Downside Ghosts: Unholy Ghosts Part 8

"Um, yeah. Thought I might, you know. Get a drink."

If she'd ever pictured herself feeling awkward around Terrible, it was because she imagined him getting ready to break one of her bones. Not because she'd just caught him practically having s.e.x against a building. She didn't care that he'd been practically having s.e.x up against a building, it wasn't as though she wanted to be the one against the building with him or anything. It was just ... strange. Like imagining one of the Elders getting it on with a Goody in the chapel.

He introduced her to the girl-Amy-and they shuffled their feet for another minute or so before heading up to the doors. Terrible never paid to get into anywhere, by virtue of who he was. Chess never paid either, by virtue of her tattoos.

Inside the club sweaty bodies crushed together under the reddish glow of the neon Exit signs and the filters on the stagelights like a torch mob out for blood. Chess tried to make her way to the bar but gave up after having her toes stepped on three times. Great. Her hand still ached, her ankle was weak, her toes crushed.

Getting through a crowd wasn't a problem for Terrible. He shoved his way through like a plow through snow, and after the first few seconds people realized who he was and moved out of his way before he reached them. He parked both Chess and Amy in one of the booths at the far end and left to get drinks. He didn't ask what they wanted. Beer was the only option.

"Chess. Hey. I thought you might be here."

The words, practically shouted into her right ear, made her jump. Her discomfort did not ease when she realized who'd spoken them.

"What are you doing here, Doyle?"

"I like this band."

"I've never seen you at one of their shows before."

"That doesn't mean I've never been to one."

"They only play in Downside, as far as I know. Since when do you come here?"

She had to admit, he looked almost as if he belonged there. He was dressed in de rigueur black, from boots to jeans to thin car jacket. With his hair s.h.i.+ning around his pale face his eyes seemed to leap out of their sockets at her.

"I come here sometimes. I thought maybe we could hang out."

"You thought wrong."

Terrible appeared, beer bottles dangling from his enormous hands. He didn't speak, just stood like a tree next to Chess, staring at Doyle with one eyebrow raised.

Doyle offered his hand. "Hi."

Terrible didn't move. Doyle stood for a minute with his hand out before sticking it back in his pocket. Even the red lights couldn't hide the color creeping up his face.

Terrible handed her a beer. "Cool, Chess?"

Was her body language that easy to read? "Yeah, fine."

"I need to talk to you," Doyle said. He smoothed his hair out of his face. "It's important."

He clearly didn't intend to leave until they'd spoken, so Chess sighed and stood up. "Five minutes."

Chapter Ten.

"There is much humanity cannot comprehend. The Church comprehends for you."

-The Book of Truth, Veraxis, Article 2 Doyle pulled her uncomfortably close to the spot where she'd seen Terrible and Amy, hidden in the shadows of the building. "So, how's your new case going?"

"You dragged me out here for that?"

"You wouldn't talk to me in church. You wouldn't talk to me at the meeting. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Get the message that I don't want to talk?"

"Chess ... you can't seriously be avoiding me because some people found out about us. So what? What difference does it make?"

She took a step back as he leaned closer. "There is no us, Doyle. One night doesn't make an us."

"It makes something."

"Yeah, it makes me a wh.o.r.e in the eyes of everyone I work with. What happens if the Elders find out? What do I do then?"

"You're not underage anymore, you haven't been for three years. They're not going to kick you out." His hands rested on her shoulders, warm and heavy. "I know you had it rougher than the rest of us did in training. I know how you were scrutinized because you were on charity. I was there, remember? But you're an employee now, not a ward. You even live off-complex. You can spend the night with whomever you choose."

"I wasn't on charity. I was on a scholars.h.i.+p."

"Sorry. Point is ... I really like you. I think we could have something special, if you'd let us."

His fingers curled under her chin, lifting her face. Doyle was only five-ten or so; with her heels on they were almost of a height. She didn't have to move at all for his lips to find hers.

He was a good kisser. She'd liked kissing him before, and she still liked it, despite her doubts about him. But when his hands slid farther down to circle her waist, then down again to cup her bottom and pull her closer, she broke away.

"I don't think I'm ready for this." Her voice shook a little. d.a.m.n it.

Doyle bit his lip and looked down, then back up. "Okay."

"What do you mean, okay?"

"Just what I said. Okay. I can't pretend to understand it. It's not like we haven't already done a lot more than we just did. But I want to do this right, and if that means waiting, or giving you s.p.a.ce or whatever, I'll do that."

He certainly looked sincere, with those big blue eyes focused right on her. Maybe this really was her problem. It didn't make logical sense to distrust Doyle. She'd known him for years. If she were honest with herself, she could admit she'd had a bit of a crush on him, off and on throughout those years. And the s.e.x ... it may not have been life-changing, but it definitely hadn't sucked.

He must have sensed her indecision. "Why don't we go back to your place and talk, okay? Have a drink, watch some TV or something and just ... talk?"

No was on the tip of her tongue, but she caught herself. What else was she going to do? Sit in a booth and watch Terrible and Amy practically having s.e.x? Take another Cept and watch everyone else chatting with their friends, having a good time, from behind the gla.s.sy wall of narcotic peace?

Or go home, and wander around her apartment by herself until she finally fell asleep in front of the TV?

Doyle was decent company, if nothing else. They had plenty to talk about. They knew the same people.

"Come on, Chess. I promise I won't try anything. It'll be like having a eunuch over for the evening."

Chess laughed in spite of herself. "Okay. But no late night. I'm tired."

It was the wrong thing to do. She didn't want him here.

Chatting about Church politics and telling stories had been fine on the street, when the soft darkness wrapped around them and their feet moved along the pavement in unison. But in her apartment ... he seemed too big for the s.p.a.ce somehow. Like an invader. His restless gaze traveled over every item in the room, not picking out any one thing, but like he was trying to read her belongings and figure out the best angle to get her back into bed.

Chess pulled a couple of beers from the barren fridge and handed him one, glad for something to do with her hands. She perched on the edge of the couch with her feet on the cus.h.i.+on, her legs a barrier between them.

"What did you do to your hand?"

For Truth's sake, was everybody going to ask her that? "Cut it on a can."

"Did you go to the hospital?"

"No."

"Let me see." He held out his own hand, waiting for her to place hers in it. This she did, although she could certainly think of better topics of conversation than her injury.

He unwrapped the gauze. "d.a.m.n, Chess. That looks like it's getting infected."

Did it? She supposed so. The red line curving across her palm looked wider than it had the night before, the skin around it s.h.i.+ny and puffy. She tried to close her fingers over it. "It's fine."

"It probably needed st.i.tches. Did you clean it?" He didn't let go, clasping her wrist tight in his warm fingers.

"Of course I cleaned it. I'm not an idiot."

"Why don't you let me try?"

She yanked her hand back. "I'm perfectly capable of cleaning myself, Doyle."

"You had it wrapped too tightly, and it looks like there's a few speckles of dirt or something on the edge. I'm serious, Chess. Let me do this for you. Go get all your supplies and stuff. Cotton b.a.l.l.s and bandages and ointments. And get me a knife or something, too."

"Oh, no. No knives."

"It's healing over the infection."

"Why don't I just go to the hospital tomorrow?"

He folded his arms across his chest. "My dad is a doctor, and I watched him help my friends dozens of times. Go get the stuff."

Her palm felt stiff when she flipped the light switch in her bathroom. Maybe Doyle was right. Maybe it was even sort of nice, to have someone take care of her. No one ever had before. She should stop being so cranky and suspicious, and relax. Isn't this what normal people did, help one another?

She laid a towel over the toilet lid and started gathering all of her medical supplies. Debunkers often found themselves in attics and crawl s.p.a.ces, or climbing through airshafts. Injuries were common. A few years ago Atticus Collins even got bit by a rat.

Odd, then, that this cut got infected, when she usually took such good care of her wounds. But then, being locked in a dungeon for almost twenty-four hours and being bathed in raw sewage wasn't exactly conducive to healing.

Her knives were in the kitchen, but she decided to grab a razor blade instead. The sharper the edge, the less it would hurt. She ran the flats of the blade over her tongue, just to make sure there wasn't any residue left on it. There was. The muscles in her cheeks tightened.

Finally she guessed she had everything. Antiseptic, cotton b.a.l.l.s, gauze, antibiotic ointment, the razor blade, a straightpin. She chomped another Cept-this was probably going to hurt-and headed back out into the living room, carrying the little towel bundle in her left hand.

Doyle knelt on the floor in front of the bookcase, flipping through her copy of On the Road. "You have a lot of stuff from BT," he said. "I didn't know you were into that."

"I like history. I like to read."

"But this is, like, all BT."

"It just interests me. It's not a big deal or anything, they're not forbidden books. They're great literature."

"I know, I just ... you seem so live-for-the-moment." He placed the book back in its slot on the shelf. "I always thought of you as someone who didn't have a past, so wasn't interested in the past."

"So because I'm an orphan and don't know my ancestry I'm not allowed to read?"

"No, no, I ... It's cool, that's all. I think it's cool."

She thought about pressing the point, but decided against it. Someone who could trace his family back two hundred years wouldn't be able to understand how it felt when even your real name was a mystery, and she didn't particularly want to explain anyway. He'd already seen her naked. He didn't need to see her emotionally exposed as well.

So she held up the towel. "I have everything."

"Actually, I was thinking we probably should do this in the bathroom. Better light, right?"

Whatever. His show. They trooped back into the bathroom, where she sat on the toilet and held her hand over the sink.

He did know what he was doing. His fingers were quick and sure but gentle as he cleaned her palm with antiseptic and cotton b.a.l.l.s, then picked up the razor blade and wiped it, too.

"Okay, get ready."

"I'm ready." Chess sat up straighter. She trusted him, sure, but if he was messing around with a razor blade on her skin, she wanted to supervise.

He slid the blade along the very edge of the wound, drawing a thin line of blood from her flushed palm. Halfway down the color paled as clear fluid oozed out.

"Yuck," she said.

"Yeah, it is kind of, isn't it?" He flashed her a quick smile. "But at least it's coming out, right? Imagine if it just built up under the skin and went nec ..."

"Necrotic? Would that really happen?"

"Do you have tweezers?" He sounded strangled, like he'd just seen something that frightened him.

"On the shelf. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"No, clearly something is. What is it?"

His grip on her hand tightened as he grabbed the tweezers. "Don't move."

"What's-ow! f.u.c.k! What are you ..."