"Come on," he says, reaching out a hand. I get up, but don't take it.

"I don't really feel like going anymore, Chance. Dad is probably going to want to talk to me."

"f.u.c.k your father. Let's go, I'm starving."

"f.u.c.k my father?"

"Yes, f.u.c.k him. He should be concentrating on scrounging together enough money, not having it out at you."

"He's not going to have it out at me."

"Yes, Ca.s.s, he is. He's ashamed, his ego has been bruised, and he needs an outlet. I wouldn't risk it. Come with me today."

I want to bite back. He doesn't understand... I need an outlet.

"Come on, you can b.i.t.c.h at me as we walk."

Crossly, I fold my arms. "I resent that."

He gives me a small shrug, and there's just a glimmer of a smirk on his face.

"But I reserve the right to do so."

"Fine by me," he says.

I don't know why a I shouldn't be taking such big risks, especially in the lobby of our hotel a but I take his hand. I don't care anymore if Dad sees us. I don't care if he finds out that we're together now.

We're together. Even I haven't thought about it in those words.

It feels good to hold his hand. I feel somehow safer when I do, like I'm not the only one dealing with all of this s.h.i.+t.

Chance is right there in it with me, too. He's even the one who is going to be fighting.

We're in this together.

"You really don't have to do this."

"You heard me last night. It's all set in stone. I've already arranged the fight."

I swallow. "You knew I was listening through the door?"

Chance just nods.

"What if you lose?"

He looks down almost angrily at me. "I'm not going to f.u.c.king lose."

"Fine," I say. It feels like we're on the brink of an argument and I have no idea why. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Don't apologize, Ca.s.sie. It's just I've never fought a guy as good as Kaminski before."

"So?"

"I can't be lacking anything in the cage. I need to know I'm going to win. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I get it, Chance. Confidence."

He changes the subject: "I need either tuna, chicken, and some brown bread with a boiled egg."

"Well, great, that leaves us lots of places."

"It's to prepare for the fight. I can't be eating junk food, or rich food."

"You could probably get turkey easily?"

"That'll do," he says.

We sit down at a small cafe and eat breakfast mostly in silence. Chance looks off somewhere else, and it disconcerts me. I almost wish he had his c.o.c.ky, swaggery-self back, always making inappropriate jokes and being a general d.i.c.khead.

Now... now he is preoccupied.

I guess that I am, too.

I look up from my scrambled eggs on toast, see a kind of burning urgency in his eyes.

"Are you nervous?"

"No."

"Afraid?"

"No."

"You just want to be prepared."

"f.u.c.king right."

"Okay," I say. I lick my lips. "Then how can I help you?"

"Help me?"

"d.a.m.n right," I tell him, imbuing my voice with as much conviction as possible. "You're not alone, even in the cage."

"I'll need you to be there," he tells me. "I'll need to know what I'm fighting for. What I might lose."

"I'll be there," I say. "What else?"

"For the next five days I'm going to be studying videos of Kaminski."

"Then I'll study them with you. I might catch things you don't."

"Okay," he says, nodding slowly.

"How else can I help you? Keep my dad off your back?"

"I don't need your help for that. He's terrified of me."

"Then is there anything else?"

His tongue wets his lips. I see a grin. "Let me f.u.c.k you when I want to."

I pause for a moment, but return his smile. "We'll see."

He leans back, plate clean, and sparks up a cigarette.

"You shouldn't smoke."

"Not this again."

"No," I say. "I mean, I read that people who stop smoking report increased endurance within just days of stopping. It'll help you. Every little edge, right?"

Chance looks at me, paused in the moment. His cigarette smokes itself, and the wispy trails momentarily shroud his hazel eyes in grey.

He puts it out, crushes up the pack, and leaves it on the plate. He throws down some money after.

"I don't think they do it like that here," I tell him gently.

"Like I give a-"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, waving him off. I don't let him see it as I get up, but I'm grinning. There it is. "What's our first stop?"

"National Gallery," he tells me matter-of-factly.

"You remembered?"

"You made a list of three museums, Ca.s.sie."

"Right. We can take the train."

"f.u.c.k the Underground. We'll get a taxi, we're not that far. Haven't you always wanted to ride in a London cabbie?"

"I wonder what English people think about tourists who come here expecting red double-decker busses, red phone booths, beef eaters, and cabbies?"

"Probably the same thing we think when non-Americans think America consists only of New York, Los Angeles, and the Whitehouse. Oh, and hot dog stands."

"And yellow taxis," I say.

"And aliens."

I raise an eyebrow. "Aliens?"

"Yeah. Whenever they invade Earth, they always seem to attack America first."

Chapter Twenty Six.

"Which was your favorite museum?"

"National Gallery," he says. "s.h.i.+p wrecks and nudes, right?"

It's dark now, and the whole city looks different. By the time we got around to having a bite to eat, night had already fallen.

The hours just flew by, and while it wasn't the most talkative time I've ever had with anyone, it was fun.

A release, even, to do normal things and not worry about the impending fight, about how everything is riding on one insane bet.

"Where the h.e.l.l are we?" I ask, peering around but not recognizing anything.

It's always like that; you know your way around, roughly, during the day, but once the sun sets, suddenly you can't remember if you walked down a particular street before. The bouncing street lights, different vibe... it's easy to get lost at night.

I squeeze Chance's hand. "Are we going the right way?"

"Depends where we're going."

"Uh, to the hotel?"

"Then yes."

"Are you sure?" I ask, turning around. I don't really recognize anything, and even worse, it drizzled when we were eating in the small cafe, and so the cobbled-stone street was all s.h.i.+ny, further disorienting me.

I really don't recognize this street. I see two guys walking a bit behind us, and they've got their hoods up. Otherwise, the street is pretty empty. A car potters by, but it's eerily quiet for what I a.s.sume is typically a bustling portion of central London.

"Where are we going, Chance?"

"To the hotel. It's this way."

"But I don't remember walking up this street."

"You were busy yapping away about something," he says.

"Shut up," I say, slapping his arm. "I was not yapping."