get more secrets, get answers to questions she didn’t know she had, and it excited and scared her in equal measure, made her dizzy.
Like playing with forbidden spells early in her training, like the rush of a line of speed she wanted just a little too much, she wanted this. Wanted to take from him and give back, too. Wanted to share something. She let her fingers move up, across the hard bone of his jaw to the short rough hair of his wide sideburns scratchy-soft against her skin.
His mouth eased hers open so his tongue could slip inside and she welcomed it, tasting bourbon and smoke and something more she didn’t bother to try and define. His big hands moved again, finding her hips, engulfing them, his fingers splayed apart just above her bottom. She felt every one of them through her jeans like a separate brand, like electrical wires sending mild, delicious shocks through her.
That wasn’t enough contact. She wanted to feel his skin. Wanted to press herself against him and let his big chest shelter her, wanted his hands on her, his body on hers, inside hers. Hunger overwhelmed her, a desperation she’d never felt before, never known she could feel about something non-narcotic. It grabbed hold of her and shook her from the inside, making her breath come faster and her grip on him tighten. More, she wanted more of this, more of him. Needed more. Her entire body felt feverish, oversensitive, an exposed nerve begging to be soothed.
His pulse throbbed beneath her palms, as fast as her own heartbeat. She slid her hands down, finding the hem of his shirt and snaking back up under it, searching for bare flesh. The image of his naked chest as she’d seen it once, months before, filled her mind. Her fingers itched to touch it, to roam across that wide expanse and memorize it by feel.
His skin shivered under her hands when she stroked the hard muscles of his abdomen, flattening her palms to try and feel as much of him as she could. To feel all of him, everything. She slid her hands higher, finding the thick hair on his chest, curling her fingers into it. He made a sound then, so soft she barely heard it, but felt it in every pore and muscle of her body.
What was more than just a kiss became more even than that. His hands moved again, one sliding over her bottom and yanking her closer, the other tangling in her hair, twisting it. He leaned forward, kissed her harder, deeper, until her head started to spin and her breath came in short, desperate gasps and she was lost, overwhelmed.
She found his heavy belt buckle and yanked at it, moved toward the button fly of his jeans with no conscious thought save trying to satisfy this craving—this craving she tried to pretend was new but wasn’t. Through the thick fabric she felt him, burning hot and ready. He gasped, and her pulse kicked and the answering heat between her thighs practically screamed—
He squeezed her hips, hard. Too hard, and it took her a second to realize he wasn’t squeezing. He was pushing. Pushing her away.
Like an idiot she stood there, her hands still playing with his shirt, before the realization that something was wrong finally penetrated the sweet hazy fog in her brain.
“What’s this, Chess?” His voice was so rough and low she wouldn’t have known it was him if she hadn’t watched his lips move. “You feelin sorry for me?”
What was he talking about? Why was he talking at all? Confused, she just stared at him, trying to find the words to ask but unable to come up with any.
“Shit.” He straightened up, stepped away from her. His fingers went into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. In the dim snowy light it looked like they were shaking. “You ain’t need to do that, dig?”
Oh. Shit was right. She’d made an ass out of herself. Again.
Her own hands were none too steady when she picked up her beer and drank half of it off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I—”
He flinched. “Aye, well. Don’t want you doin aught to pretend you ain’t recall on the morn.”
She gasped. She couldn’t help it. He might as well have spat in her face.
“Aye, I knew.”
She had pretended she didn’t remember. Had lied to him, three months before, after that night in the bar. Pretended she didn’t remember him holding her, lifting her up, bracing her against the wall while their lips fused together.
Yeah, she’d been fucked up that night, thanks to an illegal—and extremely potent—pill she’d found. But not that fucked up. Not so fucked up she didn’t know what she was doing, or that she couldn’t replay the whole thing in her head still, relive it in detail.
What the fuck was wrong with her? Why did she keep doing this?
It was easy to be wanted by a man when he’d never seen the bad parts. And she had so many of them, so much to hide. So many, it was amazing anyone who’d known her more than a few days still wanted to be with her at all.
Terrible knew more about her than anyone else did. And he was rejecting her. And she deserved it.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
Clutching her beer, she turned away from him, walked out into the snow. Minutes before, Downside had looked almost pretty, almost romantic, with snow covering the filth. Now she sensed it all hiding beneath the surface, the dirt and grime, the broken needles and used condoms and rats and garbage. Felt the hostile eyes of the city on her like they all knew who she was and what she did. Imagined she saw the murderers moving like phantoms between the cold buildings, plotting against her, watching her.
Tears slid down her cheeks. She swiped at them, pretending to push her hair back.
“Aw, fuck.” The soft air around them, the distance she’d put between them, muted his voice, muted the gentle slosh as he lifted the bottle again. “Now you got the thought I ain’t want you, aye?”
What the fuck? What was she supposed to think? Hadn’t he just told her he didn’t want her? She opened her mouth to ask, shut it again. No point.
Silence turned the air cold.
“Shit. I want you, Chess. Make no mistake on that one, dig? Want you bad. So bad I ain’t even can think of any else sometimes, ’cept gettin you under me. Ain’t give a fuck what pills you swallow get you through the day or what happens you ain’t got em, aye? Still want you.”
She didn’t move. Waiting. Not sure how to react. Not sure how she felt, if she could even believe him. He’d had her, there. She’d been at his fucking buttons, hadn’t she, like a starving victim about to tear into a banquet? In another few seconds she would have had her hand down his pants while her other hand shoved her own clothes out of the way, would have begged him to take her up against that wall in the cold.
And he knew it. She knew he did. Only someone who knew nothing about women would have failed to notice how her fingers dug into his skin, how her breath came so fast. And he definitely knew about women. So if he wanted her … this was kind of a fucked-up way to show it.
“But I ain’t … ain’t think I can take it, wakin up next to you on the morn, have you fake like nothin happened. Or tell me you made yoursel
f a mistake. Or say, aye, thanks, maybe try that again on the sometime. I know how you run it, keepin it cool and no repeats, and I dig it, aye? Got your reasons. So I figure …”
His lighter clicked, snapped shut. Pause. She could picture him standing against the wall, staring down at his feet with his hand on the back of his neck like he did when he was thinking or upset, or when he was about to say something he thought made him seem vulnerable.
“I figure you really wanted me you’d say. Like now, maybe, if you dig. I’ll fuckin carry you down your place on a run, you tell me aye, get you on your back afore the next word comes out your mouth. But you oughta have yourself certain, causen I ain’t lookin for charity, an I ain’t lettin you go after. Once … once ain’t enough for me, dig?”
Fresh tears stung her eyes. She had no idea what to do, absolutely none. Every sentence that came to her mind seemed wrong, every action precipitous, and all she felt—aside from the throbbing below her waist and the odd, light sensation in her stomach—was an emotion so familiar she couldn’t possibly mistake it.
Fear.
He terrified her.
He terrified her, because when she’d kissed him, when she’d gotten so desperate for him so fast, so fucking fast, she’d still been there, too. Hadn’t lost herself. Hadn’t been looking to use him like a machine calibrated to give her orgasms so she could forget who she was for a few minutes. Had been acutely aware she was kissing Terrible, that it was his body against hers, his hands on her hips, his lips making her blood sing.
She’d still been there. She’d wanted him, herself, Chess, not just her body. That desire, that crazy, intense need … that hadn’t been only physical. What did that mean?
She heard him behind her, smoking his cigarette, opening another beer. Waiting. Melted snow mixed with the tears on her face and dampened her hair. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she was frozen, that’s why she couldn’t move.
“Well,” he said. “Well. So now you know.”
Why weren’t her feet moving? What the hell was she so scared of? She wanted to go to him, could picture herself going to him, taking him to her place, to the bed she’d never allowed even Lex into. Pictured again his chest bared, her fingers sliding across it, over his stomach and farther down.
