Page 148 of The Fall
It takes me three attempts to work the deadbolt before I crack the door open, trying to look casual.
He’s still in his suit but has ditched his tie and his collar is open. There’s color in his cheeks and he’s trying to smile. He’s also holding a bottle of Glacier Cherry Gatorade in one hand and two hotel-grade champagne flutes in the other.
No matter how many times I’m near him, the reality of Blair shocks me all over again. His ice-melt eyes catch the hallway light, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about my rumpled suit and the fatigue on my face. “You’re not with the guys?”
He arches an eyebrow. “You think I’m craving bottle service and a shouted dance remix of ‘Mr. Brightside’?”
I laugh. “Hawks is always good for a couple crash-and-burns. That’s worth the cover charge most nights.”
“True. And tempting,” he admits. “But.” He eyes me. “Are you going to let me in, or should I drink this by myself in the hallway?” He holds up the Gatorade and the glasses.
I step aside. He passes close enough that our sleeves whisper together. I could count the muscles moving under his back. I don’t, but I could.
I’m trying to break myself of my addiction to him.
He sets everything on the dresser and leans against it, his arms crossed over his chest. “I wasn’t feeling the bar,” he says. “Hayes tried to sell me on karaoke, but there’s not enough alcohol in the world for me to make that much of a fool of myself.”
I huff. “He get the others up there?”
“Of course.”
The Gatorade bottle crinkles in his grip as he twists off the cap. Cherry-sweet scent hits the air between us. He tips the bottle over the first flute, and ghost-white liquid streams out. His wrist rotates just enough to control the flow, then he moves to the second glass.
My memory slams into me: him pouring with the same sure movements, the same focus. Except then his hair caught on tiny stars instead of hotel lamplight, water stretched behind him instead of beige walls, and I thought I had forever.
He sets the bottle down and lifts both flutes, offering one to me.
“Cheers,” he says, raising his glass.
“Cheers.”
We clink the flutes together. I hold mine tighter than I should. “How’d you get the glasses?”
“Asked the bartender. Pretty sure he thought I was trying to impress a girl.”
“But you brought them to me instead. He’ll be disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
I take a sip to buy myself time, the sweet cherry flavor washing over my tongue. Gatorade tastes better than it should from a champagne flute.
“Am I interrupting? Are you… heading to bed?” He hesitates. “Or were you… going out?”
“No, definitely not. I was… lying around.”
I might as well have said,Staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about you.
He takes a quiet sip of his own Gatorade. “The bartender said you can see fireworks from the roof. Do you want to go watch?”
We take the stairs. Blair walks ahead of me, the Gatorade bottle swinging low at his side. At the last door, he turns to me before he leans back against the push bar. When it opens, he stays there, holding it for me, and I slip past with only an inch between us.
Cool darkness washes over me as the roof opens up, biting across the backs of my hands and my overheated cheeks. The sky is ink and endless; Dallas hums under a wash of neon. The arena where we played earlier—and will play again tomorrow—is glowing.
“Over here,” Blair says, leading me toward the edge.
His shoulder settles next to mine. Below us, Dallas spreads in every direction, rivers of headlights flowing between towers of glass and steel. The bass from a dozen different clubs mingles into one continuous thrum that rises to us, mixing with distant laughter and the occasional car horn.
Wind cuts across the rooftop, carrying the scent of coming rain and Blair’s cologne. I take another sip of Gatorade to have something to focus on besides how right it feels to stand here with him.
