Chapter 18 #2
“Sometimes,” he says, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
“When it runs. The Widow is in the shop. My bike, I’m sure you’ve seen it around school.
” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. His hand shoots out and pulls me closer.
He leans against the tailgate, and I find myself leaning on it next to him.
That’s when I notice it: his smile is a mask, too practiced, too easy.
The kind built from years of perfecting the version of himself that gets him what he wants.
He takes a long sip of his cup.
“So, how come you still in school?” I ask, trying to shift his focus. To get him to stop looking at me like I’m something he’s about to eat.
He snorts. “School’s a joke.”
“Really?” I press.
He shrugs, a dismissive roll of his shoulders. “I go when I have to. They keep letting me back, so.” He says it like it’s a loophole he’s proud of, a small rebellion against a world he’s clearly outgrown.
“How old are you?”
He squints, thinking. “Old enough to be out of that shithole this year, though. Thank fuck for that.”
I’m about to ask something else when I glance past him—and the words just die in my throat.
Jax is standing near the edge of the lot, watching. His eyes are locked on me, on Whistle’s hand still resting on my waist. My heart starts hammering against my ribs. Jax takes a single step forward, and I whip around to face Whistle.
“What?” Whistle asks, his gaze already sliding past me to see what I saw.
“Nothing,” I say, my voice tight. I can feel Jax’s stare like a physical weight, even though he doesn’t come any closer.
I grab Whistle’s cup from his hand and take a long swallow.
The beer is sour, but I force it down. This is none of Jax’s business.
We’re not anything. That kiss was a mistake, and I need him to know it.
I look back up at Whistle, lifting my chin in a silent challenge before Jax can decide to make a scene. “You,” I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. “Tie my wrist.”
Whistle’s brow lifts, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “What?”
“The tape,” I repeat, holding out my arm, my wrist bare and waiting. “Tie mine.”
Whistle studies me. “You sure?”
I don’t break his gaze, letting him see the fire in my eyes. “Yes.”
For a second, I think he’s going to call my bluff, to laugh and tell me to back out.
This is the part where I’m supposed to get shy, to blush and retreat, but then he tears a strip of tape free from the roll.
He takes my wrist with a casual grip and wraps the tape around it twice.
I fist my hands so they won’t shake, my nails digging into my palms.
“There,” he says, satisfied. “All set.”
People notice immediately. A few winks, a few grins.
I’m no longer an outsider. I turn, catching a glimpse of Jax still standing there, and a small, knowing smile plays on his lips.
He doesn’t believe me for a second. Alright then.
Challenge accepted. It’s a stupid decision, but I make it.
I step closer to Whistle and let him pull me into a kiss.
The kiss isn’t bad, exactly. I just couldn’t care less.
I feel nothing, but I let Whistle think he’s winning.
I smile when I’m supposed to, laugh when he laughs, kiss him back when he kisses me.
I need Jax to understand that we were never a thing and we never can be.
This is a line in the sand, a door I’ve just bolted shut.
I play my part until the shouting starts.
“Time!”
The girls with red tape on their wrists start drifting toward the other side of the fence, while everyone else moves toward the pit, drawn in like moths to a flame.
Whistle gestures me forward with a tilt of his head.
I have no idea what I just signed up for, but it’s too late to back out now.
I walk without letting my eyes wander, refusing to let myself think.
Everyone’s watching; turning around would be worse than whatever happens next.
We line up shoulder to shoulder, the ones making the offering. The girl beside me leans in. “First time?” she whispers. “Don’t overthink it.”
From somewhere behind us, Becca yells. “Go for it, ballerina!”
The older guys—the ones in red—step forward first, standing on the other side of the fence. One of them raises his hands. “We are grateful for your offering,” he says, his voice dripping with mock-solemnity. “And we’re even more grateful for what comes after, when the real payment is collected.”
A girl steps up, laughing nervously. She peels off her shirt, and from the clumsy, graceless way she moves, it’s obvious she’s not sober.
She hesitates for a second, her hands clutching the fabric like a shield, a last-ditch attempt at modesty before she throws it into the tar.
The shirt disappears slowly into the dark liquid without a sound.
Another girl tosses a shoe.
Someone yells, “It needs your sweat! Shoes don’t count, you cheap bitch!”
She curses, laughs, pulls off her sock, flips them off, and throws it in. The crowd howls, their voices raw and excited. Farther down the line, a girl tosses a pair of lacy underwear, then twirls her skirt, flashing the crowd and daring them to say a word. Cheers erupt.
“The Pit is hungry!” a voice shouts from the back.
“Keep it fed!” another answers, a call and response of madness.
I stare at my taped wrist, and it clicks into place—not everything, but enough. Tar City doesn’t need monsters in the shadows. It just needs people willing to go along with it. Bored people, broken people, desperate people.
My eyes drop to myself. The sandals are useless.
I can’t give away Millie’s shirt. That leaves one thing.
I should have thought this through. My hands move before my fear can catch up, before I can talk myself out of it.
I slip off my sandals first, the hot ground a shock against my bare feet.
Then I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and peel them down.
I throw them fast, as if speed could erase the moment.
The denim hits the surface and vanishes without a trace.
I feel naked. Exposed. The words I’m not, I’m not, I’m not are a useless chant in my head. I lift my chin anyway, giving a small, ridiculous bow like this is just another performance.
Whistle actually whistles. “Damn, ballerina. Look at those legs.”
The crowd cheers, a roar of approval that washes over me, hot and sickening.
And just like that, it’s over. People break formation.
The tension evaporates and the music surges back, louder and more frantic than before.
Someone lights another fire, whooping like they just won a prize, the whole moment already forgotten.
I’m just standing there, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, the air on my bare legs feeling completely wrong. Shit. How the hell am I supposed to go home now?
I’m still trying to stitch together a single thought when Whistle is suddenly in my face, that smirk plastered on his lips.
“We thank you for your service,” he purrs, crowding me back.
He grabs my wrist, his thumb stroking the tape—a touch that screams mine and makes my skin want to crawl off my bones—
—and then he’s gone.
One second he’s there; the next he’s yanked back so hard his feet actually leave the ground. His smug words turn into a choked gasp. Jax is standing over him, his fist bunched in the front of Whistle’s shirt. His eyes are black with fury. Whistle slams into the asphalt.
“Jax, stop!” I scream, but he doesn’t even hear me. He just raises his fist back again.
“She offered, man!” Whistle sputters, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground. “I’m just taking what’s—”
Jax punches him again. And again. There’s no rage in it, just a terrifying, controlled purpose. It’s like he’s been holding this violence inside him, waiting for a reason to let it out, and now he finally has his excuse.
Whistle is begging, a garbled mess of pain and fear.
His hands are up, trying to shield his face, but it’s useless.
Blood streams from his nose and lip, painting his chin and the front of his shirt.
People rush in, shouting, pulling at Jax’s arms. It takes three of them to finally drag him back, his muscles straining, his eyes still locked on the bloody heap on the ground.
Whistle scrambles to his feet and runs, stumbling off into the darkness.
By the time the noise dies down, it’s just me and Jax staring at each other. Around us, the party stutters back to life—people pretending they didn’t see what they absolutely did.
“He did nothing wrong!” I yell, stepping toward him.
Jax doesn’t flinch. He just turns his head slowly, his eyes finding mine. His gaze lowers to my wrist, then it drifts down, over to my bare legs. In that moment, I see it. He’s not only angry at Whistle. He’s angry at me too.
“He knew what he was doing,” he hisses.
The fight drains out of me, replaced by a cold dread.
My eyes slide away from his, drawn to the pit behind him.
The dark, still surface of the tar seems to pulse, and the strangest, most terrifying thought makes its way in.
Sweat will never be enough. Jeans will never be enough.
This place, this hunger, it’s a black hole, and it will take everything until there’s nothing left.