Page 15 of Broken Pieces
I let the door groan shut behind us, metal dragging against metal. The sound bounces off the walls.
Inside, it’s all shadows and rot.
Dust hanging in the air, thick enough to choke on. A mattress slumped in the corner. Spray paint tagging every surface. The place stinks of old beer and burnt-out joints.
I nod toward the ladder bolted to the far wall. Rusted steel. Narrow as hell. It crawls up into an endless darkness.
“Come on,” I say, already moving. “The best part’s up top.”
She doesn’t follow right away. Just stares at the ladder, arms still crossed, one brow lifting.
“You always take girls to abandoned buildings and drag them onto rooftops? Real smooth.”
I grin. “Only the ones worth the view.”
She doesn’t say a word, but I catch it. That twitch of her mouth trying not to grin.
Then she falls into step behind me.
I take the lead, climbing slow enough so she can keep up.
Slow enough she sees where to step. But not too slow. I know damn well what this angle gives her.
Metal groans beneath my boots.
Her breath hitches behind me. Then a muttered “fuck” when her foot slips and she catches the rung, knuckles white.
I smirk and keep going.
At the top, I haul myself over and sprawl across the roof, arms behind my head. The tin roof burns straight through my jeans, heat biting into my skin. My leather jacket keeps the worst of it off my back, but it’s still hot enough to make me sweat.
The tin creaks under my weight. It’s dented, sunbaked, half-collapsing in places.
But it holds.
And so do I. Waiting for her to show up, for whatever comes next.
I tilt my head to watch her as she climbs over the ledge. That busted grace of hers, all fight and no trust, trying not to let on that she doesn’t know what the hell we’re doing up here.
From this height, the foster house shrinks into something far away and pointless. Just trees and rooftops and a town that couldn’t care less if we burned or disappeared entirely.
She tucks her knees up, wraps her arms around them. Watching the edge of the world like it might blink first.
“Didn’t take you for the romantic rooftop type,” she says.
I laugh under my breath, shift onto my elbows. “I’m not.”
She turns just enough to meet my eyes, expression guarded.
“Then why bring me here?”
I stare past her. Past everything.
“Because up here,” I say, “no one’s watching. No one’s waiting to fuck us over.”
I glance at her.
Her lips are parted just enough to fuck with my head. Her shirt’s fallen off her shoulder again—always that fuckingshoulder, and my eyes follow the curve down to the dip of her collarbone.
