a hopeless romantic | r.s

Chapter Eleven

Lane groaned, pressing her face into Race's bed pillow as Specs iced her sore, scarred fingers. "I hate my job."

"Don't we all," Albert commented from the bunk above her.

"Did I ask?" she snapped, lifting her head.

She didn't mean to be so harsh, but she'd been impatient with everyone lately. With winter quickly approaching, the clothing factory had been pushing them relentlessly in order to keep the higher class happy and warm.

And so, she'd been forced to stay hunched over whatever it was she was working on, staying like that for longer than should've been allowed, inevitably straining her eyes. As a result, her eyes, neck, head and fingers all throbbed in protest day after day, begging her to take a break.

It hadn't helped any that she was still sore from the Refuge, and she'd been thrown around once too many times since then. She had no hope of it ever ending. She'd also forced herself to refrain from flinching every time Specs took her hands, despising how jumpy she'd become.

"They's real swollen," Specs mentioned, referring to her fingers. "Yer hands is all cracked, too. What do dey do ta ya in dere?"

"Dey work us 'til we bleed," Lane grumbled. "At dis point, I'd almost jump at tha chance ta work fa Puliz-ah."

"We could use a goil," Race commented. "Usually, we'd say no, 'cause tha Delanceys, but if anyone knows who ta deal wit 'em, it's you."

Lane groaned again at the mention of her brothers, plopping her face back into the pillow. She hadn't seen them since the mini kidnapping, and she'd intended to keep it that way.

"It's gettin' kinda late," Albert pointed out, sticking his face down to look at her. "Where's yer boy at?"

"Do I look like I follow him wherev-ah he goes?" Lane demanded. "I ain't his muddah."

"Well..." The three turned away when they noticed the glare she had sent their way.

Finch came in at that moment, and almost immediately went to the wall. He started sliding his hands along it, almost as though he were looking for something.

"Uh... Finch?" Lane questioned. "Ya lose somethin'? Yer slingshot's in yer pants."

"I know," he replied simply, eyes scanning the cracked plaster.

All four of them exchanged confused glances. Lane was sure he wasn't hiding a migraine- he'd be clutching onto the wall if that were the case. In fact, it seemed to be quite the opposite. She was sure she'd never seen him look so focused until then.

"So what's..."

"It's nothin'," he said quickly, biting his lip when he saw everyone staring at him, unconvinced. "I jus hoid somethin' out on tha streets."

A moment passed, before the other boys shrugged, as if this were a normal occurrence. Lane, however, had not been so easily swayed. "Really? What'd'ya hear?"

Finch hardly spared her a glance. "Jus somethin'. Don't worry 'bout it."

"I don't believe you," Lane said before she could stop herself, and the world seemed to freeze around them. Never had she ever disputed something Finch had said like she had just then.

"Lane," started Specs cautiously, "he hears stuff on tha streets all tha time. If he says it's nothin', den it really is nothin'."

Lane gazed at Finch for a moment longer, before finally caving in and turning away, facing the wall beside Race's bed. "Alright, fine. it's nothin'."