Feuds (13 page)

“I'd love to go,” he told her. “Just tell me what time.”

“Sure. I'll call you.”

Cole nodded and pulled out his phone. But he seemed awkward, uncertain. Maybe he was nervous? Davis shrugged off the uneasy feeling and commanded her DirecTalk to project her keypad in the air. She selected the option to add a new entry and gestured to him, trying not to be bothered that Cole was taking so long to enter his number, or that he gave her his number without taking hers.

“I'll see you on Friday,” he said. “I've got to get going now, though. Get home safe, okay?”

Davis nodded. “Thank you,” she said simply. Cole nodded, then walked away, disappearing into the crowd without so much as a glance back in her direction.

Davis felt as if a hollow had opened in her chest. What was with his fast exit? And why was it so awkward? Had she imagined that there'd been a spark between them in the ambulance? Or was it all in her head? Had she said something wrong? She'd probably bored him half to death with her talk about Fia. She was such an idiot. Or was he just trying to play it cool? She'd never been so confused in her life.

She would do better on Friday. She would be perfect.

 

8

COLE

The walk home was interminable. Cole was reluctant to leave Davis. Even though he'd known where to look for her—even though Parson had given him the rundown on everywhere Davis ever hung out, including her ballet studio, school, apartment, friends' apartments, favorite froyo place, and boutique—he'd still had a moment of panic at the riots when he thought he wouldn't be able to locate her in the throngs. And then his guilt—guilt at following her in the first place—had changed to panic. He'd been
glad
he'd followed her—glad despite how wrong he knew it was—because if he hadn't been there, she could have been badly hurt. No one was looking after Davis in all this madness. No one but him.

Still, it wasn't enough to rationalize the deception Parson was forcing him to enact. He wasn't going to get Parson that photo. No way. But he had to buy time. Going on a date with her, that would buy time, would make him look like he was invested in this thing he was doing for Parson Abel. He had to at least look like he was trying. But he wasn't going to get a photo. He'd hold Parson off without one for as long as he could. He could follow her because maybe in some small way that would keep her safe. But he could never expose her.

The thought of it made him want to punch something. Anything. The thought of anyone else exposing her made him want to scream, to rage, to hurt anyone with any intentions of hurting her. Going on this date would be okay; it would keep Parson at bay for a little longer. If she found out the truth, she'd never forgive him … but he had no choice, for now. And besides … he'd be lying if he tried to tell himself every single part of him wasn't leaping at the chance to see her again.

But he'd have to watch himself. In the ambulance … he'd almost opened up. Another minute, and he would have told her everything.

Cole spotted his own familiar gray trailer among the others that lined the back of his housing lot in the Slants. From fifty feet away, he could already hear that Hamilton and his friends were at it again. Cole pushed open the door, ducking a little to clear the threshold. Hamilton and his friends clammed up the second they saw him.

“Relax,” Cole said. “I can hear everything you're saying through the wall anyway.”

“Where are you going?” Hamilton wanted to know.

“Don't worry about it,” Cole said.

Cole could see impatience working its way up Hamilton's neck in the form of a red flush. His brother had been after him to join the cause for years. But Cole was more about making things better right
then.
Hamilton was brilliant—but when would something come of all that planning?

Hamilton spoke up again, his voice hard. “When are you going to grow up, Cole?”

Cole had heard it a million times. He felt a tightness beneath his rib cage. “When are
you
going to back off?” Cole fired back, and pushed out the door.

He was tired—physically exhausted—by all the talk. He knew his brother's heart was in the right place. But he was sick of talk. Cole was all about action. Winning the FEUDS was the way out. It was what he'd always wanted, dreamed of. Cole had always thought he wasn't going to stick around the Slants once he won, like Tom had—getting a top-level education at some fancy research facility full of Priors, courtesy of his FEUDS earnings—then running right back home, back to where he'd started. His whole life, ever since he'd started fighting, Cole had planned to win and get outta there, bringing his family with him. He'd dreamed of moving to a faraway continent—Africa or Australia, maybe—where there was no such thing as segregation. It was a next-to-impossible dream, he'd always known … at least without the FEUDS money. He'd need a bank account with enough cash inside to prove he could support himself—and that was just to qualify for an application. He'd need sponsorship, someone to vouch for him, and even then, even with all the prereqs satisfied, he'd heard it could take months for the paperwork to go through. But he'd always been certain he could find a way. Now, though, the fantasy of finding a place where he could live free of Prior rule didn't bring him the same pleasure it used to. He still wanted to live on his own terms … but he didn't want to leave. Not unless Davis was with him.

What if she came with him? The thought was silly, impossible—a fleeting fantasy he'd let himself dwell on in the moments post-kiss and pre-sleep, moments when his defenses were down. He'd even let himself wish he could somehow enter the Prior world forever, not just as Parson's hired errand boy—but as someone who could live the way Davis lived, right there with her, in her world.

It was ridiculous. It was impossible.

Freedom was one thing. It was remote, but still possible, maybe, if he could win FEUDS. With enough ambition, hard work, and drive.

But a freedom in which he and Davis were together? Impossible.

And freedom without her took on a different meaning. It felt like just another set of trappings.

He was tempted to hit the Swings, but he wasn't in the mood for training. It was late, and training would just leave him alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts would lead him back to Davis, and how much he felt for her, and how awful he felt deceiving her. He'd known something was different about Davis. The way he was with her …
he
was different. Happier, more open, more alive than he'd ever been. The thought of seeing her at the roofing party made him feel weightless, charged. And because of it, he felt even worse for what he was doing.

He
liked
her. He didn't want to like her. It was crazy. First there were the obvious dangers: if anyone in the city found out he wasn't a Prior and that he'd even been flirting with her—let alone that he'd kissed her—he'd get locked up, or even killed. Worse, she was ignorant, like the rest of the Priors. He hated how she called Gens
Imps
so casually, like it was their proper term. If she knew what he was, she'd probably be disgusted by him. It was what she was conditioned to think. She liked him for what she
thought
he was—not what he really was. And yet, he couldn't deny it: he liked her anyway. It wasn't just that she was hot. There was something in her eyes—some spark he'd felt instantly, even before they kissed—that made him want to be around her, know more about her. And it made it that much harder for him to use her.

But he didn't have a choice.

Cole was antsy, fired up from the conversation with Hamilton. Screw the Swings. He'd just go to Brent's. Brent was one of his oldest friends, though what with the FEUDS occupying so much of Cole's time lately—and now Davis—it had been weeks since they'd hung out.

“Hey, man,” Brent said when Cole knocked on the door. “Long time, no see.”

“Going out?” Cole asked him, though it was obvious he was. Brent was already drinking from a flask he apparently planned to keep on hand that night. He offered some to Cole, and Cole took a long swig. It was half-filled with Brent's dad's homemade liquor. Cole tried not to gag. Then he took another gulp. It tasted better on the second sip, even better on the third and fourth.

“Nice,” Brent said, slapping him on the back. “Glad to have you back.”

“Where are we headed?” Cole asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“The mines,” Brent said. “But not for another few hours. We're hanging here first. Matt and Pearson and Hunter should be over in half an hour. You up for a long night?”

Cole avoided his eyes. “I'm counting on it,” Cole told him, reaching again for the flask.

*   *   *

By the time they got to the mines, Cole was drunk. But not as drunk as the other guys, who were sloppy and loud, whistling and calling out to the girls they'd been with and the ones they wished they'd been with. Cole wanted just one girl—and he couldn't have her.

They stepped onto the elevator, which resembled one of the metal fighting cages Cole was so familiar with, and descended into the shafts. Cole reached out, touching the crumbling wall as the elevator descended, and bits of gravel loosened beneath his fingertips.

“Whoa,” Hunter said. “Lay off the walls, man.”

Brent started laughing long and hard, his hands resting on his knees, and accidentally snorted some alcohol out of his nose. That made Cole start laughing, too. It felt good to be back with the guys, ribbing each other, not taking anything too seriously.

When the elevator gate opened, the bass was so loud Cole could swear he saw the walls shake. Old gilded mirrors and other ornate Prior trash-turned-treasure—stuff that had been stolen, like antique chairs and even a chandelier—were propped next to and around them and hung from the ceiling above. Kids from all over leaned up against the filthy walls, and others danced in the center of the room to the hip-hop playing around them, blasting from vintage speakers—the whole party powered by electricity diverted from generators on the surface. Cole headed for the makeshift bar that was set up in the corner, offering booze stolen from parents' collections, made in friends' houses, and pilfered with fake IDs. He grabbed a beer. When he turned around, he saw his friends had already been swallowed by the crowd. He wasn't too worried. He knew almost everybody here.

It took less than five minutes for Michelle to find him … as he'd known, deep down, would happen. Had he been hoping for it or dreading it? She had always said she was just like him, that she wasn't looking for a relationship, either. But lately, Cole had gotten the sense that she wanted more, and he knew he'd have to address it sooner or later. He liked her a lot, but he didn't like the guilt that wormed its way through his stomach lately.

Now he felt her wrap her arms around him from behind and press her face against his neck.

“Hey, Cole,” she said, and as he circled around to face her, she started moving against him to the beat of the music.

“Hey,” he said back, stepping away to create a bit of distance between them. She was hot, one of the hottest girls he knew. Nearly as perfect as a Prior. But he couldn't think of her that way; he'd known her forever, and she was as familiar to him as a sister. Lately, though, he'd started realizing that the affection she felt for him was different. More intense and far less … comfortable than what he felt for her. Before he met Davis, Cole had tried to like Michelle. He'd tried to conjure up the right kind of feelings. She was beautiful, and they'd always been close. But there was something missing for him.

Even through the haze of booze, the pounding of the music, and the swaying of Michelle's hips against his, he couldn't stop thinking about Davis.

He took Michelle's face in his hands and leaned his forehead against hers. She leaned back into him, responding to his touch. Michelle would be such a simple choice. But when it came down to it, Davis was there when he closed his eyes. Michelle would never be more than just a friend. Even though he had to admit he was lonely, isolated, aching … and all he wanted to do was surround himself with those closest to him, he
had
to put more distance between him and Michelle, before she got hurt.

He stepped back from her.

“What?” she said. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing. I just … need another drink.” It wasn't what he needed at all, but he wanted to get Davis out of his mind and thoughts. He gritted his teeth and grabbed a shot glass, downing two in a row. He was in serious trouble.

It wasn't until he tried to make his way back into the crowd that he realized he'd gone from drunk to trashed. The room seemed to be swimming under a red haze, and all of the music was muffled, as though he were hearing it from under water. Faces leered at him, people were shouting, punching his arm, wanting to know about the FEUDS.

And all of a sudden, he knew he was going to be sick.

He fought his way to the rickety old elevator and went up to the entrance to the mine, feeling the air grow clearer as the music retreated below him. He just wanted some air.

He sat on the gravel and leaned back against a fence surrounding the mine, putting his head between his knees and taking long, deep breaths until he felt better. Eventually, his head stopped spinning and he leaned back. It was a clear night; a thousand stars decorated the sky, and he could hear music pouring from neighboring homes as well as thumping below him from the party. He closed his eyes.

Then the elevator door ground open, its rusty wheels making a long creaking noise as the gate lifted. He didn't turn. But he knew it would be her.

Michelle plopped down next to him, leaning her head against his shoulder and looping her right arm through his left. He wrapped his arm around her. Michelle wasn't Davis, but that wasn't her fault. She was a good girl.