Page 63 of Drift

Drift didn’t know what… got him going more: her under threat… or herasthe threat.

And there… her complication, because behind all her attitude hid such a shy bite to her lip over the basic thought of taking a swim with him. She needed time, but maybe she also didn’t quite trust how he’d react if she did get in the pool with him. Such a fucking startling contrast between her and… Ava.

Drift shut that down, because it cut deep the most:hedidn’t know how he would react to West’s… contrast.

It hadn’t confused Drift as a kid: West was… West. She wanted a dress, he’d get her one. She wanted to wear lipstick, he and Grant taught her how to steal her favourite. Drift never did understand the anger that got her running with him, but then the tag of “born biologically male” when it came to West was something that had no place with him as a kid. She was his friend. The best of. Gender didn’t come into it, only that she kept pace with him, Grant, and Ava.

Growing up complicated it: how his body and head started to react to her, loving the potential of being more than just a friend. Her confusion had been so much worse, he knew that, so he hadn’t wanted to take her back into it over his own, but the way she walked, talked, the natural curves to her body, her almost young-English beauty to be found in the highlands being hunted for wildness over witching… she was female, goddamn gorgeous, sensual femininity in every way. His body told him that, his head too, but when they danced in close… there was that potent reminder that she had something that shouldn’t belong to her,and it tripped Drift up. Lads… he knew the basics over getting warm under the cover with them, Ava….

Drift shook his head, so pissed off with himself. West was a woman. It would be no different, other leaving him feeling a damn site… cleaner.

He hated how he didn’t know, how… confused West made him, and he didn’t want to taint how far she’d come with his own confusion. Ava had already tainted everything they’d touched.

Although an odd bruise touched West from time to time, pissing him off someone had touched her, more her damn crew silence over not telling him who, West rarely got trouble on the streets anymore, not since she had run with Jackson. Jackson knew how to keep her and his kids away from Ava’s touch. West had earned her standing as feeder, but her talent as a top street performer took her into an honest life she slept better at night with. She took hold of Hasting’s mask now, looking set to reveal hidden poisoned layers beneath so-called friendly faces, exposing Drift almost in the same way, and—Christ, that unconscious ability of hers to strip him raw even from a distance….

Blackburn came in, spinning her back towards Brighty, stopping her reveal, and—

“Hurts.” West cried it again as she staggered to a stop, the hard draw on violin crying out thatrun, run awaybeat. Then as dark elves started to circle around her, bodies twisted, all of West’s harder rocker tones brought the street to full life, and her cover version of Emeli Sandé’s “Hurts” stole every part of Drift.

The soulful tones and lyrics turned West into every girl left on the end of any street corner who cried out she was only made of flesh and bone when it came to the wrong kind of love. Thatshe needed to run away from the cuts of being loved in one heated moment, then forgotten so coldly the next, until all that was left was to hurt… to burn in the aftermath of nothing.

The crowd unwittingly played their part: the onlookers who would eventually walk on by without helping her once the song was done, and Drift saw it hit some of the gazes. They got a very subtle look at the darkness of the streets, how friendly faces were never that, and young lives were taken and broken right under their watch.

And… fuck, West was damn good. As she looked his way, even he felt responsible for forgetting some of the pain she was going through.

“She’s been out night-walking after ten at night for the past few weeks, mate.”

It came so quietly off Stokesy, and Drift snapped a look at him. “What?”

“West.” Stokesy nodded her way, then looked briefly back at him. “Stop her, okay? Essex spotted her a week ago. Make damn sure it doesn’t happen again, and that’s friendly advice off him before any of the other crews pull her out to find out why she’s walking Freak streets.” He looked Drift over. “It’s bad enough you—”

“Drop it. Now,” he said flatly, and Stokesy did, then he got a nod, a tap at his arm before Stokesy melted into the crowd, his chicken nuggets tossed in the bin.

Fuck. Ava. West had been on her streets of a night?

Drift fought an ill shiver as a set of twisted elves laid two long skipping ropes out on the path. Another came from the sidelines,carrying a lighter, and the crowd drew in a sharp breath as both ropes were set on fire now Brighty caught West.

The violin keeping the beat, Blackburn and Kent took up the burning ropes, alternating hits of rope on concrete, each arch of flamed rope creating the lingering burn deep into the night that waited for lost girls, lost souls no matter the gender. West was pulled into the middle by Hastings, and he made her jump ropes to try and get away from his hurt, her steps always one step ahead of his, but faltering as he grabbed her by the wrist and started on a tug of war now he could really make her dance.

That was the key for Keyne to drop his hold on the violin and step in and pull her from the fire. Only his look was too lost in the crowd, on a lad who returned his smile a little too much.

Fucking focus, twat.Drift didn’t shift his look. Keyne was only ever a stand in when it came to fired jump rope and fire poi in general, and this was why: his drop in concentration, on ques: dropping the ball with fired jump-rope dance. And it wasn’t kid’s play here: it could andhaddamn well burned.

And now West was left in the thick of it, forced to improvise with fire as Keyne fucked about with some guy in the crowd.

“Fucking asshole… you bloodyfocus….”

West was about ready to grab the end of the nearest rope and wrap it around Keyne’s neck. One place you couldn’t be stupidenough to improvise with was when two burning ropes were coming at you, trying to leave everlasting ankle bracelets around the ankles before it took someone to the floor. If she wasn’t ready to bolt and chase down Keyne and give him a whipping, Hasting’s certainly was.

Keyne seemed to snap out of his eye-fucking with Blondie and his mate over by the lamppost, but that was mostly down to Brighty crawling over to him and clawing at his legs, then as he went to steal the violin, Keyne startled and let him have it as he moved her way as—

A hold slipped around West’s waist, a body shaping so snugly behind her as her dance with fire was matched. Keyne skidded to a halt a few feet away, and West’s touch naturally rested on the hand pulling her close. She let a private smile creep in as her hand was taken because she knew… she damn well knew from the natural snug fit of body into hers who held her.

A hard and fast spin came, and she was free from the dance with fire a moment later, the rope missing her by inches. She automatically fell to the floor, true heroine-saved grace, but she used it to catch her breath and watch Drift at his best… and possibly his most worst when it came to fire… to dancing… playing with it.

Loose black hoodie covering his face, ripped black jeans such a tight fit to his slender form, matching black fingerless gloves… he almost blended into the night as a darker threat, his jump of rope barely caught in the backdrop of all of Hastings vibrance, colour, and threat. Then Drift went in, and Hastings met him head on, all to end in a vicious tug of war between them until Drift sent Hastings into a violent backflip that took him high above the flames. The second rope touched the floor, broke free, then Hastings landed press-up style and jumped the second onrush of flame, body so low to the ground. Drift followed his backflip a moment later, and he brought his body down on top of Hastings, almost adulterously close with how he caged Hastings beneath him for a second. Then as they jumped the flames together, Drift grabbed Hastings’ mask, exposing the face beneath the horror. They were moves Drift and Hastings had practiced for months long before they’d introduced the rope, let alone two that were set on fire. They took a lot of timing, a lot of planning to pull them off and make it look flawless, but this was who they all were: never more at home to the streets, to the dancing, the fire. West just wished to God Drift would commit fully to this, to Jackson, just get off feeding from the damn street and run with how damn well he played with fire away from all his Molotov cocktail throwing.

A cry went up from the crowd when Hastings was demasked, and Drift twisted to the side just as the rope came down again, leaving him next to Hastings as now in perfect synch, he matched missing the heat of the flames. Then as Hastings flipped to his feet, Drift followed him up, mounted his shoulders on one breath, fell back to his hands in the next, then used the momentum to twist Hastings out of the flames… out of the game.

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