Page 77 of The Publicity Stunt
“Not always.” Parker pops open one of the cans. “Only when I’m taking pretty girls to abandoned rooftops.” As he hands the can to me, the sleeve of his jacket tugs up slightly, uncovering a small portion of his wrist. The A. My fingers come to a halt.
“April?”
The second I look up, he looks down, replacing my gaze with his. “Oh.”
My stomach sinks to the ground. Oh.
I clear my throat and snatch the can from his hand. “If it makes you feel any better, I still have mine.” I don’t know why I say that. I also don’t know how that would make him feel any better about having my initial branded on him.
His eyes are still glued to his wrist and he absently runs a calloused thumb over the outline of my A, careful not to touch the tiny scars around it. “That was an eventful night,” he says.
Lifting the can to my mouth, I pull my hand back. “Do you know what that is?” I point toward the glowing purple speck in the distance.
“Should I?” Parker shifts closer, his knee casually touching mine. A familiar warmth settles between my thighs.
“I’ve lived here for eight years and every time I see those lights, I make a mental note to find out what they are.”
“In that case, it could be whatever you want it to be,” he says. “Maybe it’s a gigantic ultraviolet greenhouse.”
“That’s where your wild imagination took you? Plants?”
“What if they’re growing an entire rooftop’s worth of pot?”
“What if it’s one of those rich-people cults?” I one-up him. “And the purple lights mean they’ve just sacrificed another victim?”
“What if it’s a secret way to contact life on Mars?”
“Oh, my God!” I gasp and place my hand on his thigh. “What if the cult victim they sacrificed was an alien from Mars?”
Clamping his eyes shut, he starts to laugh and I feel the sound in my bones. “You’re so weird.”
“Me?” I retract my hand, the skin beneath my palm tingling. “You’re the one who suggested using fairy lights to contact E.T.”
He buries his face into my shoulder, muffling the sound of his laugh. A tsunami of jitters unfurls up my stomach and right to my heart, making it thump harder and harder against my rib cage. Parker’s hair, still a little wet from the stunt, tickles the crook of my neck, making the air a lot thinner than it actually is up here.
His laugh gradually subsides and he sits up straight. “Can I ask you something?”
“Mm-hm.” I take another sip of my beer, a big one this time.
He leans forward and winces at my beige heels. “That’s gotta hurt, right?”
“Says the stunt double.”
“True, but we’re talking about you,” he says. “Don’t your feet hurt?”
I flex my toes. “To quote Christian Dior, high heels are a painful pleasure.” Whoa. That came out way more sexual than I intended for.
Parker sets his can down. “May I?”
I narrow my eyes. “May you … what?”
He leans down and pulls my feet onto his lap. I squeal and rebalance myself against the concrete edge. He delicately slides each shoe off and places them next to his bag. “Wh-what are you doing?” I ask.
“Your feet deserve a picnic, Chere.” He starts to massage my ankle. A hundred bolts of electricity shoot up my leg.
Oh, God.
“And before you go off,” he says, glancing up at me before reverting his focus to the heel of my left foot, “I’m not breaking any rules. This is not me flirting. I just want to make you feel good.” He tugs on my big toe and squeezes the ball of my foot.
