Chapter 2 #3
“Are you sure about that? Most girls can’t get enough of it.”
She rolls her eyes, but her boots move.
One step.
Then another. She remains silent and falls into step beside me with her hands buried deep in her pockets.
There’s a shift in the air. Hot. Unsteady. As if we’re both one breath away from doing something stupid.
She doesn’t look at me, but I feel her presence. She’s close enough that my cock’s already twitching with every second of silence she feeds me.
But fuck, the space between us is alive.
My pulse won’t settle. Not for a fucking second.
Every step’s a fuse lit under my skin, every breath edged with the kind of tension that begs for a fight or a fuck. She’s too close. Close enough that if I reached out, I’d drag her in and wreck us both without thinking twice.
We don’t speak.
Not because we’ve got nothing to say. But because everything we’re holding back is louder than words. Her energy sparks next to mine, humming with heat neither of us has the balls to name.
I don’t look at her. I fucking can’t.
If I do, I’ll say something I shouldn’t. I’ll bait her and she’ll bite.
I keep my eyes on the alley, on the cracked pavement, and the shadows that don’t ask questions.
And she’s right there beside me.
Silent. Tense.
Following me straight into the storm.
I tune into the noise.
Engines. Horns. The low hum of the city trying to swallow me whole. It’s the only thing keeping my head on straight. Then her scent cuts through it, warm skin, heat, that fucking vanilla scent she always wears.
My hands ball inside my jacket pockets. Tight enough my knuckles pop.
We hit the corner and turn left.
My eyes move to the brick walls tagged in angry colors. To the dumpsters kicked in and bleeding rust. Glass catching the streetlight like it’s trying to show off.
It’s a dump.
There’s no denying that.
Skylar stops dead in the middle of the alley, arms crossed, jaw locked.
When I look at her she’s already watching me. There’s no fear in her. Just that steady, razor-sharp challenge simmering in her eyes.
“Where the fuck are you taking me?” she asks, voice low and edged in steel.
She doesn’t trust me. I can see it in every tight line of her stance.
But that’s fine. I don’t trust anyone either.
I watch the way the strands of her loose hair, sway in the cool breeze.
She doesn’t fix it. She stands there, stubborn as hell.
“You can come if you want,” I say. “Or crawl back to that shithole. But you’ll miss the view. Sun’s about to hit at the perfect angle.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m worth the risk.
“You planning on stabbing me?” she asks, voice flat.
“Not yet,” I mutter.
I step up to the side door, fingers curling around the rusted handle. It’s fucked. Bent halfway out of the frame. Paint’s peeled clean off, flaking under my grip. I brace a boot against the wall and haul it open with a grunt.
The metal screams. High and sharp. A dying animal howl that echoes off the alley walls.
The smell hits next.
Damp wood, old smoke, piss maybe. Years of stories no one wanted to hear.
I glance back at her.
“Ladies first,” I say, gesturing for her to enter.
She moves slowly.
Her boots crunch glass, hesitation loud in every step.
That stare hasn’t softened. She’s still watching me with the eyes of a hawk, like I might fuck her over the second she blinks.
I let the door groan shut behind us, metal dragging against metal. The sound bounces off the walls.
Inside, it’s all shadows and rot.
Dust hanging in the air, thick enough to choke on. A mattress slumped in the corner. Spray paint tagging every surface. The place stinks of old beer and burnt-out joints.
I nod toward the ladder bolted to the far wall. Rusted steel. Narrow as hell. It crawls up into an endless darkness.
“Come on,” I say, already moving. “The best part’s up top.”
She doesn’t follow right away. Just stares at the ladder, arms still crossed, one brow lifting.
“You always take girls to abandoned buildings and drag them onto rooftops? Real smooth.”
I grin. “Only the ones worth the view.”
She doesn’t say a word, but I catch it. That twitch of her mouth trying not to grin.
Then she falls into step behind me.
I take the lead, climbing slow enough so she can keep up.
Slow enough she sees where to step. But not too slow. I know damn well what this angle gives her.
Metal groans beneath my boots.
Her breath hitches behind me. Then a muttered “fuck” when her foot slips and she catches the rung, knuckles white.
I smirk and keep going.
At the top, I haul myself over and sprawl across the roof, arms behind my head. The tin roof burns straight through my jeans, heat biting into my skin. My leather jacket keeps the worst of it off my back, but it’s still hot enough to make me sweat.
The tin creaks under my weight. It’s dented, sunbaked, half-collapsing in places.
But it holds.
And so do I. Waiting for her to show up, for whatever comes next.
I tilt my head to watch her as she climbs over the ledge. That busted grace of hers, all fight and no trust, trying not to let on that she doesn’t know what the hell we’re doing up here.
From this height, the foster house shrinks into something far away and pointless. Just trees and rooftops and a town that couldn’t care less if we burned or disappeared entirely.
She tucks her knees up, wraps her arms around them. Watching the edge of the world like it might blink first.
“Didn’t take you for the romantic rooftop type,” she says.
I laugh under my breath, shift onto my elbows. “I’m not.”
She turns just enough to meet my eyes, expression guarded.
“Then why bring me here?”
I stare past her. Past everything.
“Because up here,” I say, “no one’s watching. No one’s waiting to fuck us over.”
I glance at her.
Her lips are parted just enough to fuck with my head. Her shirt’s fallen off her shoulder again—always that fucking shoulder, and my eyes follow the curve down to the dip of her collarbone.
I should look away. I don’t.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Figured maybe you’d shut up long enough to enjoy the view.”
She shrugs. “Still waiting to be impressed.”
I shift onto my side, propping myself on one elbow. “What, you want fireworks? A fucking string quartet?”
Her smirk tugs sharp at the corner of her mouth. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
I laugh. “All I’ve got is rust and a half-collapsed roof. Take it or leave it.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts her weight, stretching her legs out and leaning back on her palms.
“Guess it’ll do,” she murmurs.
“Is that a compliment?”
She smirks, eyes flicking to mine. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late,” I say, and this time when I look at her, I don’t bother hiding that I’m checking out her tits. “You ever feel like the world just decided who you were before you even had a fucking chance?” I ask.
“Every fucking day.”
The silence stretches.
She picks at a flake of rust near her thigh, more interested in peeling metal than looking at me. She doesn’t rush to fill the quiet. That’s what makes her different. Most people panic when it gets too still. Not Skylar. She breathes it in.
After a while, I mutter, “You ever wonder what she does with all the money?”
She snorts. “Yeah. The government pays her to “care,” but instead she spends it on holy threats and hooker perfume.”
I bark out a laugh. “She’s probably got a stash of cash buried under the floorboards. Saving up for a one-way ticket to hell.”
Skylar pulls her knees in tighter.
There’s more she wants to say, but she swallows it down.
I shift closer, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat roll off her skin.
“How long you been there?” I ask.
She leans back on her hands. Head tipped to the sky. Her throat bare, too easy to get caught staring at it so I drag my eyes away before they settle.
“Four years.” She shrugs. “What about you? How many foster homes have you crashed through?”
I lean back beside her, eyes on the sky. “Thirteen.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. First one had a dog that pissed in my bed. Second was worse. The guy had a thing for locked doors and bullshit excuses.”
She turns toward me, and I keep going. No point stopping now.
“Third one was alright. Fourth, I made it a month. Fifth? A week. Sixth had Bible verses taped to the fridge. ‘He who spares the rod’ kind of house.”
She hums. “Nice.”
“Didn’t make it to the ‘love thy neighbor’ part.”
Her mouth lifts, barely.
Not a smile. More a crack in the wall. The kind of expression you give someone who’s been stabbed in the same spot too many times.
“Got kicked out of the last few for fighting. And, you know... being me.”
She cuts me a look. “So, being an asshole?”
I grin, slow and unapologetic. “A charming, fuckable asshole.”
“You really think that’s a selling point?”
“Depends who’s buying.” I stretch out on the tin, heat still clinging to my jeans.
“Christ," she groans. "Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
“Only when my mouth’s busy doing better things.”
She snaps her head around, with a glare that’s sharp enough to cut through bone.
But her cheeks betray her. There’s heat rising. That soft pink that says more than she wants it to.
“You’re a fucking pig.”
I grin slowly. “And yet, here you are.”
She flips me off without a word, but she stays right where she is.
I nudge her foot. Just enough to make contact.
“You ever try to run?”
“Twice,” she mutters. “Got caught both times.”
“Same. Made it all the way to a gas station once. Thought I was free. Got tackled by some guy outside a 7-Eleven wearing camo and fucking crocs.”
She laughs, head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut. Sound bursting out of her chest like it hasn’t had permission in years.
That sound cuts through all the shit. Makes the weight in my chest feel a little less heavy.
Her smile lingers, slower now. She’s watching me, really watching, and it’s not pity. It’s this quiet kind of seeing that undoes me. She looks at me like I’m not broken glass, like maybe I was never sharp enough to hurt anyone in the first place.
I don’t say a word. I won’t risk shattering whatever this is.
The sun drops low behind us. Everything turns gold. The roof. The rust. Her face. It hits her cheekbones first, then her lips. That mouth I can’t stop staring at. That mouth I want on mine.
“I’ll be out soon,” I say, staring out across the rooftops. “Two months. I turn eighteen on November fifth. After that, they can’t touch me.”
She shifts, pulling her knees tighter. “November fifth?”
I nod. “Why?”
Her mouth tugs into something that almost resembles a smile. “Mine’s the eighth.”
I blink at her. “No shit.”
She shrugs, eyes on the horizon. “Guess we’re both on borrowed time.”
“You know this doesn’t mean we’re friends now,” I say, my voice low.
Skylar doesn’t even flinch. “God, I fucking hope not.”
“Good. I hate that shit.”
“Same.”
Neither of us moves.
We just sit there, shoulders nearly touching, the sky bleeding orange and violet above us.
For once, it doesn’t seem like the world is trying to crush me. And maybe we’re still both fucked in different ways. Still angry, guarded, waiting for someone to give up on us.
But right now, sitting on this rooftop with her, nothing about it seems impossible.