Chapter 18 #2
Sean stands from the bench and saunters to the window to grab our food. And when Rosa turns her back, he shoves a wad of cash into the tip jar. I smile as he sidles up next to me and grab his hand, dashing across the street and pulling him along with me.
“Jaywalking. Hmm. We’re off to a great start,” he says.
“Oh, this is just a drop in the bucket.”
“Anything we do can’t be any worse than drinking Michelob Ultra with tacos instead of Modelo. That should be a fucking felony.”
“You’re such a snob,” I say with a laugh as someone walks out of the building.
I let go of Sean’s hand and run to catch the door before it closes, then peek my head in, checking to see if that grumpy old goat is sitting at the desk in the reception. I crane my neck and find him nowhere in sight, which makes me even more nervous.
“Hurry up before we get caught,” I hiss, taking Sean’s hand again and dragging him to the elevator.
“Trespassing too?”
“Are you gonna list off every single one of my offenses all night?”
“Maybe.” He smirks.
I let out a sigh of relief when we step into the elevator and the door finally closes.
If I get caught here again, I’m sure they’ll throw me in the slammer.
Security has already warned me twice. Why do I keep doing it?
Why do I do anything? I have no idea. Maybe because I want to, or maybe it’s just that I’ve been a good girl all my life and now I enjoy a little mischief. Either way, I’m not hurting anybody.
We ride in silence, and my eyes flit up and lock on his.
This longing I can’t even describe stirs deep in my chest, making my heart ache.
He moves to close the distance between us, but the bell chimes, and the steel doors open.
I place my hand against his chest, stopping him from stepping out of the elevator, then quickly peek my head out of the confined space, looking both ways. My heartbeat slams against my ribcage.
God, I love this feeling . . . this rush.
We slip into an office space. The only thing lighting the way is the accent light strips along the floor.
This is the part I always dread the most. Every time I come in here, I get this eerie feeling.
Goosebumps pebble my skin and I feel like someone’s watching me.
It’s probably because of how dark the offices are and the fact that the place looks like something out of a horror flick.
I walk as fast as my feet will carry me, weaving between the cubicles until we approach a hallway bathed in pitch black. A red exit sign glows above the door.
“Where are we going?” he asks, following behind me as I lead us to the end of the hall.
I turn the knob and open the door to the stairwell, taking another peek to make sure there’s no security or cleaning crew before passing though.
“Up,” I tell him as I take the first step.
My legs burn as we climb up a few flights of stairs, but the view?
It’ll be completely worth it. Last time I was here, the alarm to the door was broken.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I ease the bar down, praying maintenance still hasn’t fixed it.
The door opens with only a creak, and a cool night air hits my face.
Then the wind picks up, catching the door and slamming it back against the building.
My hair whips around, and I swipe it from my face, then peer off into the distance as I step out onto the roof with him following behind me.
“Kind of reminds me of our night in Vegas,” he says.
And he’s right; it does. I found this rooftop after we broke up, and there’s just something about this place, maybe it’s the lights .
. . I don’t know . . . but when I'm up here, looking out over the city, I can’t help but think about the night in Vegas when we sat up on top of that cliff talking.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve spent a lot of time up here, drinking and wallowing in self-pity. Those were not my finest moments.
Setting the beer down, I turn to him. “It reminds me of Vegas too.”
“You come here often?” He asks, tilting his head to the side with his brows drawn together, as if his mind is working to make a connection.
“I used to,” I admit, cracking open a beer and handing it off to him, then I open one for myself and plop down. “But I haven’t been here in a couple of months.”
Sean sits down beside me, the paper bag crunching as he pulls out our tacos, handing a couple of them to me before unwrapping his and taking a bite.
“Oh my god. Mmm,” he says, covering his mouth with his hand as he chews. “This reminds me of home. I didn’t think anyone could beat my mother’s tacos but this? Holy fuck. Don’t you dare ever tell her I said that. I don’t want to lie to her face, but I will.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” I giggle, taking a sip of my beer. “Just wait till you try the menudo.”
“Now that’s where I draw the line. Nobody makes menudo better than my mom. It’s a family recipe.”
“What’s your family like?”
“Mine? Umm . . . they’re crazy. And when I say crazy, I mean certifiably insane.”
“Really?”
“Eh . . .” His hand tilts side to side and he laughs. “With seven of us, there’s bound to be one or two that’s a little crazy.”
“Seven?! How did I not know that?”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin and falls silent for a second before his eyes meet mine, regret shining behind them.
“You’d be surprised to learn that out of all of us, I’m the asshole of the bunch.”
“No way.” I gasp in mock surprise, pulling a laugh out of him.
“Kind of had to be if I wanted to be heard. My older sisters; Isabella, Sofia, and Victoria, are loud as fuck. They talk ninety to nothing and never shut up. My baby sisters, Viviana, and Ashley were always fighting over everything, and I had to play referee. Then there's my younger brother, Mateo. He goes by Matt or Matty. I had to do most of the talking for him because he never really spoke at all . . . now I can’t get him to shut up.”
Growing up as an only child, I always wished that I had brothers and sisters. Someone to tell my secrets to or play with when the days and nights at the arena became long and boring.
“Matt plays for California, right? If I didn’t know hockey, I wouldn’t know he’s your brother.”
“Probably because we don’t look alike at all.”
That’s not why. It’s because he’s never spoken about his family to me. Every time I broached a subject about anything to do with his life, he shut that shit down . . . but I don’t say that. Instead, I keep my mouth shut and let him continue.
“He looks more like Dad. So do Sofia and Ashley. The rest of us look more like Mom. Well, I say that, but Viviana is an exception; she’s this perfect blend of them both with the most beautiful green eyes. Matty reminds me so much of Aiden. I think that’s why Aiden and I are so close.”
“Then I bet he kept your mom on her toes.”
“My mom kept him on his toes. Still does.” He laughs, shoving our trash into the paper bag and setting it off to the side. “She’s like this five-foot-tall package of dynamite.”
Sean finishes up his tacos, and as he lies back, his head resting on his hand; his shirt rides up, showing off those delicious abs.
“What’s your dad like?”
“Dad’s a quiet, gentle giant of a man. I guess that’s why he and my mom work so well together.
They’re completely opposite. Anyway, they met during the winter Olympics.
She was a figure skater, and he played hockey for Team USA.
The figure skaters and the hockey players don’t usually practice at the same rink, but I guess the facility his team was supposed to practice at had a maintenance issue and the ice was being resurfaced.
Mom and Dad had some kind of run in about the team cutting her practice short, and she chewed my dad’s ass.
As if he could do anything about it. He says it was love at first sight.
She wanted the ice, and he wanted her, so he made a deal with her.
If he couldn’t do a quadruple axel, he’d give her the ice, and if he could, well then, she owed him a date.
Mom had no idea what she was getting herself into because Dad trained with a figure skater. ”
“So, I take it he pulled off the axel?”
“He did.”
“That’s romantic.”
“If you think that’s romantic, you should hear my dad tell the story.”
I smile down at him, and he holds out his arm. “Come here.”
I lie down beside him, placing my head on his chest. With the traffic below as our playlist, he squeezes me a tighter, and God, it feels so good to be wrapped up in him.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? To him?
Tears well in my eyes, and before I can blink them back, one trickles down my temple, dripping onto his shirt. I never stood a chance.
“Sean?”
“Yes, mi amor?”
“I miss you.”