Chapter 12 Shadows Of The Night
PAT BENATAR
The elevator seals shut behind us with a ding.
The hallway stretches out on both ends,
quiet, empty,
and the feeling of someone's watching
creeps across my skin.
Andrew’s looking down at me,
my last sentence sitting in his head,
deciding if it’s worth dealing with
or easier to pretend he missed it.
Then he raises his brows
and holds out his hand like—
don’t run yet.
We haven’t even gotten to the good part.
I take it, knowing it’s going to hurt later.
Then we move down the hall,
and I catch every glance he throws over his shoulder,
every flex of his jaw,
every step he keeps quiet—
not guilty nor innocent.
“You sure we’re allowed up here?” I whisper. “This feels like we're about to do something illegal. You trying to get me locked up or what?”
He tosses a grin at me.
The slow, sexy one—all fuck-boy foreplay.
“I got you, aight?” he says,
squeezing my hand.
His words make my heart spin like vinyl.
Faster.
Faster.
He checks his watch,
picking up the pace.
We stop at the last door.
A forgotten, wooden door with no sign.
Andrew checks both ways,
then reaches for the handle.
“Wait—”
He stops,
turning to me,
his eyes slamming into mine.
We share one breath,
his mouth half-open, waiting.
I nod.
And he moves, gripping my hand,
pulling me into a stairwell.
I have no clue why we’re in here.
It makes zero sense.
But when he’s holding my hand?
I don’t ask. I follow.
Which scares the crap out of me.
“This is batshit,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder. “I’m followin’ a guy I barely know who might be leadin’ me into some sketchy-ass service room just to rob me—steal my purse, my rings, my attitude—then leave me tied up in a mop closet ‘til next spring.”
Andrew doesn’t break pace.
He flashes that damn grin again.
But he’s still checking corners,
tracking shadows,
moving as if he's racing the clock.
We climb the stairs,
and my stomach’s floating.
It’s him,
and the way I’m still here,
holding his hand,
leaning into whatever stupid, reckless thing this might be.
And the truth?
I kinda love it.
His jaw’s tight now,
muscle ticking again, smile gone,
eyes focused, no more charm.
Wherever he's taking me?
We’re almost there.
At the top of the stairwell,
Andrew pulls a keycard from his pocket.
Swipes.
The door unlocks with a quiet click.
“Are you—”
He turns, pressing a finger to his lips.
Then there’s another door—
one you’re clearly not supposed to enter.
A crowbar’s wedged between the rusted hinges, holding it open.
Andrew exhales through his nose.
The sign above it reads:
Emergency Exit: Authorized Personnel Only.
My heart’s pounding with excitement or fear.
The line between the two doesn’t exist anymore.
Andrew slips through
as if he’s done this before.
I go with him.
'Cause I'm stupid.
We pass rusted pipes, buckets,
abandoned metal boxes labeled in Sharpie.
The room smells like rust
and something long dead.
We climb a short set of stairs.
Then the next door creaks open—
And the wind attacks me.
I stumble back,
but he catches my hips,
his breath warming my neck.
“Hold steady, my midnight angel.
“You fall, I’m right fuckin’ behind you.”
I look up,
and everything inside me just—
Stops.
Breathing.
Thinking.
Moving.
We’re on the roof.
The fucking roof.
And the whole damn city explodes around us,
infinite and impossibly alive.
All glass and moving lights.
Brooklyn Bridge stretches across the dark,
a vein close enough to touch.
The Manhattan Bridge spills light in the other direction.
Skyscrapers scrape the sky,
a city of steel constellations.
I can’t move.
My heart mistakes the moment for music 'cause it's hitting the same. It feels like we just ripped the needle across some forgotten '80s record used to blow out speakers in someone’s Camaro,
volume up,
windows down,
nothing but danger in the night air.
The moment's a rock ballad in my bloodstream.
All rebellion.
All heat.
All heartbreak waiting at dawn.
The wind rips through my hair,
steals air from my lungs,
forces me to feel everything.
I turn, stunned, absorbing it as it ruins me,
every inch of skyline and blinking window,
every story playing out below and all around.
It’s more than beautiful. It’s impossible.
It’s standing at the edge of the world and,
for once,
feeling like nothing below can touch me.
Not the past.
Not the fear.
Not the girl I’ve been dragging behind me for years.
“This is…” I whisper it,
but the words aren’t big enough.
“I know,” Andrew says softly, carefully,
afraid to scare the moment off.
He’s holding my hand, watching me.
His smile is small but real.
There’s a pulse in it that makes my chest shake.
A pull that makes me want to hold on.
He takes me to the edge,
and we both look down.
The massive clock glows over the whole block,
gold and godlike, its hands sweeping forward.
It’s overwhelming.
It feels… untouchable.
I feel untouchable.
The skyline. The lights. The clock.
The wind clawing at my skin,
starved for my attention.
And everything drops.
The label.
The rules.
The control.
The grief.
The fear.
All of it,
ripped out of my chest and tossed to the city
like it was never mine to carry.
And for a second—
just one second—
I’m bigger than all of it.
I laugh, and there’s no hiding it.
It's finally breaking free from the basement of my throat,
cracking out of me and hitting the night.
The city finally shut the fuck up long enough to let me breathe.
And then it hits me too hard.
My chest burns.
My vision blurs.
And all of a sudden,
I’m crying.
Fast, rude-as-hell crying.
I blink up at the sky,
try to swallow it back,
try to breathe through it.
I turn away from him, my hand leaving his,
hoping the wind will dry the tears
as soon as they leave my eyes.
But they keep coming,
spilling like they’ve been dying to.
I let out this weird half-laugh, half-sob.
I’m laughing-crying,
and I don’t know which part is worse.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And now my hands are shaking.
Yeah, it’s the view.
But it’s him, too.
It’s me.
It’s everything I’ve been fighting not to feel piercing through.
Then his hand catches mine again,
and he turns me to face him like—
Right here, angel.
And I fall.
Into his chest—
the only place left in the city that tucks me in.
His warm arms come around me,
pulling me in, and the world drops out.
As if he’s held me a thousand times before.
And he’ll do it a thousand times more.
I fist the back of his shirt.
“I don’t cry like this—I don't.
“That’s not my shit,” I breathe into him.
“I don’t get it, I’m not sad. Nothin’s wrong.”
I let out another broken laugh.
“I don’t know what the fuck this is.”
He holds me a little tighter as if he's saying—
Let go, tough baby. I got you.
And the way he wraps around me
makes me want to cry harder,
makes me believe I’m safe,
and I don’t have to be strong in his arms.
I look up, and he wipes under my lashes,
the tears belonging to him now.
His eyes search mine,
wanting to say something,
a mouth full of feelings,
but nothing feels good enough.
His fingertips trace the edge of my face,
and he leans closer instead,
kissing my forehead,
every word he can’t say,
stamped into my skin.
And for the first time in a long time,
I don’t feel alone.
I close my eyes and sink into it.
When he pulls back,
I tilt my chin up, resting it against his chest.
His eyes are glassy, his lids heavy,
his lashes dark
and holding back more than they let go.
I’m trapped in them
as his hand finds my jaw,
thumb dragging across my bottom lip.
Then he tips my chin higher,
parts my lips.
And he kisses me.
A slow, deep pull.
His hand drags down my arm,
fingers hot in the November freeze.
The cold slashes around us,
but the warmth of his kiss slides through my body.
His mouth.
His breath.
The taste.
Goosebumps raise across my skin.
My heart can’t sit down any longer.
She’s got a lighter up in the air,
swaying like this is a fucking ballad.
Until Guilt snatches the lighter right out of her hand and blows out the flame—
How the fuck you plan on confessin' now, genius?