Reed’s fingers tightened around a shiny metal pin on Nate’s worktable. “You don’t need to go to him. He’s mixed up with the Breakers.”
Frustration spiked through Nate. Reed wouldn’t understand. “He’s not—”
“Even if he’s not, he’s still pushing the worst kind of chem.” Reed’s breath hitched, the sound sharp and irritated. “You know that.”
Not the very worst.
Alden liked to call his chem “artisanal,” which was a rot-filled way of saying he was too stubborn and proud to work with the Breakers. He worked with cooks who had been in business since before Alden was born. He didn’t rely on chem runners working the street. He let the fiends come to him.
“I did a lot of tinkering for him,” Nate said. “Might as well cash in on that for a few tinctures.” It wasn’t that much of a stretch. Nate often bartered his tinkering when scavenging got slow. He was young for a Tinkerer, but his work spoke for itself once he was given a chance.
“They say Alden owes half the Withers credits for one thing or another,” Reed said.
The opposite was true. Alden detested being in debt and loved cashing in on owed favors. “He’s not as bad as you think,” Nate said.
Alden was probably ten times worse than Reed thought.
Reed let go of the pin, and it rolled in a semicircle, rustling a whisper-soft sound like music. “Right,” he said, tapping his fingertips against the table. “And I’m the king of Winter Heights.”
“It’ll be fine.” Nate reached for Reed’s fidgeting hand, realizing too late that the comforting gesture might be mistaken for something else. His calloused fingertips dragged over the back of Reed’s hand in an awkward, slow caress.
He knew better than to touch a live wire with his fingertips. It was the first thing Bernice had taught him: check with your knuckles, so that the current doesn’t close your fingers into a fist and burn you to bits from the inside out.
“You don’t. . .” Reed sighed and studied their hands.
They never talked about what they were. Reed needed a Tinkerer, and Nate needed shelter. But Reed didn’t pull away.
Holding his breath, Nate let himself wonder if this was what Reed wanted—if he wanted to know what would happen if they got closer. How it would feel.
All Nate had to do was lean over the little table. He’d never kissed anyone before, but he was pretty sure he could work out the mechanics of it.
Reed abruptly turned his palm up and caught Nate’s fingers. “You don’t have to keep secrets from me.”
Nate drew away from Reed’s grip.
“I know.” Nate busied himself with the tech and kept his gaze low, afraid his eyes would spill over with tears if he looked up. He wanted a friend. He wanted Reed. But Reed wanted to dig up the truth—and that was more than Nate could give him.
Reed lingered a moment, as if waiting for Nate to say something. Then he sighed and walked away.
CHAPTER THREE
Nate shrugged on his bulky coat. His skin prickled with sweat and itched from the musty fabric, but it was worth it to keep his belongings to himself. A coat was better than a backpack that anyone could grab and run off with. He filled his pockets with colorful wire and shiny buttons and, after a moment’s debate, left his tool belt. The walk to the port would take all day. He wouldn’t have time to barter his tinkering.
“I’m off,” he said, hushed. The girls were already asleep.
Reed came close, damp from scrubbing off the night’s grime. He smelled like skin and sweat, and Nate could barely make sense of his words. “You remember the password?”
Nate closed his hand into a fist around small metal brackets in his pocket. The pinch sharpened his focus, helped him stop thinking about how he wanted to press his mouth to the gleaming places on Reed’s neck.
“I always do.”
Reed used a code of taps and knocks to spell words out. When Nate had asked him where he’d learned it, he’d gone quiet for a long time before answering. “I made it up. So me and Brick could talk when. . .when it was busy.”
Nate had imagined Reed huddled under a creaking bed, hidden from customers who didn’t care if a whore was grown. That day, he’d worked with Reed for hours until he’d memorized the rhythm.
Tonight, when Nate returned to the hideout at sundown, he’d tap out the password in Reed’s code—the code only the gang knew.
Reed fussed with Nate’s coat, patting down the wrinkles and brushing dust and dirt off. Nate endured it without reaching for him, but he ached to still his jittery hands. To draw him close and see what it felt like to hold him.
