Джеймс Паттерсон - Hawk

“Come here,” Pietro said, and before I realized what he meant to do he had pulled my cut-up, blood-soaked T-shirt off and thrown it in the trash. My eyes were wide as I stood there in pants and a sport bra. He reached for my pants button and I grabbed his hand.

“I can do it,” I said, a blush rising.

“Okay, but they go in the trash, too,” he said. “I’ll find something for you to wear.” He put his hands on my hips as if gauging my size, then looked me up and down until my face heated. “Geez, you’re tall,” he said, and straightened up to look me in the eye. He was maybe two centimeters taller than me. Maybe.

I was starting to think that I had died on the street below, and this was some dead-dream, not reality. My world was harsh, dirty, and dangerous, and that’s what I was used to. Pietro’s world was rich, clean, and full of anything he wanted or needed. I had no idea what that felt like.

“What are you thinking?” he asked. “You have a funny look on your face.”

“Is this real?” I blurted.

In answer he stepped closer. I smelled his clean scent, the laundry detergent of his clothes. I was about to step backward because he was too close, but he put his arms around me, tilted his head, and held me in place with one hand gently cradling my chin.

“This is real,” he said softly, and kissed me.

I’d never been kissed on purpose before; had never kissed anyone else except Calypso. And that wasn’t like this. There wasn’t anything like this.

Pietro pulled his head back a fraction. “Quit thinking,” he said, and kissed me again. This time his mouth was firmer on mine, and just when I got panicky about running out of air, I remembered to breathe through my nose.

I wound my arms around his neck and pressed closer, tilting my head opposite to his so we could kiss harder. I don’t know how long it went on, but finally he pulled away and smiled. His face was as flushed as mine, and he had blood smeared on his cheek and shirt.

“That’s all I’ve been able to think about since I saw you that day,” he said. “You have to believe that I gave my second no orders to kill the Chung prince. I was as shocked as you were. Please believe me.” I looked into his dark brown eyes, saw the earnestness on his face. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe his dad had given the order without telling Pietro.

I stepped backward and nodded awkwardly. “I’m going to get in the bath,” I said.

“Let me know if you need help washing your hair.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. But no way would I take him up on it. We couldn’t pretend to just be friends or even just a couple of kids anymore. Not after a kiss like that.

That bath, no lie, was the highlight of my entire existence. I sank into the hot water, submerging myself to get my mohawk wet, just for the delicious feeling of being surrounded by pure, clean water. It was heavenly, lending serious weight to my already-dead theory. When I surfaced, I stretched my wings out to dry, letting them hang over the back of the tub. Rinsed of dust, they were prettier than I remembered.

The bathroom door cracked open. I was about to yell when a hand quickly put a stack of clothes on the stool by the door. “Here!” Pietro said. “Hope they fit.”

Turns out, when my hair isn’t full of City of the Dead grease and dirt, it’s fluffy like a donkey’s mane. It was still black and shiny, but so soft and silky. My skin was a whole shade lighter than what I thought it was. And the bathwater was so gross and dirty that I quickly drained it and rinsed the tub out before anyone could see it.

The clothes, including bra and underwear, fit. It was a pair of soft, worn jeans and then a gray, long-sleeved T-shirt. He’d already cut slits in the back for my wings. Right now I had so many emotions flooding my mind that I didn’t know what to do, what to think. I was still a bit light-headed, super tired, and super hungry. Why had I come here?

“Come out, you big chicken,” Pietro taunted me from outside the door. Then he seemed to realize what he’d said and laughed. “Chicken!”

I opened the door. “Very funny. Like I haven’t heard that before… my lord,” I added, giving him a snide smile.

Just then there was a quick rap on Pietro’s door. It opened slightly before he had given permission, and frowning, Pietro walked quickly over.

A servant poked her head in and whispered, “My lord, your father’s coming!”

“He’s out of town!” Pietro said.

“He’s back and headed this way!” She looked terrified.

“Thank you.” Pietro closed the door and locked it.

“I’ll go,” I said, picking up my ratty backpack. I hated for it to touch my nice new clothes.

“I wanted you to spend the night,” Pietro said in a low voice, holding me by the elbows. “I want us to be close, like we were when we were kids.”

A booming voice in the hallway shouted, “Pietro? Where is my son?”

“I need to go,” I said again. “He hates me.”

Pietro didn’t deny it. “When will you come back?” he asked urgently, as his father tried the doorknob.

“Pietro! Why is this door locked?” his father bellowed.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Sometime.” I gave him a tiny smile and then took a running jump off the balcony. I snapped my wings out, feeling them catch the air, and I rose swiftly into the night, headed home.

CHAPTER 17

My head was full of Pietro, Pietro, Pietro the whole way home. His kiss. The way he smelled. How he had helped me, protected me from his father. The other half of my mind was totally focused on that bath. Oh, god. It felt like only seconds until I realized I was over the McCallum Complex. I did a slow left, checked the yard out, then came down quickly behind the big garbage dumpster, like usual.

Pietro’s life was full of light. Full of rich fabrics and polished wood and warm-colored lamps creating pools of comfort. As I walked toward the doors to the common room, I tried not to feel achingly bitter about my life. And my parents. And my life. And the lab rats. And my life.

Clete was waiting for me and pushed through the doors eagerly to meet me. He opened his mouth to speak but then noticed I looked different. His up-and-down examination of me felt quite different from Pietro’s. That memory brought a flush to my cheeks.

“Where have you been?” Clete asked. “What’s all this?” His hands gestured to my clothes, my clean hair, the huge, throbbing stitched-up wound on my face.

I searched, wondering how to explain what had felt like a dead-dream. Pietro’s house, his hands, the Chungs’ cutting a C into my cheek, and the only hot bath I could ever remember taking. But Clete cut me off.

I was just about to say that I would tell him later when he waved his hands again and blurted, “It doesn’t matter. Listen, Hawk—everyone’s gone!”

I looked through the big glass windows. The common room seemed completely empty. Smiling tiredly, I said, “Did you guys come up with a new exit? Are they hiding?” I was in no mood for this, but they didn’t understand that. They wanted to play hide-and-seek for real, have me try to find them and test out their new spots. I’d either have to play along or disappoint them by being too wiped for one of the few games they could play.

“No!” Clete said as I opened the glass door. “I mean they’re gone! The soldiers took them!”

I stopped and looked up into his face. Usually he spoke slowly and dully, like the way he moved. When someone said something funny, it took him minutes to smile. Now there was fear and outrage in his voice.

“This better not be a joke,” I warned him. “I will NOT think this is funny.”

“It’s not a joke!” he said. “You know how we all bugged out this morning?”