a change of heart | e.k

Chapter Eighteen

When Lane heard about the meeting from Finch's perspective, she'd all but grabbed his hand and stormed towards Brooklyn, a word or two on her mind.

It hadn't been easy. When Finch had gotten back, he'd refused to talk to anyone. Even Race was oblivious to his friend's sudden hermiting. He'd mentioned that Finch had engaged in some conversations after the meeting, just as Race had. He'd seemed fine up until that point. There wasn't a soul who knew what had rendered him so tight-lipped.

So Lane, naturally, had decided to take it upon herself.

Finch was sitting in his bunk when she'd approached him, head in his hands. His eyes were closed, she noted, and his lower lip was pinched red from — she suspected — him gnawing on it. "You bett-ah not be keepin' secrets from me."

His eyes flew open, snapping towards her. "I'd nev-ah."

She crossed her arms. "Mm. Den what is dis I he-ah about you not talkin' ta anyone 'n bein' all moody?"

He turned away. "I ain't."

She frowned at his tall, lanky form, arms crossed like a shield. Clearly, something was wrong. She lowered herself onto the bed beside him, tucking a leg underneath her thigh. When that garnered no reaction, she rubbed the spot just between his shoulder blades. And somehow, she just knew. "Yer anxious."

He didn't respond.

She moved her hand up to his shoulder, stroking it. "I wish you would talk ta me."

Finally, he turned, meeting her gaze. "Nothin' ta talk about."

She pursed her lips together. "What happened at tha meetin'?"

His eyes shut again. "Nothin' you needa worry 'bout."

She rolled her eyes, flicking his forehead. He jerked awake. "Tell me now, or I'll force it outta you."

He groaned, grabbing the pillow from the head of his bed and burying his face in it. After a moment, he spoke. "Hotshot said you said dat you'd be Brooklyn's lead-ah 'til I agreed. Dat true?" She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Finch lowered the pillow. "You coulda told me."

She finally found her voice. "Alright, fine, we all have little secrets. But tell me he did not use me as a way ta convince you ta lead Brooklyn."

Finch stared up at her with the biggest, saddest eyes she'd ever seen. "It don't matt-ah. Ise gonna let him know I'll do it."

"'Cause Ise involved?" She grabbed his hand, hauling him out of the bunk. "Like heck you is."

Finch stumbled after her, which was quite funny considering their height differences. "Lane, Lane, it's fine. It has nothin' ta do wit you. I chose ta do dis 'cause Spot wanted me ta. I jus needed ta be alone for a bit before, dat's all."

"Either way," she said, "Ise gonna give dat boy a piece 'a my mind. How dare he-?"

Needless to say, that was pretty much how the rest of their walk to Brooklyn went. Lane muttering madly to herself, cursing Hotshot, and Finch following closely behind like a reluctant child. He'd tried stopping her, of course, but she now had some things to settle with a past acquaintance, and nobody, not even Finch, would be able to stop her from that. 

Eventually they arrived. She threw Bunker her most vicious glare, and he stepped aside obediently, making a point of not meeting her gaze. She figured Hotshot had probably told him to let Finch in, but her own theory — that she'd scared him into letting them in — made her feel better.

"Hotshot!" she yelled when they made it to the general area where he resided. Perhaps he was out selling, which set her blood boiling even more with irritation that she'd have to track him down, until a thump sounded and Hotshot came around the corner, grimacing.