Chapter 18
Eighteen
THEN | SISK
I’m not sure what I was expecting this to be, but this is not it.
The parking lot stretches wide—a wasteland of asphalt with oil stains baked into the ground and a heat that rises in visible waves.
It’s less a place for cars and more a buffer zone, a pathetic few miles of space carved between the city and the pit, like distance could ever make a difference.
A bunch of old cars are parked crooked in the lot, their tailgates down and speakers rattling with a heavy beat.
Beyond the lot, I can see the Pit through the bent and broken fence. I can smell the chemical tang that’s always in the air here, a constant reminder of what this city is built on. I expected something monstrous, something dramatic, but it looks ordinary, a mockery of a dark still lake.
Growing up here, you just avoid this part of town altogether.
Or so I thought. There’s music playing although the bass is so distorted I’m sure it was recorded in a basement on purpose.
People shout to be heard over the awful noise.
And to add to the pleasantries, it’s summer-hot.
The kind that clings to you, that gets under your skin and makes you feel dirty no matter how many showers you take.
My denim suddenly feels like a shroud, too much fabric, too much coverage.
I should’ve left more of myself at home if I wanted to blend in, if I wanted to look like I belonged.
“Come on, ballerina, loosen up.” A guy says as he leans over a girl with smeared eyeliner and chipped black nail polish.
His cup of ashbrew is sloshing dangerously close to her chest. “We don’t bite,” he adds, his eyes crawling over me.
The girl shifts as if she’s making room for me to become the next victim in his line of sight.
“Stop teasing her, Whistle,” Becca says, rolling her eyes. “Come on, Sisk. Let’s get you a drink.”
Whistle. I take a long look at him. Blonde hair, gym-built muscles, green eyes that already think they’re entitled to my attention. I have seen him around. He’s handsome, of course. Trouble? No doubt. And the perfect instrument for what I need.
I look down at the black plastic cups everyone’s holding and the dark liquid inside. Ashbrew really looks like straight-up tar water.
“Here.” Becca presses a cup into my hand.
“I’m good,” I start to say, but she’s already turning away, refilling her own.
I lift the cup and take a cautious whiff. It’s bitter and warm, exactly like something fermented in a radiator.
I dump it onto the asphalt without thinking, the dark liquid pooling in a crack like a fresh oil stain.
“Hey!” someone shouts. “Don’t waste the good shit!”
Becca watches me, head tilted. “It’s not strong,” she says, taking a long sip of hers. “Harmless.”
A few people nearby glance over curiously.
“I can’t,” I say, forcing a lie. “Dance. If I get caught—”
“I know, I know,” she cuts in, already bored with my excuses.
Her attention slides to a group of guys who definitely aren’t seniors.
They’re older, college, maybe. Not that many people from around here actually make it that far.
Two of them wear red hoodies despite the suffocating heat, the fabric darkened with sweat at the collar and pits.
Another has red-tinted sunglasses on, the cheap lenses catching the firelight.
The last one has uneven streaks of red spray-painted through his hair, done in a very sloppy way.
They’re louder than everyone else. Looser.
Comfortable in a way that tells me they’ve been here before, probably a few years in a row.
One of them pulls a roll of red tape from his pocket and tears off a strip with his teeth.
He lets it hang loose from his wrist. Another guy wraps some of the same tape around his knuckles just for fun.
I look around, lots of people have decorated themselves with it.
I notice how a few girls nearby already have red bands tied around their wrists, laughing like it’s a joke they’re in on.
Behind me, someone near the pit lights something on fire. Not a bonfire, just a controlled flame in a metal barrel. The heat rolls outward and the sparks snap into the night.
“Careful,” someone warns. “You want to end up like Marco?”
“No one knows what happened to Marco,” someone else replies.
“That’s the point.”
I swallow.
Becca’s already halfway gone. I watch guys’ heads turn as she passes, their eyes snagging on the sliver of skin between her cropped denim and the mesh sleeves that cling to her arms. She’s an open book, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I’m the odd one out, I might as well be wearing a sign that says boring.
This was supposed to help me forget. I shake my head, trying to push out Ivan’s warnings tangled up with thoughts of Jax.
I came here on purpose and I can leave whenever I want, I remind myself.
But if I came to have fun—to forget Jax—I’m going to need to try harder.
I slip the hair tie from my wrist and pull my hair up, baring my neck and shoulders.
I turn back to Whistle, lifting my chin.
“So,” I say, raising my voice over the music, “how about a tour?”
His eyes travel from my throat down to my hips and back up again. “You sure, ballerina?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning in just enough to make it an invitation. “You look like exactly the right kind of trouble to show me around.”
He peels himself off the girl beside him.
She sags with relief, and he doesn’t give her a second glance.
Whistle steps in close and drapes an arm around my shoulders in something that might pass for protective if I didn’t feel like I’d just become his property.
His body blocks me from the rest of the lot, steering without asking.
“So…” I say, nodding at the strip of red tape hanging loose from his jeans pocket. “What’s that for?”
His mouth quirks. “To tie the offerings.”
My spine tightens. “The offerings?”
He chuckles like I’ve asked something adorable. “That’s the whole point of tonight. Didn’t anyone tell you what you were walking into?”
I shake my head.
“Poor little ballerina.” He pats my arm, condescending and amused. “Relax. We only take volunteers.”
“Volunteers,” I echo.
He turns his head. “We only take who wants to be taken,” he says, his voice darkening. “The ones who are begging for it, even if they don’t know how to ask.”
The way he says it makes it sound like a favor.
I don’t answer, but he grins anyway. “Come on. Let me show you around.”
He pulls me through the crowd. You can barely move in here.
Some skaters are just shoving their way through, using the parked cars to push off.
All the usual groups are here—the motorcycle guys are parked together, of course—but mostly it’s just a sea of people trying to get drunk or find someone to hook up with.
I see one guy leaning over the fence, practically in this girl’s face, while she’s looking everywhere but at him. A few feet away, a couple is going at it against a car, the guy’s hand is up her skirt and her bare ass is just hanging out for anyone to see.
People are doing shots, smoking, passing bottles around.
Just like Becca said, Tar City at its finest. And it’s not like I think I’m too good for it or anything, it’s just…
it’s different when you don’t have actual friends to be an idiot with.
I’m actually surprised Lou isn’t here somewhere, I should’ve asked if he was coming.
Near the edge of the lot, someone lights something that definitely isn’t a cigarette. It smells like burning garbage and sugar. They pass a little metal pipe around, and you can see it glow orange when someone takes a hit.
“College kids,” Whistle says, following my gaze. “They come back for this.”
“For what exactly?” I ask.
He shrugs. “To pay back. To enjoy themselves.”
We pass a truck with its windows fogged over from the inside.
“See? Just a party.”
The Pit doesn’t seem to mind our trespassing. Whistle guides me closer, right to the edge of the fence line. A girl steps into our path, blocking us. She’s older than me, or I’m just assuming because she is wearing a white tank top instead. Her mascara has melted into dark crescents under her eyes.
“Hey,” she says, holding up her wrists in offering. “Can you tie me?”
“Are you sure?” Whistle asks from my right.
She nods immediately, a high giggle bubbling out of her.
He takes her wrist slowly. I watch him watch her as he wraps the tape around and pulls it snug. The red is stark against her pale skin. “There,” he says. “Claimed.”
“Perfect,” she breathes, looking down at it.
“What’s she offering?” I ask quietly as I watch her walk away.
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“How generous she feels,” he says, like that’s obvious. “How badly she wants to be noticed.”
I look at the girl. She’s showing it off to her friends.
“It’s just tradition.” I hear she tells them.
Whistle adds, “Keeps it fed.”
“Fed?”
He nods to the pit.
The fire in the cans crackles and more people drift closer to the fence.
“What happens if no one offers?” I ask, the question feeling stupid and naive the moment it’s out.
Whistle shrugs, a dismissive gesture that feels anything but. “Then it gets hungry, and people get unlucky.”
I think of Ivan’s warnings. Don’t go near it.
Whistle tilts his head toward the far edge of the lot.
“Come on,” he says, his hand sliding to my lower back.
“I’ll show you something better.” He leads me away from the fence, toward a row of trucks parked close together.
His is older than most—dented sides, scratched paint, a faded decal peeling from the back window like a sunburnt tattoo.
“You drive this?” I ask.