Chapter 12

Hawke

She doesn’t need anyone to save her. Maybe that’s why we’ve been fighting so much. I resent that she’ll always find a way to eat. To pay the bills. To get out of one scrape before she gets into another, even if it means lying, stealing, and conning.

I resent that there’s a right way to do things and a wrong way, and she always seems to choose the wrong way.

But I stare at the footage recording from the garage—drugs and young girls and a toddler running around on screen in the worst possible environment…

And maybe I don’t know everything. Maybe there is no right way. You eat or you don’t.

I log onto social media, sweeping the sites and seeing my hoodie and hers visible in several videos from Fallstown—a few comments noticing me too.

I came back to the hideout a few hours ago and tried to track her phone, but there was no signal. She probably threw it away.

You okay?I text Tommy as I walk for the kitchen.

I dropped her off after Aro left the race, but there’s still no certainty that they didn’t see her at the garage today.

A text rolls in. Yeah, why?

I almost laugh as I open the fridge and dig out a beer. For a kid who looks like she’s going to cry every time someone looks at her wrong, she pulled off a dangerous job today with amazing ease.

Thanks for helping, I simply reply.

Ur welcome.

I set my phone down, but then it beeps with another text.

I’m free tomorrow, Tommy writes.

And I chuckle, shaking my head and mumbling under my breath, “I’ll let you know, kid.”

I drop the phone onto the island, but then I hear Aro’s voice behind me. “So, does your cousin not have boobs or something?”

What?

I turn my head and see her standing there, freshly showered with her wet hair fanned around her and hanging down her arms.

My face falls a little.

Something flips inside me, and I draw in a sharp breath, looking away. I close my eyes for a second. “I…” I shake my head. “I have no idea. I never looked.”

Jesus Christ. I open the drawer and pull out the bottle opener, my neck sweating.

“I mean, the jeans are fine,” she explains, “but the shirt is…”

I swallow and glance back, seeing her pull at Dylan’s white JT Racing T-shirt, the curves of her breasts creating two half-moons that are still visible even as she tries to keep the fabric from clinging to her body.

A sliver of skin peeks out above the waist of her black jeans, tears and holes in the pants giving an eyeful of her tawny skin and shape.

I pop the top of the beer and take a swig, trying not to look, but she was hiding a lot under that hoodie and hat. Hair hangs in her face, rich, dark eyes—almost black—peering at me through the wet strands. I drop my eyes to her mouth…

I take another drink.

She continues to tug on the shirt, trying to keep it away from her body. When I don’t say anything, she shifts on her feet, an awkward silence filling the room. “So, you said there was a washing machine?”

I look down, noticing she has a garbage bag in her hand. Her muddy clothes. Right.

“Yeah.” I lead her away, thankful to have something to do. “Follow me.”

We head up the small staircase, down the hallway, and I open the mirror into the bake shop.

“And the Pirate jersey is baggy, if you’d prefer that,” I tease, remembering Dylan included another option.

“My tits look horrible in orange,” Aro says. “Everyone looks horrible in orange, Hawke.”

Tits? Did she really…? Ugh.

I step through the mirror, feeling her follow me. “Don’t women hate the word tits?”

My mom would never say that.

But she jokes, “Oh, I’m sorry. My breasts look horrible in—oh, nope, ‘breasts’ is still pretentious. I’ll just keep saying tits.”

I wince. That sliver of attraction I might’ve felt a moment ago is suddenly gone. Thank God.

“Or hooters!” she chirps.

Jesus…

“Knockers, maybe?” She won’t stop. “How about ‘my bosoms’? Mammary glands! Udders!”

I push through the kitchen door, hearing it slam into the one of the stoves behind it.

“I can make this so much worse, Hawke.”

“God, you’re vulgar.” I walk over to the combo washer and dryer Quinn installed here to take care of dish towels and aprons. I open the washer lid.

“Just keeping it real,” she taunts behind me. “We’ll never be friends.”

“And I might cry about that eventually.” I turn to look at her. “Once it sinks in.” I point to the shelf to the right of the machine. “Tide PODS are there. Don’t eat them.”

I walk away, hearing her snort.

She dumps her clothes into the washer, takes a pod, tosses it in, and starts the machine. Her right arm stays at her side as she does everything with her left, and it hits me. The injury from her stepfather. I forgot.

I should’ve checked it when she came inside. She looked like she’d been in another fight.

I doubt she’s eaten since this morning either.

My stomach growls, too.

“You hungry?” I ask, hearing the water start to load inside the washing machine.

She faces me, and I blink, trying to hide the fact that my gaze dropped. To her shirt.

I clear my throat. “I’m starving.” I turn and get to work, pre-heating the oven and digging a pan and some utensils out. “There’s a container of sauce in the cooler. Can you grab it?” I ask her. “And toss me the pepperoni too.”

She smiles small, and I can tell she’s hungry. It’s after midnight, but she doesn’t look any more tired than I am, so we set to work, making pizza in the sealed-off kitchen that’s supposed to be empty until next May.

I stream some music, both of us relaxing a little. It’s late, and if anyone passes by and hears us or smells the oven, they’ll think it’s coming from Rivertown.

It’s kind of nice—seeing the world but not having them see you. Like we’re the only two people left.

I watch her pull her hair up into a ponytail, long bangs hanging in her eyes as she kneads the dough I made. I chop toppings, and I can’t stop the heat warming my body. I don’t know why this feels good, but it does.

She’s the first non-family member woman I’ve been around in a long time who’s not expecting me to make a move. Being around her isn’t hard or pressuring.

She’s easy.

For a little while anyway.

“You are such an idiot!” she barks ten minutes later as I spread sauce over the dough.

“Chicago-style pizza is not pizza,” I retort, sorry I ever got into this dumbass discussion with her.

“And who determines what pizza is?”

“Italians.” I place pepperoni slices, keeping my tone calm, even though she’s about to spit fire. “Pizza is not something you eat with a knife and fork. Now the pliable New York pie that you can fold in half? Hell yeah.”

“Would you have some fucking regional pride, for crying out loud?” She scowls at me. “We’re basically Chicagoans.”

“It’s not pizza.” I flex my jaw. “It’s a meat pie.”

“And Chicago is tougher,” she snaps, getting in my face. “Windier, colder, snowier—you need more substance in your pizza.”

“Oh, please.”

She continues. “The rest of the country just can’t handle four pounds of heat and meat in their mouths, Hawke.”

Oh my God. I gape at her for a solid four seconds and then…

I can’t contain it. I laugh, having to turn away. “What the hell…”

I laugh so hard my eyes tear, and I hear her behind me. “Haha,” she teases. “Gotcha.”

I plant my hands on the counter, bending my head and still laughing. “Okay, okay…I got nothing on that.”

She beams, and I get the rest out as I walk over and take some of the cheese she’s shredded, sprinkling it on.

“Now, how do you feel about the Chicago pub-style pizza?” I ask.

She follows suit, sprinkling on cheese. “Pizza should not be cut into squares.”

“I agree.”

“That’s not pizza.”

I shake my head. “Not pizza at all.”

She finishes while I search the cabinet for the oregano and sea salt I left here. Quinn’s bakery ovens are even better than Grandpa Jason’s brick one, so whenever I want perfectly baked crust, I just come here. Or when I want to cheer Quinn up. She loves making pizza.

I toss some seasoning on top, a quiet settling over the room, and I glance over at Aro, seeing her watch me. She looks away. “Um…is the camera still working okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. I checked the footage while you were in the shower. Nothing so far.”

I’m recording when I’m not watching, so whatever is going on there, we’ll catch it. We just have to be patient. For how long, is the question.

“I need to go out tomorrow,” she tells me. “I need to sneak into my foster mom’s house while she’s at work and get some clothes.”

I look over at her, studying her. They’ll be looking for her there. Even though she’s technically no longer in the woman’s care, Green Street will know she still crashes at that house. They might not be staked out there, but the neighborhood will be told to keep an eye out for her to show up.

“That’s not a good idea,” I tell her. “I’ll have Dylan bring some bigger shirts.”

“And underwear?” she presses. “Bras? I mean, I can’t wear hers. I need things, Hawke.”

I drop my eyes but raise them again, realization hitting. She’s not wearing anything under her clothes right now. Whatever she had would be in the washer.

She stares at me, but I pick up the pizza, not saying anything. Underwear isn’t that important. She’s not risking being caught for that.

The silence that settles is more awkward than the last, and there are a million things I want to ask her, but she’s in a good mood, and I don’t want to ruin it.

Thankfully, she steps in. “You know, your girlfriend being jealous isn’t out of line.” she says, sipping my beer. “I probably would’ve keyed your car by now.”

I laugh under my breath, visualizing that perfectly. And I know she’s right. Holing up with another woman looks like something it isn’t.

“How about I sneak out to get clothes,” she says, a playful tone in her voice, “and you sneak out to see her and explain the situation? It’s a win-win.”

Yeah, right. I’m not letting her out of my sight. She’ll do something stupid.

Plus, the issue with Schuyler started long before this weekend. It has nothing to do with Aro and will take a lot more than an explanation to fix.

She picks up some leftover shredded cheese and tips her head back, dropping it in. Everything feels warm as I watch her.

I don’t want to go out. I like it here.

With her.

She asked what this place was and what it meant to me, and I’m not entirely sure yet, but I do know it has a name.

And so many stories behind it. Stories of people who were here before us.

Most of the town doesn’t even think it really exists. But they like to believe it does. They want to believe the stories are true.

I stare at her, realizing something. We’ll be one of them. One of the stories that people will tell one day. Aro and me.

I don’t want to leave. Not for underwear. Not for Schuyler. Not just yet.

I pull myself away, pressing buttons on the oven and setting the timer. “Let me look at your arm,” I tell her. “Come on.”

“It’s really okay,” she argues, but I’m already walking away, untying the apron around my waist. I toss it back onto the worktable and lead her back into the hideout, sealing it closed again, even though I know no one is coming into the bakery, and I’ll have to go back out to get the pizza anyway.

Taking her into the other kitchen, I pull out the first aid kit and some cooling lotion. She just took a shower, so it’s clean, but I don’t have anything for the pain other than ibuprofen.

Sitting down on a stool at the island, I take her arm and pull her over. She stumbles, coming to rest between my knees.

“I just don’t want this to get infected,” I tell her, inspecting her wound. “If we’re going to get caught, it’s not going to be because we had to go to the hospital.”

She looks down at me, but I don’t meet her eyes. I spray the cut with disinfectant, apply some ointment and wrap a bandage around her arm, trying to keep it clean.

“I didn’t think you’d have a tattoo,” she says.

I look up as she eyes the script across my shoulder, above my chest. Really small. Most people don’t notice it at first.

I continue wrapping her up. “It’s the only one I have.”

“What does it mean?”

These violent delights have violent ends.

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I’ll let you know if I figure it out.”

She cocks her head, studying me, and I’m thankful she doesn’t ask why I got a tattoo I don’t understand. I’ve been staring at the same tattoo on my father my whole life. I know it means something. I know it’s important.

“Why didn’t you think I’d have one?” I ask. “Too much of a mama’s boy?”

“No.” She smiles, and she looks five. Sweet. “It just seemed like you were different.”

Different? When has she observed me? We’ve never met before yesterday.

She draws in a breath and clears her throat. “Weston was looking forward to a rematch with you last fall,” she says. “But you quit the team mid-season. I saw you play once. The year before, actually.”

So that’s when she might’ve seen me. I secure the tape around her arm. “You don’t strike me as person who goes to pep rallies and football games.”

“I was delivering weed to a cheerleader.”

I laugh, despite myself. It’s not funny, but it’s comforting. I’m kind of glad football’s not her thing.

“Ten seconds left in the fourth quarter,” she tells me. “You caught a pass and tumbled right into the end zone, securing the victory.”

Yeah, I remember.

“I didn’t really care until I saw that you weren’t celebrating.” She stares at me, but I don’t look as I tap her out some medicine and pour some water. “That’s when I noticed you. Your teammates crowded around you, the stadium exploded in screams and cheers. You just walked back to the sidelines, even as they tried to hang on and congratulate you. You acted like none of it was there.”

I can’t believe she saw that. Did other people pick up on it? I didn’t mean to be a prick. I just…

I sit there, pulling her short sleeve back down. “I found this place a week before I quit football.” I glance over at the gray brick wall, gesturing as I read the words in white paint. “‘Vivamus, moriendum est.’ It was there when I got here,” I tell her and then translate. “‘Let us live, since we must die.’”

She looks back at the words, and I can’t tell if she’s breathing. I’ve probably stared at those words for hours in total.

“I don’t really like football,” I tell her.

She jerks her eyes back to me, now understanding. I didn’t want to be on that field that day. I hadn’t for a long time.

She rubs her arm, looking down. “I don’t like a lot,” she almost whispers. “Some things you have to put up with.”

“Some things you do.”

I understand what she’s saying. I could quit football, because I don’t need a scholarship. I can quit jobs, because I don’t need the money. I know I’m lucky. I have choices.

“And sometimes you can just quit. Leave. Hide,” I say. “Sometimes that’s okay.”

She raises her eyes to me, and something fills my chest in a way that’s new. I like that she’s here. I’m glad she came back.

When I saw her enter the alley tonight, soaked and hurt and in so much more pain on the inside than she was on the outside, I went up to get her. She really had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t right. How does a kid get to be that alone? What did she do? What could she possibly have done to have no one?

She’ll never need saving. She’ll always get up. I already know that about her.

Let’s see what two loners can do together.

I rise from my seat, grabbing my workout gloves on the counter and pulling them on. “And she’s not my girlfriend anymore. We broke up two weeks ago.” She looks up at me as I look down at her. “We’re not leaving here. No unnecessary risk. I’ll have Dylan bring you something tomorrow. What are you…thirty-four C?”

Her eyes go wide. “I thought you never looked.”

“At my cousin, dumbass.” I pull the strap tight with my teeth. “I can look at you.”

Her eyebrows rise.

“Twenty minutes on the pizza.” I step to the side and head for the gym. “Come and get me when it’s ready.”