The Hero (The Techboys #7)

Prologue

James

The metal handrail is pitted and rough under my palm when I grab hold of it and pull myself up to the door with the worn sign that says “NO ACCESS.” It gives way with a sharp shoulder shove, and a warm wind plasters my T-shirt into my chest as I step out onto the roof and immediately stumble as something catches the edge of my sneaker.

When I squint down, the asphalt is raised a little.

A hiccupping laugh spills out of my mouth.

My cheeks sting as the sea air whips across from the bay, buffeting over the building and slapping into my face as I emerge from behind the raised stair bulkhead that stands like a box in the center of the roof.

The city lights are hazy, and I scowl. That’s not right—you don’t get a haze when the wind is blowing; I learned that at school. But they shimmer nonetheless, like the gauze of a woman’s dress, dusted with tiny sequins. And fuck, aren’t I being poetic tonight?

I lurch to the rail on the edge of the roof and spread my arms out into the gusting air.

I could fly like a bird. Fly away forever.

The metal is damp when I curl my fingers over it, and I wobble a bit as I place a sneaker on the lower rung: one leg over, then the other.

Now I’m sitting on top of it, and I stretch my arms out again.

It’s so hot and sweaty that the breeze lifting my T-shirt feels like bliss. I’m on top of the world.

“Woo-hoo!”

My hands snap back in to grasp the railing as I put both feet onto the ledge.

Now I’m on the wrong side of the railing, or the right side, depending on which way you think about it.

I huff at myself as I stare down at the traffic and the lights.

Brighton Beach. Acid bubbles away in my stomach and up the back of my throat.

So far away.

Everything’s so small!

There are hundreds of people in the cars down there, going about their lives, worrying about what’s for dinner, the coworker they hate, and whether their husband or wife is cheating on them. Is someone going to see me land? Watch me thud onto the sidewalk and crumple, my torso caving in on itself?

I shudder as I stare up at the night sky. No stars. Must be all the clouds. Perhaps a late-summer thunderstorm is coming, but it’s too dark to see.

How many stories does this building have, anyway?

Does it hurt when you hit the ground? Do you pass out on the way, or are you fully conscious when you land?

I should have done more research. But who the fuck cares, right?

I’ve drunk so much now I’m numb. My fingers catch against the rust of the railing.

I ought to have worn gloves for this. I tip my head back and laugh, swaying.

The ledge shifts beneath my feet and the drop yaws open below me.

Fuck, I can’t go yet, I’m not ready. I grab on, feet scuffling against the stone.

Jesus, it’s fucking slippery up here.