Stacia Kane - Wrong Ways Down

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?