I chased her beneath the L tracks, a rusty spine throwing ribs of shadow over us. Above, a train screeched into the station. She hopped nimbly up the steps and I followed, exhausted, as she vaulted over a turnstile and disappeared into the crowd on the platform and I, like an idiot, hit the bar. That was an end to that. Maybe she didn’t mind being busted, but I could not afford a police record. I fumbled my CTA pass out of my wallet, lurched against the turnstile and through the closing doors.
In the fluorescent light all the faces looked ghoulish. I felt sick. I felt like the girl who rode public transit all night because she was afraid to go home, to run into her “boyfriend.”
Laney must have told her his name. Warned her not to help me.
This was nothing. Taunting. Trolling.
I staggered toward a vacant seat at the far end of the car. Sat down beside a familiar pair of shiny black pants.
“Well done,” Tamsin said.
I never put my hands on a girl without her permission. But I was exceptionally close to breaking that rule right now.
“How?” I rasped.
“I told you. I need to understand who my partner is.”
“Who told you that fucking name?”
Her head tilted. Her eyes were oddly soft, and her voice, too. “Laney did. Who is Adam, Ren? What has he done to you?”
I had half a mind to pry the doors open and jump out.
Instead I sank into my hoodie, beaten. No energy to fight. I tired easily these days. Maybe Armin was right—maybe I was depressed.
We rode the thundering train in silence, thrown into each other as the car bucked and braked. It barely registered. My head was full of poison. A memory: another train, a skeezy older man hitting on me while I squeezed my thighs together and prayed the bleeding would stop.
My body tightened reflexively. Made itself smaller. Too small to contain so much pain.
Tamsin rose at the next station, touched my shoulder. “Come on.”
Too tired to say no.
Story of my life.
It was somewhere near the lakeshore, in the cold glamour of money. Skyscraper lights twinkled far above like tossed coins. I let her lead me into a vestibule lined in navy velvet and glowing brass. Some glitzy tourist hotel. The doorman nodded at Tamsin.
“What is this?” I said as we entered the lobby.
“Home sweet home.”
I stopped. “You live here?”
“For the moment.”
“How can you afford this?”
“I can’t. My sister can.”
“Who’s your sister?”
“So many questions. All in due time.” Her hand rose, light glimmering on her dark skin like gold powder. We didn’t quite connect but I felt the charge arcing off her fingertips. “Let’s talk. I’ll tell you everything I know about . . . him. Not much, but it’s a start. Join me for a drink?”
In the warm tungsten glow of the lobby, everything seemed softened, faintly imbued with magic. My fear and anger washed away. I wanted to stay, so badly. I wanted to fall into her spell.
“I’ll pass.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know a thing about you, and you know too much about me.”
Now those fingers made contact, curled over mine.
“Come and learn,” she said, stroking my palm. “I’ll tell you everything.”
I’m not made of stone. I’m made of the same stuff as other boys, and it responds very, very willingly to throaty invitations from pretty girls.
“Why did you run?” I whispered.
“To make you chase. To bring you here.”
“Couldn’t you have asked?”
“Would it have worked?”
I thought of her at Umbra, staring, stalking, and shook my head. “You know what you are, Tamsin?”
“Tam.”
“You’re a female pickup artist, Tam. You play games. Push me, pull me. Jedi mind tricks.”
“You know what you are, Renard?”
“Ren.”
“You’re a little boy who’s intimidated by assertive women, Ren.”
Conditioning finally kicked in. I flipped her hold, twisted her wrist as I stepped close. “Is this your new strategy? Couldn’t win a fair fight, so now you’re negging me? This is some seriously fucked-up seduction technique.”
Her eyes went flat. “It isn’t seduction.”
“So what the hell is it?”
“It’s me wrestling with infuriating feelings of attraction, you daft twat.” She snapped her hand free but didn’t back down. “Pardon me for presuming they’re reciprocated.”
“They’re not,” I growled, my face inching closer. “Not even a little.”
“Good,” she spat.
“Good.”
“You’re not even that handsome.”
I laughed, not nicely. “You have a serious attitude problem.”
“You’re an arrogant bastard.”
“You’re trying too hard with the whole rebel-without-a-cause thing.”
“You’re trying too hard with the whole—” She glanced down at my torso. “Big. Muscles. Thing.”
She glared at my chest for a moment, then my face.
And suddenly I laughed again, genuinely.
It was like a catch coming loose. I leaned against a marble pillar, shaking with laughter, and relief. Forgetting everything else for a blissful moment. Tam crossed her arms and donned a stoic look that didn’t last long.
“You are irritatingly intriguing, Mr. Grant,” she said.
“Likewise, Ms. Baylor.”
“And annoyingly handsome.”
“I thought you said ‘not even.’?”
“Yes, well, I lied.”
“It’s just a shell.”
“A very fetching one.”
“I’m not what you think, Tam.”