Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
No alarm.
Thank God.
I walk out onto the rooftop and exhale.
A gust of wind hits my face, a burst of fresh air on my hot skin. All of the city lights twinkle below the inky night sky. I heard that a windstorm is blowing through tonight, but the whip of the air doesn’t bother me.
New York is vast and tall, nothing like my palm-tree lined home in LA.
But right now I’m glad for the difference.
I look up at the cloudy sky, trying to will the adrenaline out of my blood, but it doesn’t take.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, and it comes out breathless.
It’s not just my work schedule.
It’s not just the mobs of fans, either.
I’ve known all week that it’s more than that.
On top of everything, this week holds the ten-year anniversary of Daniel’s death, a night I’ve probably been dreading all week, and likely the reason I’ve been drinking Scotch like a fish every night alone.
My childhood best friend’s been gone so long now that my whole life is unrecognizable from what it was like when he died. He passed when we were 19, and now I’m 29. Ten whole years.
His fame was nothing close to this… and it still ate him alive. He starred in a couple of teen movies, started getting recognized, and got a little bit too much money too young.
Fame drained the life from him. Took him from me.
At first, just his friendship. And then all of him.
I normally keep all of that in a sealed black box inside me… but it’s harder right now. Knowing that it’s been a full decade makes it hurt in a new, sharp sort of way.
Being thrust into the same public eye that destroyed my friend’s life, and ended up killing him, also doesn’t help much.
I pull in a long, slow breath, trying to steady myself.
“To everything being different,” I say softly into the air to nobody, holding up the bottle of liquor before I take a swig.
I’m only alone for ten minutes, taking small sips from the bottle, when I see a flash of movement.
Someone storms outside.
The glossy black door swings open fast, and I see a figure in the dark.
It’s him.
The bartender.
I’m leaning on a half-wall in the shadows, out of his view. An orange-red neon sign casts a pool of light from a nearby building, and he steps forward into the glow, toward the edge of the roof. We’re on the twentieth floor and the air is whipping his waves to one side of his head.
I stay hidden. I don’t even want to think tonight, let alone speak to a stranger who makes me feel too many things.
He's upset. Clearly.
Who hurt you?
He reaches out with the toe of his black boot and kicks a leaf over the edge, his leg going out over the open air for a moment, 20 fucking stories above the city.
I get a molten feeling in my knees and deep in my stomach.
Okay, so you’re insane.
He sits down right on the end of the roof and his long legs dangle off the goddamn side of the building, pressing his palms behind him on the low ledge and turning his head up to the night sky.
I can’t take it anymore.
I have to move.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” I call out, my voice echoing slightly as I walk over toward him, stepping into the neon light.
He keeps his body leaned back as he turns his head, frowning at me like I’m the intruder.
“Didn’t come up here for company.”
I nod toward the ledge. “Neither did I. Did you come up to be one bad move away from death?”
He realizes it’s me and his expression softens a little. But he’s still upset. He lets out a sigh, turning back toward the city. His neck is smooth and pale, and his necklaces glint in the light.
Everything about him is unpredictable in a way that puts me on edge. I feel like my body is suddenly hooked up to the electrical grid.
He can’t possibly be about to jump, right?
“I wanted to be alone.” He stresses the last word as he cuts me another look.
“Sorry,” I tell him, but I don’t step away.
He moves to rake a hand through his hair, then leans back on his elbows. His sudden movement sends a fresh jolt of fear through me because holy hell, one wrong movement and you’re splattered on the concrete, kid, do you have some sort of deathwish?
On instinct, I step forward and reach in front of his shoulder.
“Chill out,” he says, swatting my hand away and sighing. “What are you, nighttime security patrol?”
“Be more careful,” I tell him. “Maybe I was just scared shitless I was about to see you become a bloodstain on the street.”
“If I move, will you leave me alone?”
“Yes. Please. Just get up slowly.”
He swings one of his boots back up onto the cement with a total lack of self-preservation. I reach down and grip his arm, and I refuse to let go until he’s standing again.