Page 37 of Into Pitch

I gasp softly, my nerves electrifying as my brain scrambles to catch up to what this means. Crush officially wiped clean, because my quiet plans for the night have seriously taken a left turn. I had planned on painting some and holing myself up in my cave, but if I can get some grip on Plague and Pitch?

I’m going.

I type back as I shove through my bus door.

Sadie: Name the place. I’ll be there.

The reply comes a minute later with an address and time, nothing else. I don’t breathe properly as I dump all my crap onto the bench and dart to my closet. I change my shirt, then change it again because I don’t want to seem like a try hard.

Then say screw it and pull the first one back on.

It’s not a date. It’s research. So it really doesn’t matter how I show up, just as long as I do.

I all but dart from the bus, making sure to lock it at my back before heading around the bar back to the curb. My hand waving down a cab as it crawls past looking for fare. I dive into his backseat, more excitement than sense, and the driver glances back at me in the rearview like he’s trying to decide what category of passenger I fall into.

I give him the address of the bar across the city and he decides I’m the paying kind when he starts the meter. I do a quick google search on it, finding that it’s the kind of place that doesn’t advertise itself beyond a flickering sign and mostly word-of-mouth. When I arrive, it’s still early enough that the crowd is thin so I take a seat at the table near the back where I can watch the door.

Not that I would know who this guy is, but it settles my stomach in a way.

And I wait.

And wait.

Two hours pass.

Long enough for the ice to melt and my nerves to fray. Long enough to convince myself he’s not coming and that maybe that’s for the best.

The door opens with a whoosh of cold air, and I don’t know how I know, but I know. The man that walks in is of average height with broad shoulders. Dark hair cut so short to his scalp that it might as well be bald as he looks about in a tired way that has nothing to do with sleep. His eyes scan the room once before landing on me.

My picture was in my profile, so I know he recognizes me.

He freezes for just a second before he turns and makes to walk out.

“Hey!” I blurt, scrambling from the booth. “Wait, I’m—”

“I know who you are,” he snaps, rounding back on me as I reach him.

“Drinks on me? That’s the deal.” I rasp, desperate.

He hesitates, then drops into the booth near the door. I follow after him and carefully take the seat across from him. When the waitress slips by he mutters something about making it strong and I order the same.

“You said you survived him,” he says abruptly, eyes locking onto me. “What the hell does that mean for you?”

Well, I’m not telling him I fucked him—not with that attitude.

“It means I got out,” I offer instead.

He laughs once, and I hate the sound of it. How degrading it is as his focus slides across me. “So did I. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then tell me what happened to you.” I bite back.

His eyes drop to his glass when our drinks arrive, jaw working. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter.

“He didn’t touch me at first, but that was the worst part.”

I frown. “The worst part?”

“He talked and asked a lot of questions,” he continues. “Freaky as shit and all calm. Like he was doing me a favor by listening. Every answer I gave him just gave him something else to pull apart.”