The Lost

by Cole McCade

  It was all useless.

  Pointless. Playing games with money based on guesswork, toying with imaginary futures that ruined very real lives. Every stock trade put another hunched figure over a barrel fire in the Nests, warming their hands on the ashes of the finance section of the newspaper. She’d always hated it, hearing people talk about things like that. Always hated that these were the things that made the world go round.

  So she closed her eyes and swung high, with the wind pushing her hair back and the scent of the day in her lungs. Her feet kicked toward the sun, and she imagined her anger was a fire that could scour everything clean, leaving nothing behind but a single solitary truck buried in the sand.

  She’d swung like this as a little girl. Back when she’d still thought she could fly. She’d fought gravity and thrown her little body against the chains until the swing arced so high the chains started to go slack, and she got that little excited twist of fear in the pit of her stomach when it felt like nothing was holding her up. She’d always thought she would rip loose from the seat, and wings would sprout from her back and carry her away. She’d laughed until she was dizzy, then screamed happily as the earth dragged her back down in a plunging descent—and she’d always waited for just that perfect moment to thrust her legs out and saw them against the air so she could fight coming to ground for just a few seconds longer. Just a few seconds while her nanny shouted that she’d hurt herself. Seconds when the giggles of the other children sounded like wind-chime music, and she’d felt like she’d had the sky in her veins.

  Leigh kicked her legs on the next downswing, pushing herself back. Her legs were too long for the swing now, but they were stronger, too. She had a runner’s legs. A runner’s heart. And that heart beat fast and loud as she thrust back hard enough to make the chains jerk and jump, pinching the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger. The swing rocketed back, then surged forward, swooping up just a little higher before dragging her back down to push again.

  Again. Again, every time swinging just a little higher, her legs thrust out straight and her toes pointed until she cut the air like an arrow shot from a bow. Higher—higher higher higher, until her skirt blew back against her thighs and she couldn’t breathe and she almost tipped backward when she came level with the top bar of the swing set. The chains lost their tautness and went slack before she started to fall again. She let out a little laughing scream just like she used to, fear and exhilaration quivering inside her, and still she wanted to go higher; still she wanted the courage to let go and try to fly.

  But she didn’t have wings. And if she let go she would soar for only a few sweet seconds before crashing down again. Her legs would catch her and she’d pick herself up, but still there’d be that pain of crushing into the ground with her knees scraped and her elbows poking everywhere and the breath and joy punched out of her lungs. As long as she didn’t let go, she could pretend that wouldn’t happen. Could pretend she really was a girl with wings, and if she didn’t jump then she wouldn’t have to know for certain that she couldn’t really fly.

  Her eyes slipped open. The world see-sawed past, as she fell back down. Her legs tucked up under the swing, her feet barely skimming the ground, and this time when she swung back she didn’t reach quite so high, didn’t fly quite so fast. She let the swing drift to a halt, until it stopped being a magic machine that let little girls fly and was just a strip of rubber with a woman hanging heavy in its curve. She stared down at her thighs. Under the ripped fishnets, her bruises were almost gone. Her stars. Her constellations. She had only the bracelets of Gabriel Hart’s fingerprints on her wrists, reminding her that if she was a lioness…she was a tame one in chains, a zoo animal there for anyone to stare and poke at, playing the pet for her supper.

  Her breaths came tight, her chest stitching up painfully. She closed her eyes, clutching the front of her hoodie. The world contracted, until it felt like she was shrinking down to a tiny white pinprick in the middle of a field of black. Trapped. She couldn’t move, she was trapped, she was—

  —having a panic attack. Stop it. Stop it stop it stop!

  Wide open space all around her. She sucked in the scent of grass crushed by a thousand feet and told herself she wasn’t trapped, wasn’t caged, there was wide open space all around her—but she had to get out. Before she knew it she’d rocketed to her feet, leaving the swing bouncing and jangling while she dug her toes into the soft sand under the swing set and shoved away, stumbling as it tried to suck her back and swallow the heels of her boots. She tripped over the wooden border, tripped out onto the grass, bolted for the gate, and streaked out into the street.

  She didn’t know where she was running to. What she was running from. She didn’t care. People swore at her as she shoved past. Buildings flashed by, just gray blurs cut open by the occasional gash of bleeding color, while her boots pounded against the sidewalk. Every step jarred up through her to hurt in her bones and strain in her thighs and drag the claws of her breath down her throat. That feeling of being hunted bore down on her again, even if she didn’t know what was chasing her. Gary’s quietly invasive love. Her desperate need to hold Elijah just once, just one more time. The memory of the life she used to have, when Jacob would lace his fingers with hers and run his thumb over the crusted gemstones of the wedding ring still buried somewhere in the bottom of her backpack.

  Or maybe the question in Gabriel Hart’s cold, hurtful eyes when he’d asked her what do you want, Leigh? and she’d realized she didn’t really know.

  Her legs followed a familiar path even if her mind had taken flight, reeling down frightening and unfamiliar corridors full of wants she didn’t want to look at, couldn’t stand to face. Things she’d given up on years ago. She stopped so short outside Gary’s that her knees nearly buckled. She stared at the wall where Mr. Junior Salesman had pushed her up against the brick and sneered girls like you don’t care who looks. Dull light streamed from the glass door, poking through the holes in letters that read The Track above a silhouette of a horse that she thought maybe wasn’t racing, but fleeing from the thing crouched on its back and egging it on.

  Inside people drank and chatted in the low golden glow of the lamps, while the TV talked about touchdowns and yards. She understood now: the TV kept them safe from the twilight thoughts in the looming dark outside. Gary stood behind the bar, pouring someone a whiskey sour. Familiar. Almost comforting. And if she went in there she’d find forgetfulness in leering eyes and a hard cock and a stranger’s grasping hands, and everything would be all right again. She would be in control again. But she didn’t want anyone to fucking touch her, not when they gave her the filth she needed but not the love.

  Daddy’s little girl, hissed in the back of her mind. Daddy’s little girl.

  She struggled to calm her gulping inhalations, and scrubbed her sweat-slimed palms on her skirt. She didn’t want this. Not anymore. She just needed her camera and her backpack, and she could go. Leave. Find somewhere new. Somewhere where from far away she might still be able to see Elijah, but never get close enough for anyone to touch her again. The bar was busy, and if she was careful she could slip in and out without Gary catching her, without having to give in to the needy expectation of a goodbye waiting in that rheumy witch-eye.

  Maybe she’d leave Elijah behind, too. Let him have a life without being haunted by pale and useless ghosts. Pawn her wedding ring. Cut the last of her ties, and disappear on the wind. A new city. A new life. A new Leigh. Maybe she’d change her name, dye her hair. Red. Not like that sweet little nanny, no. A red that was almost pink, that deep and glowing color she imagined whenever she pictured her heart.

  Gary slid a tumbler toward a customer, corked the near-empty whiskey bottle, then raised a hand to Jimmy and disappeared into the back stock room. Leigh pushed inside and edged through the crowd toward the stairs. She didn’t care if Jimmy saw her; Jimmy was probably high as fuck and wouldn’t remember in five minutes. But Gary didn’t like to leave the front of the b
ar for more than the time it took to cork a new bottle and take a piss during open hours, and she darted nervous glances toward the stock room door as she twisted around drunk grabby men, and girls with Bellini-scented giggles and hair that fell over their shoulders just so. Just as the storeroom door creaked open, she pushed past the stairwell door with a nod from the bouncer and ducked inside, breathing hard and leaning against the wall, half-expecting to hear Gary’s voice calling her name.

  Nothing. She waited a moment to let her eyes adjust to the gloom, the only light a mellow glow flickering from overhead, then dashed up the stairs into Gary’s apartment.

  And ran straight into Gabriel Hart.

  She collided hard with the unyielding heat of him, like slamming into a stone furnace. He remained motionless—until she pressed her hands against his stomach and thrust back. Her knee kicked out, snapped right into his thigh, and he dropped like a bag of rocks, crumpling to his knees.

  The silence of it was eerie. No cry of pain; not even a growl. Just the thud of his knees hitting the floor, blending with the rapid-fire thumping of her heart as she stared down at him. He curled his fingers hard around his thigh, fingers digging white-knuckled into the denim, as he bowed forward, his face hidden by the falling shag of his hair. Yet nothing could mask the hard iron ridge of his jaw, the hard leap of his pulse against the tight, straining tendons of his throat, the faint hiss of his breaths, the ripple that flowed over his shoulders and down the hard curve of his spine.

  Oh, God. Oh God, he was trembling, and she realized she’d hit him in the leg he’d been favoring the other night.

  Leigh dropped to one knee, reaching for him, then pulled back, then reached again before finally bracing her palms on the floor and leaning forward, peering under the curtain of his hair. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—I—fuck. Fuck. Where’s your Vicodin?”

  He lifted his head, tilting it back, eyes closed in a tight seam; his lips peeled back from clenched teeth in the snarl of a wounded beast. “Gary,” he forced through his teeth, a low and tortured growl, nostrils flaring on rapid breaths.

  Gary…what? Leigh didn’t stop to wonder. She just nodded, swallowing hard, then tumbled to her feet and fled down the stairs, nearly tripping over her boots.

  She spilled into the crowded bar. Gary glanced up from filling a mug at the tap, froth foaming over his hand. “Leigh? When did you—”

  “Hart,” she gasped. “Upstairs. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just—he said to get you, and—”

  “Fuck.” Gary cut the tap and shoved the beer at the waiting customer, then slipped two fingers between his teeth and let out a shrill whistle. “Jimmy! Keep an eye on things, would ya?”

  Jimmy just flashed his quick, dopey grin, while Gary rounded the corner of the bar and stalked toward the stairs. His rolling, marbled eye raked hard over Leigh, and she fought back a shrinking guilt. She hadn’t done it on purpose. When he swept past, she looked after him, fidgeting with the edges of her hoodie. She didn’t want to go back up there. But her things were there, and she just wanted to grab her backpack and go.

  She closed her eyes, breathing out slowly. She could at least make sure Hart was all right. Saying she was sorry wouldn’t somehow obligate her to stay.

  She straggled up the stairs, lured by the sound of muted voices—Gary’s sharp and worried, Hart’s thick and snarling, dark at the edges with agony. Any other man would have screamed from the pain he was clearly repressing. Yet Hart…Hart just… Leigh wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. She’d finally seen an expression on that cold, cruel face. After the way he’d treated her, she should be happy to see him in pain.

  But no matter how low she might sink, she wasn’t that kind of person. Or she tried to tell herself she wasn’t, as she mounted the last steps and slipped back into Gary’s apartment.

  Gary had hooked his arm under Hart’s shoulders and hefted him up, his reedy frame straining under Hart’s tight-muscled bulk—especially when Hart could only hold himself up on one leg, the other dangling uselessly. Leigh watched, helpless, as Gary maneuvered the man toward the bed, then eased him down onto his back. Some of the tension went out of dusky features as Hart lay back against the pillows, breathing in quick, deep draughts, his fingers flexing and curling over and over. Gary dug in his pocket and came up with a translucent orange-brown bottle, the pills inside rattling in his unsteady grip.

  “How many?” he asked.

  Hart opened his eyes to thin slits. “One.”

  “You sure?”

  “One,” Hart snarled. Gary nodded, pried the cap off, and shook a single pill into Hart’s waiting hand. Leigh forced her frozen feet to move, and darted for the kitchenette. She fumbled a glass from the cabinet, filled it in the sink, and brought it to the bedside.

  “Here.” She offered the glass.

  Hart’s gaze flicked to her and locked on, tracking her unerringly, the silver gleam reflective as mirrors past the thick black-feather brush of his lashes. She couldn’t meet that hard, demanding look, and she lowered her eyes, holding on to the glass until the warmth of his fingers brushed hers, shocking heat contrasting the damp coolness of the glass and the spattered droplets that had dripped over her skin. His hands shook when his hand touched hers. That horrible sick feeling in the pit of her stomach curled deeper, and the moment she was sure he had a grip she pulled back, retreating to drop into the chair under the window.

  “Leigh,” Gary said. The sound of her name slapped her roughly. She darted a look up at him, forcing herself to meet his eyes, waiting for judgment—but he only said, “I need to get back downstairs. Stay with ’im.” He pressed the bottle of pills into her hands, his touch waxy and wrinkled as crumpled paper. “He can have another in six hours. No more. Not even if he begs, you got it?”

  “But I—I can’t—”

  She trailed off, mouth dry, as realization gutted her. Suddenly the bottle in her hands was heavier than a lead weight, dragged down by the weight of responsibility.

  Hart was an addict.

  That was why Gary had had his pills. Why he’d been in Gary’s apartment. He’d given Gary the pills to keep them away, to control how much he took.

  And now Gary was putting that duty on her shoulders.

  She clutched the bottle tight in both hands. Her throat was too thick to speak, her lips working incoherently, a cold surge of terror rushing down her spine like icy river runoff. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be responsible for something this cumbersome, not for Hart, not for anyone; couldn’t be tied to something like this. She shook her head quickly.

  “Gary…Gary, no—”

  “For fuck’s sake, girl.” Gone was the kindly older man, the indulgent and oft-times helpless, passive paternal figure. “I’ve gotta work. Think about someone other than your damned self for once. It’s just until morning. It won’t kill you to be a decent human being until morning.”

  Think about someone other than your damned self for once.

  Those words shouldn’t have cut so deep, biting into her with sickle-edged teeth. She shouldn’t care. Not enough to give Gary the power to hurt her. This was why she didn’t get attached. Why she didn’t let anyone inside, where they could slice apart all the soft unguarded vulnerable places of her. She hadn’t meant to let that fucking old man get under her skin, and yet suddenly all it took was his disapproval, that cold impatient censure, to push her to the choking hot sensation of building tears.

  It won’t kill you to be a decent human being until morning.

  She bowed her head, curling forward with the pills clutched to her chest—but she nodded, sucking in cold breaths and fighting back the swollen thing blocking her throat. Gary made a harsh sound that could’ve been acceptance or could’ve been disgust. She didn’t want to look up to see his face, the look in his eyes, to figure it out. Tomorrow she’d shut him out. Tomorrow she’d refuse to care, and he could judge her all he wanted and it wouldn’t mean a thing.

  But tonight she couldn’t stop t
he hurt swelling thick in her chest, and she refused to look up as his heavy clomping footsteps receded, changing in rhythm and tone as they struck the stairs and bounced off the close-held walls, leaving her behind.

  And alone with Hart.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I’M NOT GENERALLY PRONE TO begging.”

  Hart’s voice broke the silence, that flat cultured calm back, polished and smooth and cold as a fine-cut diamond. But when Leigh looked up, the tight lines of his body and stark ridges of tendons in his hands betrayed the suffering that had to be eating through his body like acid. Suffering because of her.

  So much for Gary thinking she’d be good for him.

  He’d closed his eyes again, his head tilted back against Gary’s ratty, faded pillows. His body was so long and lean that his feet hung off the edge of the bed, scuffed boots dangling. Leigh stuffed the pills in her pocket, out of sight and out of reach, feeling like she had a loaded gun hidden in her hoodie.

  “I…here.” She stood and circled the foot of the bed. “Let me help.”

  She sank to one knee and pried at the laces of his boots. They smelled like dusty red clay and deserts, umber earth crusted in the treads, instead of the oily slickness of Crow City’s streets.

  He held completely still as she pulled his boots away¸ silent save for his deep, measured breaths. She risked a glance at his face. His eyes remained closed as she set his boots down and retreated back to her chair. Her backpack sat on the floor next to the paper-strewn table. She ignored the temptation to take it and go. If she left Hart alone with his pills, he might take too many and fall down the dark spiral into addiction. She’d seen it too many times, living the way she did; people who lived only for their next hit, who tried to entice her with just one shot, just one pill, it’d make her feel so good. No matter how many ways she tried to escape, she’d never once considered drugs—and she didn’t want to think about what she’d do if she was forced into dependency.