7. Fox #2
But on the other hand…
I swallow as Kit opens the back door and chucks the empty carton toward the dumpster.
On the other hand, I don’t need anyone else to know how dumb I am. Not Pan, not Blue—definitely not Blue. Not even Tink.
Tink’s…cool.
“The fuck?”
I snap my head up. It’s Blue, coming in from the alley, flicking away a cigarette. Must have gone down the fire escape right from his room.
And he’s holding an empty carton.
“Aw, look, she dances when you’re angry.” Kit, now next to him, pokes Blue in the chest, where there’s a pinup girl with blacked-out eyes inked along the skin of his pec.
Blue ignores him. Stares at Tink.
Tink notices, finally. “What?”
Blue stares.
“Jesus,” Tink mutters. “Seriously? Wasn’t me.” He casts around the room, as if asking me and Kit to come to his defense.
Which I guess I can.
“It was me,” I say, raising my hand a little. “Uh, sorry. I’m…really fucking hungover.”
Blue stares. Then throws the carton at me.
“Idiot.”
He stalks out to the shop.
“Sorry, princess,” I yell after him. “Next time, uh…”
I don’t know what he should do next time. Damn. I’ve got to work on my retorts.
Kit cranes his neck to watch Blue go, then swivels back to us. “Remind me why we put up with him again?”
“‘Cause he’s good at what he does,” Pan ticks off on his fingers, chewing again—the other half of Kit’s orange, I notice.
“He listens to me, and he’s honest. Same reason as any of you.
” He swallows, rubs his hands together, and gives himself two smacks in the cheeks.
“Okay. Look alive.” He flashes a smile. “Big day today, gents.”
“Not for me.” Kit stirs some hot water into his instant espresso. “I’m booked solid in the shop. Dunno about Captain Sunshine out there, but—”
“Me neither,” Tink adds. “I’m actually just gonna…”
He inches toward the door, bag back over his shoulder. Pan looks a little put out.
“Okay, big day for me,” Pan says. “I’ve got my money and I’m riding my ass down to Kensington and getting my goddamn jacket back,” he announces.
Kit laughs into his coffee. “You mean you actually have something left over from last night?”
“Yeah,” Pan says hotly. Then shrugs. “I mean, more or less. A few hundred for sure.”
“Don’t you…” Tink starts. Rubs his jaw.
Pan waits a beat. “Don’t I what?”
“You owe them fifteen hundred,” Tink says. “You can’t just show up with less than that. That’s not how collateral works.”
“Uh, I absolutely can,” Pan says, folding his arms. “That’s how bargaining works.” He smiles wider. “Those assholes are probably grateful for any cash they can get.”
“Those assholes have guns,” Kit mutters into his mug.
“Exactly.” Tink exhales. “Pan, don’t—”
“Aw, c’mon. You really think I’d do something stupid over a jacket?”
“Yes,” Tink and Kit say in unison.
“Uh, yeah,” I add, half a second after both of them. Not making myself look any smarter.
Pan wads up his burrito foil thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he admits. “It’s a good jacket.” He shrugs, slaps his thighs, and gets to his feet. “Well, you guys can have my stuff if I die. Just try not to fight over the—”
“Wait.”
Pan looks at Tink. And I look at Tink. And Tink is just…staring at the back door.
Like he’s thinking hard.
But then he snaps back to life.
“Just…I’ll go with you,” Tink says. “Just in case.”
“Thank God,” Kit mutters.
Pan nods. “Fine. But I’m coming back with that jacket whether they like it or not.” He chucks the foil at the trash as he makes for the loft. “Meet me around—”
“Wait.” I have no idea why I speak up. My eyes are still glued on Tink, my stomach churning and my ears ringing—
Can’t you fuckin’ read?
—and I have no idea what I’m doing, why I’m doing it.
But he waits. Tink does. Pan, too. But Tink looks at me.
His eyes are really dark brown.
A silent moment passes.
“Yeah?” he says, at last.
“Oh, uh.” Shit. All I know is I don’t want Tink to know what I think he knows.
But maybe—okay, maybe if I can show him I’m not dumb somehow, you know?
Do something to his bike, fine-tune it all expertly or whatever.
Make it ride better. And then even if he suspects something…
maybe that’ll make it go away. “Just…I got this thing. For your bike.” I clear my throat.
Tink folds his arms. “Thing?”
“Yeah, a…” Think of something, Fox. Tink. Tink’s bike. He’s kinda small, smaller than Kit, even—and then it clicks. “Spring. For the suspension. Little less stiff than you have, should make it easier to handle.” I swallow. “Bring it in when you’re back and I’ll hook it up.”
Tink looks at me a second. With those super-dark eyes.
“Sure,” he says. “Cool.”
As soon as they’re gone, I push my annihilated pizza and my gross oat milk Cheerios to the side and drop my pounding head onto my forearms.
“Day’s off to a great start!” I mumble to myself. Or to Kit, I guess.
Kit laughs. “You’re telling me. I feel like I’m losing my mind a little.”
I lift my head half an inch. “Whaddya mean?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head a little and turns his coffee around in his fingers. “Just…you know the bath mat, upstairs?”
“Sure.” I’m acquainted with it, I guess. I frown. “What about it?”
“Has it…always been white?”