Feuds (16 page)

“I won't tell a soul,” Cole said. Before she could register what he'd said, he wrapped his arms behind her back, pulling her hips ever so slightly closer to his. Her heart pounded and her whole body felt light, like it was floating up into the sky and over to the church roof all by itself. Their faces were only a couple of inches apart. They were so close, so close to what she'd been wanting ever since the last time. His eyes locked on hers.

And then there was no space between them at all; he was pulling her toward him and pressing his lips to hers with the kind of passion that she hadn't even felt the last time, a passion that made her reel until she wasn't sure whether she was standing up anymore or floating out through the sky. But then she felt the cold metal of the rail pressing up against her back and everything came back in a whoosh: the urgency of his hands on her skin where they pushed up underneath her tank and hoodie, the faint noise of the traffic far below them and the more immediate noise of the wind brushing them with its night-cold fingertips.

He kissed her neck and she tilted her head back, her eyes closed, breathing along with the sensation of chills traveling up and down her left side. His mouth was warm on her but the rest of her body was freezing cold—from the nerves, the sensation, his presence, she thought. His lips made a trail up her neck toward her earlobe, then to her forehead and back to her lips, where they pressed more firmly, his tongue moving as if it knew exactly what it was looking for while his hands cupped her face. She thought all of a sudden that she could fall, plummet backward all seventy stories. Then she thought he could push her … but she could pull him, too, so they were even: both needing to trust each other. And even if they fell together, it wouldn't be much different from the rushing and soaring she was feeling right then.

“Cole,” she started, pulling back slightly so she could look into his eyes and catch her breath. “This is crazy.”

“I know,” he said, breathing heavily. “But it's so…”

“Right,” she filled in as he leaned closer and began kissing her neck again.

“More than right,” he whispered, and she knew: whatever it was, this force between them, drawing them together … he was feeling it, too.

His hands made her feel like he knew her. All of her, her body and her heart. And their touch, eager but gentle, told her that everything he knew, he adored. The best part was, she wasn't hiding a thing. She reached for his hair, grabbing a handful of it and feeling it sift through her fingers.

But then Cole was yanking his arms from hers, taking an abrupt step back. She moved toward him, but he held out one hand to block her.

“What?” she asked, panicked. “What is it?”

“We can't—” he started.

“What?” She was alarmed, afraid she'd done something wrong. She could feel herself begin to shake, starting with her hands again—it was probably a response to all the sensations that had just wrapped themselves around her.

He was breathing hard. “This—it isn't right,” he said. “We can't do this.” And then he took another step away, starting down the fire escape.

“Cole!” she shouted. “Cole, what are you doing? Are you insane?”

But he ignored her—and soon, he was disappearing into the dark.

 

10

COLE

Cole's running shoes barely touched the rough metal steps. He moved so fast it felt like he was free-falling down the sixty-eight flights of fire escape stairs.
Free-falling.
It was the same feeling he'd had when he'd kissed Davis. The second his lips had met hers, everything he'd been afraid of had been confirmed. He'd done the very thing he'd promised himself he wouldn't: he'd fallen for her. He hadn't expected her to be the way she was. He'd expected frigid lips and stiffness instead of the way her body leaned into his, soft and pliable. She was strong, obviously—she had the strength only hours of ballet training could provide—but there was this quality of vulnerability that he could detect every time his hands touched her shoulders and the small of her back. It was the way she yielded to him—she so clearly trusted him. And the way she'd opened up about her mother … He and Davis were similar in a way he hadn't expected. He felt like he understood her. She was everything Cole
hadn't
thought Priors were—kind, relatable, warm.

And yet, they were still so different in other ways.

She was intelligent and sophisticated. She knew things he didn't about art and history and literature, and she wasn't afraid to be smart. She had the best laugh he'd ever heard. She could laugh openly and without reservation. She had a million different smiles that betrayed all of her complex thoughts, and he felt like every single one was exciting to discover. The kiss shouldn't have happened. But it had, and all he wanted was for it to happen over and over again. More than that: he needed it, with a physical craving more intense than any FEUDS adrenaline he'd ever felt. Half of him wished it had never happened, because the mere fact that it had was making him crazy. The other half realized he hadn't lived, not really, until he'd felt her lips against his. Now, however, he was in over his head. What tightrope was he walking? Worse, what game was Parson Abel playing? Davis and he were both being used, Cole was sure of it. But how high were the stakes, and how could he come out on top without knowing the answer?

Never in his life had he felt so out of control. His heart pounded with the exertion of running—or maybe from the kiss—but his lungs felt clear and strong. Still, panic worked its way through his veins in the jolting form of adrenaline. Cole pushed through the dark alleyways of the city, careful to stick to the shadows rather than the lit glare of the streetlamps. A neon sign for a cosmetics company flashed over him as he turned toward the waterfront, its red lettering casting an eerie glow over the street.

Cole was a two-minute sprint from the dock where he knew the motie would be waiting when he heard the squeal of tires behind him. Then he saw the red flashing light that signaled a cop car; it had been obscured by the neon pall of the street. He ducked under a low awning for coverage, his heart thudding. He'd reached the industrial vicinity of Columbus, and the buildings were fewer and spread farther apart as the landscape transitioned into the Slants. The car slammed on its brakes a mere ten yards from where Cole stood, partially concealed by the abandoned storefront's foyer. He leaned against the door and it moved inward—it was already ajar—and he slipped inside as quietly as possible.

They couldn't be after him.

Could they? Did Parson know what he was up to with Davis? Was Parson going to blow the whole thing? Or had Davis figured it out and called the cops on him? His heart pounded, and it was all Cole could do to hold himself together. It occurred to him: he might lose her. It was a blow that left him nauseated, weak. He was startled by the intensity of his emotions, more startled, too, by how it impacted him on a physical level—his whole body was tensed, poised in fight mode. He would do anything not to let it happen, he realized. Another car sped around the corner, its wheels screeching as it pulled up next to the first. Cole's heart was in overdrive, his palms slick with sweat and his T-shirt clinging to his frame. Two Prior patrolmen, one burly and the other taller but slighter, stepped out of their vehicles. One spoke low into his DirecTalk, and Cole strained to hear.

“Reinforcement to zone six,” the man said into the device. “Gen suspect in sight. Sanction extra units. Over.” Cole felt a flash of panic. Had they already spotted him? He pressed up against the inside of the building, holding his body motionless. There was quiet; an interlude in which he tried to get a quick glance out the window. Then a spark of neon flashed in Cole's periphery, and a bedraggled-looking man from the building across the street darted behind the patrolmen, his movements irregular. The man was stumbling, clutching his face as he ran. From the look of his well-worn clothing and his diminutive height, he was a Gen. Cole let his breath out in a whoosh. It wasn't him. They weren't after him at all. The taller policeman turned fast, his flashlight cutting patterns across the dark. Its beam narrowly missed Cole's frame. Cole could see a trail of blood dotting the pavement in the man's wake.

“Gen suspect spotted!” shouted the shorter patrolman into his DirecTalk, confirming Cole's suspicions. “Units pursuing westward down Lynden. Send backup to Lynden and March.” Then they were in their cars and off, tires squealing and dust forming a cloud behind them.

For a second, all Cole felt was residual relief. He was in the clear. He'd come so close to getting caught. And getting caught meant losing her. But for now, everything was okay. It was going to be okay. His heart rate slowed, and feeling began to work its way back into his hands, which tingled from the rush of fear. He wondered what the man had done—and why he was bleeding. Then he realized he didn't have time to speculate.

Cole dashed down the street. He reached the dock in a matter of minutes.

“Back so soon?” The same motie he'd used that morning grinned wide at Cole, but his eyes were empty, and he was missing almost all his teeth. Cole shivered. This dude freaked him out, and yet he couldn't help feeling a little bad for him. His shirt was off and a trickle of sweat made its way down the ridges of his bony rib cage. Scars, both old and a fresher pink, crisscrossed his skinny frame. Some were old and gnarled, but some had the pinker hue of fresh abuse. Cole ignored the question and slapped some change into the guy's palm, signaling for him to get moving. The motie fired up the engine but kept his eyes trained on Cole, scanning him from head to toe.

“You good, man?” Cole felt sorry for the motie, who'd obviously been through some harsh stuff in his day, but he also didn't like the way the guy was looking at him—like he wanted something more. The motie merely cackled and gunned it toward shore. Cole reached into his pocket as they went, extracting the tiny camera Parson had given him. This was his chance to get rid of it for good, to make sure there was never any proof of his near-betrayal. Cole clutched the camera in his palm, bringing it to the side of the vessel. He let his fingertips trail over the water. And then he let go. Cole didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he'd released the camera from his grasp, felt it drift away from him under the water. He had to do it; he cared too much about her to risk destroying her. And if she found out, she'd be devastated. There would be no going back. When they touched down on Gen territory three minutes later, he found himself gasping for air.

The air was cold but it smelled complex—different from the air in Columbus—in a good way, Cole thought. He could smell the algae from the water and light traces of the wildflowers that grew along its bank. A musky odor rose from the dirt as his feet sank into the damp soil that lined the shore. The air in Columbus smelled empty; that was it. Maybe that's why Davis's skin had been so intoxicating. Against the nothingness of the city air, she'd been tangy and forbidden. The memory of her skin and what it had felt like under his lips—her neck rising in goose bumps under his tongue—made him shiver. Whatever the risks, he wanted more.

But for now, he had to get home. Cole took a direct path rather than circling through the outskirts of the Slants as he usually did. As he neared the center of town, he heard voices rising and falling. It was strange for the late hour, even for a weekend. But sometimes his friends liked to gather near the well to drink and hang out, and every now and then an impromptu party broke out. Cole quickened his pace, wondering if any of his friends were around. He could use the distraction. Anything to keep his mind off Davis, really. After the night he'd had, a couple of beers might be in order.

As he neared the well, though, he could tell something wasn't right. Someone brushed past him at a jog, knocking his shoulder from behind—Cole turned to see Griff, the guy who owned the Drowned Rat, a dive bar in the most decrepit section of the Slants, hurrying past.

“Watch it,” Cole muttered in Griff's general direction. But Griff didn't even turn, and the voices ahead were rising in volume by the minute. Cole knew he wasn't imagining angry tones. A couple of crashing sounds drifted back—shattering glass?—and Cole broke into a jog behind Griff. What had happened in his absence? Griff wouldn't have left the bar unless something serious was going on. Cole felt a shiver of dread work its way through his body, followed almost instantly by a wave of exhaustion. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep. But he had to know.

He burst past the row of trailers that bordered the old downtown to find the field in a state of absolute chaos. Worsley was heading up what looked like a demonstration, standing on the edge of the covered well. He was already so tall at over six feet that the ledge made him look larger than life. There was Jason, looking freaked out, his face mottled as he yelled something in Worsley's direction. Michelle was sitting on an overturned garbage bin, straining to see over the crowds. Her face was tight and she was biting her lower lip like she always did when she was nervous. Cole couldn't make out what Worsley was saying. He edged closer, following the path Griff was clearing as he shoved through. A bunch of Prior patrolmen fought their way toward the center of the crowd from the opposite side; Cole's nerves shot to high alert.

Hamilton and his buddies were on the opposite side of the masses. Hamilton was talking heatedly to Leroy Beauchamp, his lanky form dwarfed by an oversized cotton shirt. He looked almost excited, not scared, his brown eyes lit from within—the opposite of the other 90 percent of the crowd, from what Cole could see. There were probably sixty or eighty people shoved into the small space among the trailers. Others were camped out on the flimsy front stoops that marked their properties. One guy was banging his window with his fist from inside his trailer. The ground was littered with garbage where Dumpsters had been overturned, and Cole had to step carefully around a pile of broken glass as he shouldered his way closer to Worsley and the well, which was apparently serving as a makeshift stage. A guy knocked into him hard from behind, and Cole swore as he struggled to regain his footing.