Drift (Don’t… #8)

Chapter 19 JUDE

Coming to a dead stop in the lamplit darkness, Drift wiped at his nose as he caught the Scottish symbol sprayed on one of the bins in Gerrald Street.

Fuck. Stokesy.

He’d recognise Stokesy’s graffiti anywhere, and Drift looked around the shoppers. Sat on the outskirts of Soho to the north and west, Theatreland to the south and east, Gerrard Street claimed the rights to being Chinatown’s main high street in London, packed with everything from the Korean Barbeque to Dim Sum. It set Drift’s stomach rumbling, but he took the hint and followed the markings that called out Stokesy needed a quiet word.

Keeping his head down, covered with the loose hood of his hoodie as he dodged shoppers, Drift crossed the road, wearing his skull scarf up over his nose to defend against the bitter cold. A whistle came from a dark alcove, and Drift made his way through the crowds of people over to a shadowed spot most walkers passed by without a second glance.

“Kind of knew I’d find you loiterin’ around here tonight, traitor, I mean wanker, I mean fuck off bait.” Stokesy grinned and shuffled into the cold as Drift rested close by. “Here. Take this.” He shoved a BigMac Drift’s way, and he took it. Stokesy stayed on his hands for a little longer, but dropped his stare when he noticed Drift catch it. Focusing back on the street, Drift glanced around at the sights and scents of Asian food on offer. He loved most of it, but a McDonalds… no one could beat a MacyD’s. Not when Stokesy was paying, anyway. As for knowing why he’d be here tonight? Yeah. It had nowt to do with food.

“Thanks.” He flipped open the lid. “Owe you one.”

Stokesy eyed him up. “Forget it. Deadly game of chess out ’ere, mate, right? Sometimes we give backup, sometimes we need it.” He nudged into Drift. “That’s for a few weeks back, at the pool. Where you been since?”

Drift kept his look out into the crowd. “Skipped town for a few weeks. Kept low.” He’d hid from all the poison in other poisons, but he didn’t add that.

Stokesy snorted. “Yeah, thought so.” He nodded back in the direction of his symbol. “That’s been there over a week and no one’s seen you around any market food stalls.”

“Asshole.”

Stokesy shoulder-shoved him back, and Drift offered a distracted hand to his heart, a slower kiss at his fingertips as an apology. Him and Stokesy, they went way back, passing the stolen baton between each other many a time, sometimes Drift distracting the rozzers, sometimes Stokesy taking the heat off him. It was why whenever Stokesy sent a call out, he answered. No doubt he’d be buying Stokesy a return BigMac soon.

His offer hadn’t gone as far as a milkshake, though, and Drift kept quiet. Tight bastard.

Stokesy grinned his way as if reading it, then started on his share box of nuggets and seemed to take a real long sip of his Christmas drink as he stayed back in the alcove, playing watcher.

“So why’d you put out a call?” Drift said eventually, although he was in no rush to start a conversation.

“The reason you’re ghosting here tonight.”

Drift frowned his way, but as a breathing space came in the crowd off to his left, a slip of long red hair caught his breath… a goth dress… high-thigh boots…. Whether the colour to West’s hair was red, Drift couldn’t really tell in the darkness and streetlight. His mind always filled in the blanks when it came to—“West,” he breathed quietly.

Stokesy tutted. “Oh you’ve got it so bad, mate. So, so fucking bad.” He followed West’s path through the crowd, her low talk and soft musical notation of a laugh at whatever Brighty said. “It’s the only time your stomach loses the fight to your dick… Sid.”

Drift sent him a hard look. He’d forgotten he was holding his BigMac. “Tell Essex thanks for sharing Sid with the rats.”

Stokesy grinned at him again, but Drift was back on West. She’d stopped in the street, and standing as tall as her, Keyne, another of Jackson’s finest, stopped too close to her as he took out his violin.

“Ouch.” Stokesy sucked in a painful breath. “That the competition? All that Harry Styles lost-boy look, I bet the girls love to see him go fiddler on himself.”

“Shut up,” murmured Drift.

“Bet he don’t have to play the fiddler too long to get West wanting in on the play either. Fuck. I want in on the play, and I ain’t gay.”

“Shut… up.” West wasn’t the problem there.

Stokesy snorted his way, then nodded back at West. “Three-two-two street performance formation. Jackson’s music and dance sweats are a damn easy spot in a crowd.”

Including West, Drift spotted seven familiar faces mixed in the throng of people, but it wasn’t their faces that were an easy spot. That came down to how they cleared the street for their… darker twisted Christmas dance performance.

Blackburn and Kent pulled on cute Elf-shaped masks and gloves, LED ones that lit up the night with each step they took towards West. As she started to back away, looking all scared… defenceless, Brighty started his own slow circle around her, at first widening the crowd around West and Keyne with little attention drawn their way. But then as he slipped on his elf mask and lit it up, he did a backflip… then another…. then his third led into such an effortless run of backflips that widened the circle more, bringing the crowd to a stop as smiles and startled sighs rushed through those watching.

“Never understood Jackson’s honest approach with this street performance shit,” mumble Stokesy. “I mean, look at all that asking-for-it crowd: quick in… out…. feeding from pockets would be so damn easy now, that and it would save time and all that goddamn energy. I get too knackered watching you guys.”

Drift shook his head. This was why he stayed close to Jackson, his unique way of handling kids left alone on the street. He was a bastard, but also one hell of a talented musician that allowed kids to do the same: play to their talents. None of those in his under nineteen base was allowed to thieve, just make a living for him, which won them a bed and food at his. Jackson’s other houses were kept for far more… dirtier handling. But tonight, this was West, her subtle way of double-tapping the crowd. Drift was usually there with her, but keeping low over the past few weeks had come at a cost of… her.

“ Hurts .” The cry came up, pure hard rocker tones that filled any abandoned auditorium, and West gripped her chest, eyes closed as she called it again. “ Hurts .”

Confusion set in with the crowd, frowns passed around along with uncertain smiles over just how much pain she put into that single powerful tone.

Flanked on either side by Blackburn and Kent, Brighty suddenly turned in on her, all three of them going low to the floor and alternating between slapping the floor and clapping hard run, run away beats. Masks turned into a blood red, fading out one moment, then burning the night as they twisted their bodies into the broken-boned form of zombies out for blood.

Cries went up, some of the crowd loving the almost bone-breaking angles going on with the three lads, the darker Elf tone to Christmas, others taken with Keyne as his skill on the violin came to life. His wicked hard and fast play of a single string mimicked the run, run away beat of hands and twisted crawls to get at West. She staggered back, turned to run, but a fourth Elf, Hastings, shifted from the crowd, coming up behind her and fisting a rough grip into her hair.

“ Hurts ,” she cried again, trying to tear the grip off, but then Hastings spun her around and pulled her in close.

West’s reaction as a dancer was so natural as she cupped the back of his neck, looking like she’d pull him down for a kiss, her curve of body moulding into his, head thrown back, long hair cascading down to her bum, an almost adulterous pose she looked forced to enjoy. But then gripping Hasting’s hair, she twisted his neck viciously until she brought him to his knees.

Drift didn’t know what… got him going more: her under threat… or her as the threat.

And there… her complication, because behind all her attitude hid such a shy bite to her lip over the basic thought of taking a swim with him. She needed time, but maybe she also didn’t quite trust how he’d react if she did get in the pool with him. Such a fucking startling contrast between her and… Ava.

Drift shut that down, because it cut deep the most: he didn’t know how he would react to West’s… contrast.

It hadn’t confused Drift as a kid: West was… West. She wanted a dress, he’d get her one. She wanted to wear lipstick, he and Grant taught her how to steal her favourite. Drift never did understand the anger that got her running with him, but then the tag of “born biologically male” when it came to West was something that had no place with him as a kid. She was his friend. The best of. Gender didn’t come into it, only that she kept pace with him, Grant, and Ava.

Growing up complicated it: how his body and head started to react to her, loving the potential of being more than just a friend. Her confusion had been so much worse, he knew that, so he hadn’t wanted to take her back into it over his own, but the way she walked, talked, the natural curves to her body, her almost young-English beauty to be found in the highlands being hunted for wildness over witching… she was female, goddamn gorgeous, sensual femininity in every way. His body told him that, his head too, but when they danced in close… there was that potent reminder that she had something that shouldn’t belong to her, and it tripped Drift up. Lads… he knew the basics over getting warm under the cover with them, Ava….

Drift shook his head, so pissed off with himself. West was a woman. It would be no different, other leaving him feeling a damn site… cleaner.

He hated how he didn’t know, how… confused West made him, and he didn’t want to taint how far she’d come with his own confusion. Ava had already tainted everything they’d touched.

Although an odd bruise touched West from time to time, pissing him off someone had touched her, more her damn crew silence over not telling him who, West rarely got trouble on the streets anymore, not since she had run with Jackson. Jackson knew how to keep her and his kids away from Ava’s touch. West had earned her standing as feeder, but her talent as a top street performer took her into an honest life she slept better at night with. She took hold of Hasting’s mask now, looking set to reveal hidden poisoned layers beneath so-called friendly faces, exposing Drift almost in the same way, and—Christ, that unconscious ability of hers to strip him raw even from a distance….

Blackburn came in, spinning her back towards Brighty, stopping her reveal, and—

“ Hurts .” West cried it again as she staggered to a stop, the hard draw on violin crying out that run, run away beat. Then as dark elves started to circle around her, bodies twisted, all of West’s harder rocker tones brought the street to full life, and her cover version of Emeli Sandé’s “Hurts” stole every part of Drift.

The soulful tones and lyrics turned West into every girl left on the end of any street corner who cried out she was only made of flesh and bone when it came to the wrong kind of love. That she needed to run away from the cuts of being loved in one heated moment, then forgotten so coldly the next, until all that was left was to hurt… to burn in the aftermath of nothing.

The crowd unwittingly played their part: the onlookers who would eventually walk on by without helping her once the song was done, and Drift saw it hit some of the gazes. They got a very subtle look at the darkness of the streets, how friendly faces were never that, and young lives were taken and broken right under their watch.

And… fuck, West was damn good. As she looked his way, even he felt responsible for forgetting some of the pain she was going through.

“She’s been out night-walking after ten at night for the past few weeks, mate.”

It came so quietly off Stokesy, and Drift snapped a look at him. “ What ?”

“West.” Stokesy nodded her way, then looked briefly back at him. “Stop her, okay? Essex spotted her a week ago. Make damn sure it doesn’t happen again, and that’s friendly advice off him before any of the other crews pull her out to find out why she’s walking Freak streets.” He looked Drift over. “It’s bad enough you—”

“Drop it. Now,” he said flatly, and Stokesy did, then he got a nod, a tap at his arm before Stokesy melted into the crowd, his chicken nuggets tossed in the bin.

Fuck. Ava. West had been on her streets of a night?

Drift fought an ill shiver as a set of twisted elves laid two long skipping ropes out on the path. Another came from the sidelines, carrying a lighter, and the crowd drew in a sharp breath as both ropes were set on fire now Brighty caught West.

The violin keeping the beat, Blackburn and Kent took up the burning ropes, alternating hits of rope on concrete, each arch of flamed rope creating the lingering burn deep into the night that waited for lost girls, lost souls no matter the gender. West was pulled into the middle by Hastings, and he made her jump ropes to try and get away from his hurt, her steps always one step ahead of his, but faltering as he grabbed her by the wrist and started on a tug of war now he could really make her dance.

That was the key for Keyne to drop his hold on the violin and step in and pull her from the fire. Only his look was too lost in the crowd, on a lad who returned his smile a little too much.

Fucking focus, twat. Drift didn’t shift his look. Keyne was only ever a stand in when it came to fired jump rope and fire poi in general, and this was why: his drop in concentration, on ques: dropping the ball with fired jump-rope dance. And it wasn’t kid’s play here: it could and had damn well burned.

And now West was left in the thick of it, forced to improvise with fire as Keyne fucked about with some guy in the crowd.

“Fucking asshole… you bloody focus ….”

West was about ready to grab the end of the nearest rope and wrap it around Keyne’s neck. One place you couldn’t be stupid enough to improvise with was when two burning ropes were coming at you, trying to leave everlasting ankle bracelets around the ankles before it took someone to the floor. If she wasn’t ready to bolt and chase down Keyne and give him a whipping, Hasting’s certainly was.

Keyne seemed to snap out of his eye-fucking with Blondie and his mate over by the lamppost, but that was mostly down to Brighty crawling over to him and clawing at his legs, then as he went to steal the violin, Keyne startled and let him have it as he moved her way as—

A hold slipped around West’s waist, a body shaping so snugly behind her as her dance with fire was matched. Keyne skidded to a halt a few feet away, and West’s touch naturally rested on the hand pulling her close. She let a private smile creep in as her hand was taken because she knew… she damn well knew from the natural snug fit of body into hers who held her.

A hard and fast spin came, and she was free from the dance with fire a moment later, the rope missing her by inches. She automatically fell to the floor, true heroine-saved grace, but she used it to catch her breath and watch Drift at his best… and possibly his most worst when it came to fire… to dancing… playing with it.

Loose black hoodie covering his face, ripped black jeans such a tight fit to his slender form, matching black fingerless gloves… he almost blended into the night as a darker threat, his jump of rope barely caught in the backdrop of all of Hastings vibrance, colour, and threat. Then Drift went in, and Hastings met him head on, all to end in a vicious tug of war between them until Drift sent Hastings into a violent backflip that took him high above the flames. The second rope touched the floor, broke free, then Hastings landed press-up style and jumped the second on rush of flame, body so low to the ground. Drift followed his backflip a moment later, and he brought his body down on top of Hastings, almost adulterously close with how he caged Hastings beneath him for a second. Then as they jumped the flames together, Drift grabbed Hastings’ mask, exposing the face beneath the horror. They were moves Drift and Hastings had practiced for months long before they’d introduced the rope, let alone two that were set on fire. They took a lot of timing, a lot of planning to pull them off and make it look flawless, but this was who they all were: never more at home to the streets, to the dancing, the fire. West just wished to God Drift would commit fully to this, to Jackson, just get off feeding from the damn street and run with how damn well he played with fire away from all his Molotov cocktail throwing.

A cry went up from the crowd when Hastings was demasked, and Drift twisted to the side just as the rope came down again, leaving him next to Hastings as now in perfect synch, he matched missing the heat of the flames. Then as Hastings flipped to his feet, Drift followed him up, mounted his shoulders on one breath, fell back to his hands in the next, then used the momentum to twist Hastings out of the flames… out of the game.

A louder cheer went up.

Hasting’s risk with that move was so damn higher, with slower and wider arcs of the rope needed to give him time to roll out safely. It left Drift back to his feet, holding the mask, looking at the mask. The hood had fallen off his face, capturing such an innocent look he knew how to work so well, but as he jumped the next sweep of flame at his feet, he started to pull the mask close.

“ Hurts .” West was on her feet, the cry her warning to stop a mirror of what happened countless times on the streets, but Drift slipped the mask on, his body jerking as blood redness lit him up.

And now the rope quickened in pace, dangerously so, as Drift started to catch the mask’s infection.

A mask was thrown to Hastings, and he slipped it on, this time with him taking up the lyrics of “Play With Fire” by Sam Tinnesz, his own twisted dance.

Drift matched Hasting’s move for move, then owned them as the poison took full control. It showed in how he twisted his body in the same broken-boned angle. Dark elf howls went up, and Drift was lost to the call of the fire, how he twisted his body around the ropes, lost now to his own play with fire. Only sometimes, in the height of it like now, it looked like he danced with someone else, leaving West in the embers he created with his ghost.

The interpretation was basic: how even the most loving could turn on a lover, catch the sickness… wear the mask and bring out the evil beneath what was meant to be a beautiful soul. It hurt West, in more ways than one.

And Drift, the twists to his body, he played the poison through a mix of madness, of using strong masculinity one moment, then more haunted sensual femininity the next, because all genders were twisted in heat of it all, and Drift’s look played both sides so unconsciously.

A shift of another body, her moves slow, seductive and almost lost in the mass of people caught West’s eye, and she frowned. The cowl of the woman was pulled too far down over her face to reveal any illness, but those moves, that slower… more seductive dance that matched Drift’s so expertly called dance partner despite the distance.

Ava. She never could be found far from Drift, Drift far from… her.

He didn’t seem to see her now, but then this was dancing, and it always did take Drift more. But… Ava.

Angered, West went to go over, but she was shoved back into the flames, forced into the moment. The closeness of Drift’s mask and lips chased hers, and she was lost to the poison taking him too. Seemed it was an offer that would always trick the lonely soul into his hold. Then the same broken-bone dance took her, eating her whole, and it left West with a core sickness she’d never be able to shake as she tried to look for Ava.

Childhood nightmares. Ava would always be hers. Back with Grant, all three of them as kids, Grant had maybe seen it. Many a time he’d broken Drift and Ava up, sent them out feeding to opposite sides of town, all the time keeping West back at whatever base they found for the night. But Grant’s harder look always strayed Drift’s way, as if he knew, he knew there was no hope for Ava, but Drift… he had the damn sense and heart to hold on to the good, steer clear of the… ill. Only he never had.

The rope eventually settled at their feet, and Drift took a step back, taking off his mask and bowing West’s way.

The noise and cheers off the crowd filtered in a moment later, but West hadn’t registered anything beyond the press of his body into her, how their heavy breathing played together as tightly as they worked moves on the floor.

This… this was them. The closeness Ava couldn’t touch with dancing. Always had been. Should always be, yet….

West glanced around the crowd, but Ava had gone. Instead she took the bow, then swept a hand back around the crew as she pulled away from Drift to focus back on working the crowd. This could have been fucked up tonight for her and Hastings, and it seriously pissed her off.

Brighty, Blackburn, and Kent started working the crowd, shaking tubs, and Hastings took care of the fire. Lucy, a fifteen-year-old lass just a few months into their crew, she’d stayed on the outskirts of the crowd, making sure no one broke the circle and got burned. She also kept water and a First Aid kit close by, just in case any of the crew did. It happened, but not so much lately with how well they worked together. The mistake had been thinking Keyne would have been able to handle Drift’s spot.

Drift’s look rested his way too.

Fuck.

She didn’t make it over in time to stop Drift shoving Keyne back a pace, but she did get in between them to stop Keyne ending up on his arse in the middle of the street and damaging his hands.

Damaging Keyne’s hands would shift Jackson’s head his way, and he didn’t need that, so she shoved Drift back a pace.

“Back off.” She whispered up close in Drift’s face. “Now.”

“ Th’fuck you think you were doing, eh, twat?” Drift almost moved her aside, but she shook her head. Keyne didn’t exactly help himself as he started to dust himself down and sent a wink Drift’s way.

“Earn your keep, Sid. Stop watching from the sidelines and sponging off our talent.”

“Talent?” Drift shoved West out of the way. “That what you call your shit?” The past six months, Drift needed no excuse to get in Keyne’s face over the slightest screwup. “Can you play with broken fingers?”

“Hey, hey-hey.” Hastings came in hard, tugging Drift back as he went for Keyne. “He’s top musical talent.” Hastings got in Drift’s face. “You know the rules. You don’t touch. Ever. You have a problem with one of ours, you go through Jackson, because if you start something here, West picks up the hit for it as lead artist back at base. Do you want that?”

Competition was vicious out here. Keyne was always looking for new angles to push other tops out of the picture, and this… this wasn’t directed at Drift. West knew why she had become Keyne’s problem, and because this was her setup tonight, any screwups would come her way with Jackson, not Keyne. And screwups cost money. They cost her time off the streets. And too many of workless nights could damn well cost her a bed at Jackson’s.

Rules were rules no matter the unfairness, because they had damn well protected her over the years. Jackson had. Drift knew that.

Only the dig under her skin ran with the same underhanded double-tap sickness that always coated the streets. Keyne liked testing out his skill of his touch on violin on lads, no strings literally attached, and Drift being Drift, he’d done what he usually did: looked for a quick fix of warmth with him. West could have given them that one time together, that Drift had just needed to find warmth and been damn stupid over his choice, but it hadn’t been just that one time. Because Drift never had been able to stand the cold or away from any cold touch found within it.

So, yeah. Keyne kicked back at Drift’s security blanket, the one who Drift always drifted back to—her. And if it took her off the top talent list back at Jackson’s too: bonus in Keyne’s eyes. It had her pushing Drift back another pace, then another. She wasn’t Keyne’s stress-release point. She wasn’t anyone’s fallback safety blanket. She couldn’t ever be, not when it came to Drift.

A look came her way, so bloody angry, and Drift took her hand. He didn’t usually snap as easy, and as he led her across the road to an alcove, his long look back at her called out that Keyne… into the crowd… wasn’t the only problem. Had he spotted Ava?

“ Fucking Night-walking ?” He came in so close, heatedly whispering it in her ear now they stood in the darkness of the alcove.

Shit. That was it.

“What the fuck are you doing hitting the streets after dark, away from town lighting, West? I don’t even fucking do that unless I have to.”

West looked at him. “Rumours,” she said gently, and Drift eased off, giving a frown.

Rumours. They either kept the streets safe or started trouble, where keeping an ear to the ground for them helped them decide which way to run.

“What kind?” Drift said into her quiet.

“Jude.”

He stilled, his look gaining so much distance, and it took West’s distracted brush of hair from his eyes to bring him back.

“Yeah. Someone’s been asking for a few weeks now,” she said quietly. “Real big bloke, scary-looking. Same corner place each Friday over in Newham.” Newham had the highest rate of homelessness in London, and added to how the man showed up on the same corner….

Drift frowned again, and he looked so tired with it. “Erm… you’re thinking what here? That he wants to be known as much as he’s looking.” That wouldn’t sit well with him. He didn’t like mind games, neither did West. “Rozzer?” he said eventually. “One who knows how to get a message out on the street?”

West shrugged. “Maybe. He was too comfortable walking the dark. I didn’t get sense of a copper when I followed.” She frowned. “This guy felt really off, D.”

“Off?”

They’d both seen their stomach full of… off, and she saw which hell his head walked into.

“He’s not one of Freak’s,” she said quickly. “They don’t need to advertise on street corners.” She frowned. “But he did look like he belonged there. I’m thinking Old-guard night-walker, long before Freak’s time. I’m thinking Grant’s sort.”

Drift eased back, some of the tension easing out of his eyes, a touch of sadness creeping in that she hated to see there too. Yeah, mention of any tie to Grant would steal his stupid head and heart.

She nodded, then shifted and took out a piece of paper. “Here. I followed him a few times. He’d lose me easily enough, but the last time, he went to an address.”

Drift took it and looked it over, then cocked a brow her way, a soft smile. “You’d lose sight of tracking him?” Drift had helped train her, more his competitive drive. She didn’t drop the ball, just like he didn’t. Usually. “And Edmonton Green?” added Drift, focusing back on the address. “That’s the poorest place in London, so what’s the issue?”

“He drove a Mercedes-Benz there.”

His eyes startled a moment, and the beautiful silver-greyness in them took almost every ounce of light. He saw the issue. Newham had money, yet he hit a poor area. “You’re thinking he needed time to set up a meeting nest once he knew, or suspected, you were following him?”

West wiped a long strand of hair off her lips. “Yeah, neutral grounding offer.” She frowned at him. “You be careful when you go check him out.”

“What makes you think I will?”

She wanted to smile back, but instead she let a touch drift his cheek before she knew what she was doing.

“Because he called Jude,” she said gently. “Not heard that name since a young lad came and slept outside of my window one night, never asking to come in, but never leaving either, just… just that smile at me through the window long before I learned to run.”

A windowpane had separated them as kids, and she’d sobbed into her pillow for so many nights. But that one argument with her mom, a burn to her arm to make her… be a man, not cry like a little girl, it had been the worst. Drift had sat watching her, that same sadness reflected back her way, then as if needing to bridge glass barriers the only way he knew how, an offer of his heart came with a touch to it that seemed to hand it over to her, the kiss of fingertips to lips, his offer of a way into talking, even if silence from her would be all he won.

“Your fault.” It came so quietly off Drift as he turned into her touch a little. “That goddamn voice of yours…” The ghost of his smile. “Fucking love it.”

Love. Yeah. That one word broke her heart a thousand times for reasons he’d never understand, and she pulled her touch away.

After a moment, she shook her head, touched hand to heart, kissed at her fingertips. She’d steal that off him, make it hers, because Drift… talking would hurt too much when it came to allowing him in. “Childhood friend,” she said gently. “I got the very best of.”

That stung his look… yet didn’t in the same breath. Seemed he’d take the latter of it was all she could offer, and she hated him for that too because she wanted more.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said quietly.

He seemed to shake it off and focus. “If he’s old guard, I want to know why he’s looking this way. Maybe he knew Grant? It’s how he knows Jude?”

West knew he’d always chase echoes of Grant. “See is good. But keep to your own rules: what you can’t run from, hide. Don’t… and I mean don’t take any cocktails with you to keep warm. It’s a poor, working class neighbourhood. Give them a break.”

Drift kissed at his fingertips, rested them against his heart, then dipped his head to get a better look in her eyes. A quiet threat came with it, an ask that this time she stay put at Jackson’s, then he nodded. “C’mon. Let me get you back.”

She eyed him up. “I can get back by myself. You’re meant to be staying low… like over in the West Mids low from what I heard.”

He sighed and wiped at his mouth. “Kind of fucked that up with the whole playing with fire thing and wanting to toss Keyne into oncoming traffic, huh?”

She went to ask him about Ava, but clammed up, not trusting that she’d like the answer. “Should have gone for his violin, sweetheart. Would have made him really cry then.”

Drift winced. “Fuck, you’re a sadist.”

West laughed softly. Oh yeah, Jackson and Grant had helped raise him, all right. Hurt anything, anyone, but never the musical instrument. “Maybe.”

He started to walk away, but West dragged him back. “By the pool, with Essex a few weeks ago. I caught it. What did you take? What have you taken since?”

Drift eased back, and a wall of silence played around him.

“Okay,” said West, her tone harder than his would ever be. “Try that again, shall I? Take drugs from him or off the street again, we’re done talking. I’ll go to Jackson. You hear me?”

Oh that hit a note as he took his hand away, that offer of breaking confidence. So she went in, slipping a hold around his waist. He relaxed almost instantly, his sigh calling it out, but as he went to return the truce, the cuddle, she stepped back and started thumbing through his wallet.

“Fuck, seriously?” said Drift.

He took from the best, so she always went one better to cut that competitive edge of his in two, taking from… him. “Get good,” was her only challenge before she handed him the wallet back when she found only cash in there. A lot of it, but no drugs. He’d been feeding over the past few weeks away from Jackson, but he’d done some private hustles too by the look of it. Her count of his cash let him know she’d make later checks just to see how much had been spent. She’d also check his backpack for the hide in oxide he loved.

“You’re a bitch, you know that.”

She winked back at him. “Best of. And like I said. Get good, don’t whine, asshole.” Thing was, every street kid had their way of coping, especially on the runup to happy season. West coped by darkening Christmas and reminding people that safety was just a fucked-up illusion. Drift took drugs to escape how he knew safety was a fucked-up illusion.

She didn’t condemn him for taking the release, just what damage it did to him each time. Stupid. He could be so goddamn stupid at times.

His look back down the street said his mind lay elsewhere, maybe with chasing echoes of Grant, even if it was on the mention of Jude, and she nodded, satisfied. Guilt there would keep that head of his clear of Ava, or it better do as he went and checked Newham out.