Chapter 12
Twelve
THEN | SISK
I’m halfway down the ladder when the smell makes me gag. “Pitfire,” I choke out, “this smell is awful.”
My shoe lands with a soft squish, and I immediately stop moving.
I look down at the greasy sheen across the ground, and when I shift my weight and lift my foot again, it sticks slightly before coming free with a wet peel.
I swallow hard, my stomach turning over.
I don’t know what I’m stepping in, and I don’t think I want to.
If Jax wasn’t here, I would already be gone, because I don’t care who’s outside at this point—I would’ve turned around the second my shoe made that sound.
But he keeps walking like none of this is a problem, so I try to act like it isn’t and force myself to follow him.
I look at the pipes overhead as they drip every few seconds, the sound making me jumpy.
But that doesn’t explain all of it, because we’re too close to The Pit for me to pretend this is just rust or bad plumbing scaring me.
I really, really hope it isn’t tar we’re walking through, because even though I don’t believe the rumors people spread in Tar City, I’d rather not find out the hard way.
A drip to my right makes me flinch, and something skitters across the concrete before I can even see what it is.
I like to think I can handle this place—that growing up here means something, that I’m tougher than the next person—but I’m not.
No matter how much I’ve seen, this place still finds a way to get under my skin.
“Jax,” I say, squinting into the dark ahead of us. “I can barely see anything.”
“Stay close.”
I do. I move in until my arm brushes his, then closer than that, because apparently that’s where I’ve decided safety is. My fingers catch on the fabric of his shirt before settling there, holding without really asking permission.
Another drip echoes and a small noise slips out of me before I can stop it.
Jax’s hand comes up immediately, closing around my arm firmly. “Hey, you’re fine.”
I nod, even though I’m very much not fine, my heart pounding hard enough that I’m sure he can feel it.
“What if someone’s down here?” I whisper, my voice unsteady despite how hard I try to control it.
He exhales. “I’m going to kill Ivan for this.”
“I seriously cannot wait to get out of here,” I mutter. “Out of Tar City. For good.”
The ground dips suddenly and my foot slides a little. “Shit—”
Jax catches me before I can go down, his hand closing around mine, the other steadying me at my side.
I grab onto him without thinking, and then I realize how close I am, actually pressed into him. I can feel the solid line of his arm and the heat of his chest through his shirt. I don’t know if I’m shaking because of this place or because of the proximity.
“We should’ve turned around when you asked,” he says, quieter than before. “I’m sorry.”
A rat scrapes across a rusted pipe and I jolt.
Jax’s grip tightens. “We’re fine,” he murmurs. “Nothing here but rats.”
“That’s not comforting. Do you think it’s tar on the ground? What if someone’s hiding down here? What if—”
“No one’s down here,” he says. “The odor alone would keep them out.”
A second passes. “And if someone’s crazy enough to be…” his grip tightens around mine, “I got you.”
My heart stumbles. It's ridiculous how much I like hearing him say that.
The tunnel slopes down, and it gets darker the farther we go. At some point, it’s almost completely black. Every minute or so, a light stutters to life, casting just enough glow to show our next step, before vanishing again.
We keep moving, my shoulder brushes his every few steps, but neither of us moves away.
“Jax—”
“It’s just two miles,” he says. “We can do two miles.”
His thumb brushes my knuckles. “Let’s play a game.”
I bark a laugh. “A game?”
“You’re panicking,” he says. “I’m distracting you.”
He gives me no time to argue. “Why do you like dancing?”
I blink, thrown off just enough that my brain actually switches tracks. “What?”
“Answer,” he says.
We step forward together, the ground uneven again. His hand tightens slightly, pulling me through it without making a thing out of it. When the light flickers again I get a glimpse of his face. He looks focused, calm, like none of this is bothering him.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just… always have.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I huff quietly. “It is when I’m trying not to think about where we are.”
“Try again.”
I let out a breath. “It’s the only time the world shuts up,” I say. “Nothing matters. Not school, not home, not… anything.”
He nods, like that makes sense to him. “Your turn. Ask me something.”
I inhale. “Why do your parents stay here if they have money to leave?”
“People think the rich don’t care,” he mutters. “My grandfather doesn’t. My dad does. He says even the scum deserve healthcare.”
“He sounds like a good person.”
Jax snorts, bitter. “Wouldn’t know. Barely see him.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I keep moving.
“My turn,” he says. “Favorite food.”
I shrug. “I’m not picky. I eat anything.”
He glances at me. “You don’t have a favorite?”
I hesitate.
“Not really,” I say. “We don’t… I mean, we don’t get to try much.”
He doesn’t say anything.
I exhale. “But sometimes my dad brings stuff back. From work.”
“What kind of stuff?”
I think. “Fries,” I say. “The ones they serve with the steak. They put stuff on them,” I go on. “Like the little pieces from the grill. And cheese. And sauce. It’s usually all mixed together by the time it gets home.” I shrug. “It’s messy but really good.”
He watches me. “So, loaded fries?” he says.
I make a face. “He only brings them when there’s extras.” I shrug again. “That’s a good day.”
I glance at him. He’s looking at me like I said something he wasn’t expecting. “My turn,” I rush. “Do you know what you want to do after graduation?”
There’s a pause. “No,” he says finally. “Everyone thinks I should follow my dad and be a doctor. No way I’m gonna be anything like him.”
“But what do you want?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
When he answers, his voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “I like… writing.”
I blink. “You… write?”
“Go ahead. Laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” I say quickly. “I just didn’t expect—”
“A brain?” he cuts in.
I look away.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I know my looks can be distracting.”
“Maybe it’s the smugness,” I bite out.
“You noticed,” he says.
I glance at him. “Hard to miss.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh.
I shake it off. “So what do you write? Stories?”
“No. More like poems.”
I let out a short breath. “Okay,” I say. “That I really didn’t see coming.”
“Poems aren’t all soft,” he says. “They can be… rough. Messy. Sometimes it’s just easier than saying it straight.”
“Wow,” I say under my breath. “It’s true what they say. You never really know what people are carrying.”
I don’t realize I’m still holding onto him until my fingers shift.
I feel his skin where his shirt rides up, damp with sweat, my fingers pressing into his tight muscles.
I start to pull back as soon as I catch what I’m doing, but his hand closes around my wrist and puts it back where it was.
My heart kicks harder, but I don’t move.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ll probably end up working for my grandfather anyway. Family business.”
“What’s the business?” I ask. “I know you guys basically own the city, but…”
“Real estate,” he says. “That’s what they call it now.”
“I’m sure you could do both,” I say. “If it comes to it.”
He shakes his head. “Enough about me. What about you?”
“My plan, well, my dream,” I say, “is getting into an academy. Any academy. As long as it’s far away from here. I just want to get out.”
“You will,” he says.
We start moving again, slower now. Up ahead, there’s something that wasn’t there before. A faint strip of light. I squint at it, not sure if I’m imagining it. “Is that—” I start.
“Yeah,” he says.
I let out a long breath, my shoulders dropping a little as we keep walking.
For the first time since we climbed down here, it feels like we’re actually getting out.
But we don’t hurry up; if anything, we slow down.
I notice the way our steps drag a little now, like neither of us is in a rush to reach it.
My hand is still in his. I’m very aware of it, the way his fingers are wrapped around mine, the way he hasn’t let go.
The closer we get to the exit, the harder it is to move towards it. Jax slows a few steps before the opening. I stop with him, close enough to see a strip of the night sky.
“You don’t belong here,” he says, pulling me in a little closer. “You belong somewhere clean,” he adds, glancing down at our hands before looking back at me. “Somewhere safe.”
I look down, not sure what to do with that. We stand there for a few minutes, neither of us moving, as if stepping out will end something we haven’t even figured out yet.
“Ladies first,” he says.
The moment breaks as I pull myself out of the tunnel and onto the platform.
It doesn’t take long for trouble to find us.
There’s a man by the vending machines with his hood pulled low, but he’s not buying food or even looking at it, and something tells me he’s not waiting for the train either.
My eyes are already searching for somewhere else to go, somewhere that isn’t straight past him, and my shoulders pull in slightly like that might make me less noticeable.
I keep my gaze forward, but I’m watching him, catching every small shift out of the corner of my eye, waiting to see if he’s noticed us.
He has. The man turns, and Jax is suddenly in front of me. I barely stop myself from colliding with him as his hand shifts, pulling the knife from his back pocket.
“Walk away,” Jax says firmly.
The man doesn’t stop and instead takes another step toward us. Jax swallows and tries again. “Seriously. Go.”
The man keeps coming, and my heartbeat ricochets as I focus on Jax’s hand, the way he’s holding the knife tightly, the way his breathing is uneven now.
“I’m not letting anything happen to her,” Jax warns.
The man stops, then turns and runs, and Jax lowers his hand slowly.
“You would’ve used it,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t look at me. “If I had to.”
The train pulls in, and the doors open with a hiss.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Thankfully, the train car is nearly empty.
The ride back is quiet. We are seated next to each other on an empty bench, not touching anymore, but not far either.
I keep my eyes on the window, watching the dark slide past, trying to make sense of the night—the pawnshop, the tunnel, the odor still stuck in the back of my throat, the things I don’t want to think about too hard.
My mind keeps slipping back to him—the feel of his hand, the way he made me feel safe through all of it.
Where it really gets stuck, though, is in the messy memory of his lips on mine.