I eventually convince the girls to leave, then spend the next few hours in the shower, trying to rinse off every last memory of their lapping tongues and claw-like nails. A note from President Snow himself reminds me that my patrons won't wait forever, and I wonder why I even bothered with the shower in the first place.
I am not free again until late the next night, so late it shouldn't properly be called night but instead ridiculously early in the morning, far too late to seek out Mags and hear how our tributes' first day of training went. Instead, I head to the roof of the training center, too keyed up to sleep, trying to shake off the after-effects of whatever was in that last drink, to ignore the pounding in my overtired brain, to forget about the uncomfortable way my sweat-stained leather pants cling to my legs.
I stand at the very edge of the roof, looking down at the glowing lights and twinkling billboards, the honking cars and the people, mostly drunk at this hour, roaming the streets in search of their next fleeting high. I think of Barstow Shan, the man I was with earlier, and shudder involuntarily as the image of his leering, pudgy face appears in my mind. I wonder, not for the first or last time, if the shock of jumping into the force field that surrounds the training center would be enough to kill me straight away, before the Capitol had time to bring me to a hospital and resuscitate me. I really should try it sometime.
A soft noise startles me out of my self-destructive musings, and I glance around, surprised to find that I am not alone on this rooftop. Annie and Cinna sit in the dirt in the middle of the little garden, surrounded by the wind chimes that blow and tinkle in the breeze. She has her head buried in her lap, and he has his arms clasped around his knees, a tormented expression on his face. They appear to be talking quietly.
No one notices my presence, so I stay still, listening to the rise and fall of their voices. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it. Besides, I rationalize, Annie never willingly talks to me, even though I'm her mentor. I didn't even have time to give her instructions about training today, because of my stupid client schedule. So how else am I supposed to learn about her?
"No, it was blonde, actually. And very, very short. Almost a buzz cut. But his facial expressions…and the way his eyes seemed to hold so many feelings, all at once…that's the part of you that reminds me of him," Cinna is saying.
"Oh. Cinna, I…I'm really, really sorry," Annie replies.
"So am I." I don't think I'm imagining the tears in Cinna's voice.
Annie remains silent for a long while.
"What about you, little Annie?" Cinna asks at last.
She shakes her head, letting out a strange, strangled laugh. "Are you kidding?"
Cinna looks at her. "No. Of course not. I honestly thought…you're a very pretty girl, Annie. I wasn't joking when I said that, before. And you're not at all stuck-up or superficial or -"
"You know what everyone in Four calls me? Crazy Cresta," Annie says.
Cinna is confused. "But you're not, little Annie. You're a very smart girl. Smarter than your years, in fact." She does not respond. "Annie, where're your parents?"
The girl sighs and plays with the lace edge of the flimsy nightgown she wears underneath her thick green bathrobe. "Mommy died…w-when I was f-four. She slipped and fell off the boat, in a storm. There was a…a whirl…p-pool…it ate her, Cinna, just like a m-m…like a mutt. I…I s-saw it. Daddy c-can't work. He…drinks. A lot."
"So they put you in a Home?"
Annie nods. "My brother d-didn't want to…I'm a pain," she explains, her tone sad. "I think…I embarrass him."
I realize that I am already walking towards her, drawn like a magnet by the sorrowful ache in her voice. Annie and Cinna, alerted to my presence, look up almost simultaneously.
"Alright, Cinna, quit flirting with my tribute," I say.
Inexplicably, Annie and Cinna burst out laughing, shooting each other highly amused glances that I don't understand at all.
"Hey, Annie, how was training today? I've been wanting to talk to you about it."
"Fine." She stares at her hands as though her fingernails are suddenly the most mesmerizing thing on the planet. Despite the fact that Finnick Odair himself is standing not three feet away from her, wearing nothing but skin-tight leather pants.
"Her knots amazed the instructor, and she learned a lot about edible plants, too. But she didn't want to do weapons. All the Careers were hanging out over there," Cinna tells me, his tone matter-of-fact.
I am suddenly, inexplicably angry. "And why the hell do you know? She's my tribute."
"Yes, that much was obvious when she was the only one who showed up at training alone this morning. Even Haymitch managed to sober up long enough to drag his tributes down there."
"Well, I'm sorry that I have other things to do. Believe me, Cinna" – I sneer his name – "believe me, I am. You don't know how much I wish this was my only responsibility. Teaching her to fight would be way better than- than –" I splutter.
"Than what, Mr. Odai- er, Mr. Finnick?" asks Annie, curiosity obviously having gotten the better of her revulsion towards me and my indecent ways.
I shake my head, astonished that my cheeks are actually turning red. I haven't been embarrassed in years. It's sort of hard to be, in my line of work.
"Annie, you should get some rest," I say instead, blatantly changing the subject.
"I can't. That room's too…too…" She looks at Cinna for help.
"Big? Fake? Capitol-ish?"
She nods, agreeing to all three. "Something like that. I keep expecting mutts to come out of the shadows and devour me."
"They won't, little Annie. It's the Capitol's job to keep you safe, until…until…" This time it's Cinna who is at a loss for words.
"Tell you what, Annie. Let's get some practice in, if you don't think you can sleep. I'll teach you how to throw knives."
"The weapons room is locked." But Annie actually looks relieved at my suggestion. She must really want something to do.
"We don't need it. Come on." She follows me down the stairs, stopping in the hall of our floor to give Cinna a big hug and bid him goodnight in the most sincere voice I have ever heard. It bothers me, the way she has absolutely no qualms about letting a strange Capitol man with gold eyeliner give her a goodnight hug. She's way too trusting.
I take her into the kitchen, where I find a collection of carving knives, and then we go to the conference center, which boasts a large, blank wall opposite the television screen. I toss a knife against the wall in demonstration, pleased that it sticks solidly. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, and I'd like to think that she is impressed. There, Annie. Bet your Cinna can't do that.
Then I hand her a knife and position her body properly, showing her how to throw the weapon, how to recoil her arm and release the knife, how to aim, how to hit a mark. At first, Annie is tentative, handling the knives with a caution that borders on timidity, as though she is afraid they might turn around on their own initiative and stab her in the gut. But she gradually becomes more confident, putting more of her strength behind the throws, solidly sticking a good number of them, and eventually managing to hit the centers of the circles I draw on the wall in white chalk. She must have either really good hand-eye coordination or really good luck, because her aim is true nearly every time.
"Okay, hotshot, try this," I say, pleased with her progress. I take the chalk and draw a series of large X's on the wall, directly below the ugly portrait of President Snow that the Capitol decorators hang in every room of the training center.
Annie selects three knives, sights for her marks, and throws, one after the other after the other. The first knife hits the wall handle-first and bounces back to us, but the other two hit the exact center of the X's.
"That was good, Annie. Two out of three isn't bad at all," I tell her.
She bends down and picks up the fallen knife. "No," she says. "But three out of three is perfect." And the knife whizzes through the air as she chucks it at the wall.
Straight into the photographed President Snow's left eye.
She bites her lip, nervously meeting my disbelieving gaze. And then I notice the mischievous sparkle in her eyes, and burst out laughing. She starts laughing, too, bending over and clutching her sides in mirth. Her laugh is sweet and ringing, a clear, genuine sound that inexplicably causes me to panic. At least, I think that's what I'm feeling. What else would explain my heart's sudden thumping against my ribcage?
"Here," I say finally, pulling the knife out of the portrait. "We shouldn't leave incriminating evidence around."
"Th-thanks." She is still gasping for breath. And then her stomach rumbles loudly, and she starts laughing again. I can't see her face, but I think she is blushing, judging by the red color of the part in her hair.
"Hungry?"
She nods slowly and looks up at me, her gaze tentative and shy.
"Me too. Come on, you. Let's go find something to eat." Before I fully realize what I'm doing, I reach down and grab her hand, pulling her up. I freeze instantly, physically shocked by an unseen electrical current burning through me.
I loosen my grip, afraid I've shocked her, too, expecting her to yell at me and back away, utterly repulsed by the merest brush of my defiled fingers against her soft skin, but instead she allows me to lead her to the kitchen, hesitantly giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. My heartbeat starts going wild again – I'm beginning to think that I'm having some sort of delayed reaction to whatever drink that last patron gave me. I must be, because there's no other way to explain the jolt of electricity that ran through my body when I first took her little hand in mine, or the vibrations that continue to race through me, warming me inside and out.
"Do you like pancakes?" I can actually cook pancakes, believe it or not. They are wholesome, filling, and relatively simple to make – the perfect sustenance for an eternal bachelor like me. "I'll make some, if you want."
"Oh-okay." She looks uncertain as I release my grip on her hand, feeling unnaturally cold the instant I do so, and motion for her to take a seat. She ignores the chair, and instead moves to help mix the ingredients I have assembled.
I shake my head as I stir the batter and pour it onto the hot griddle. "Not a chance. You're the one going in the arena in three days. Besides, you're the lady. That means you have to let me serve you." I pull out her seat with one hand and use the other to scoop up the first pancake, which is threatening to spill over onto the stove.
Annie is staring at me like I've grown three extra heads, and I suddenly realize that my voice is actually my voice, not the low, seductive purr I always adopt when talking to the men and women who solicit my services in the Capitol.
I take out a plate, flip the (rather enormous) pancake high into the air, then expertly catch it on the china and place it in front of Annie. "Here you are, Miss Cresta," I say smoothly, winking and tipping an imaginary hat at her.
And for the first time, she smiles at me.
She smiles at me, cheeks dimpled and suddenly rosy, frothy sea green eyes glittering like water in the sun, lips full and pink and joyful.
She smiles at me, and my world shatters.