Page 16 of Broken Pieces
I should look away. I don’t.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Figured maybe you’d shut up long enough to enjoy the view.”
She shrugs. “Still waiting to be impressed.”
I shift onto my side, propping myself on one elbow. “What, you want fireworks? A fucking string quartet?”
Her smirk tugs sharp at the corner of her mouth. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
I laugh. “All I’ve got is rust and a half-collapsed roof. Take it or leave it.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts her weight, stretching her legs out and leaning back on her palms.
“Guess it’ll do,” she murmurs.
“Is that a compliment?”
She smirks, eyes flicking to mine. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late,” I say, and this time when I look at her, I don’t bother hiding that I’m checking out her tits. “You ever feel like the world just decided who you were before you even had a fucking chance?” I ask.
“Every fucking day.”
The silence stretches.
She picks at a flake of rust near her thigh, more interested in peeling metal than looking at me. She doesn’t rush to fill the quiet. That’s what makes her different. Most people panic when it gets too still. Not Skylar. She breathes it in.
After a while, I mutter, “You ever wonder what she does with all the money?”
She snorts. “Yeah. The government pays her to “care,” but instead she spends it on holy threats and hooker perfume.”
I bark out a laugh.“She’s probably got a stash of cash buried under the floorboards. Saving up for a one-way ticket to hell.”
Skylar pulls her knees in tighter.
There’s more she wants to say, but she swallows it down.
I shift closer, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat roll off her skin.
“How long you been there?” I ask.
She leans back on her hands. Head tipped to the sky. Her throat bare, too easy to get caught staring at it so I drag my eyes away before they settle.
“Four years.” She shrugs. “What about you? How many foster homes have you crashed through?”
I lean back beside her, eyes on the sky. “Thirteen.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. First one had a dog that pissed in my bed. Second was worse. The guy had a thing for locked doors and bullshit excuses.”
She turns toward me, and I keep going. No point stopping now.
“Third one was alright. Fourth, I made it a month. Fifth? A week. Sixth had Bible verses taped to the fridge. ‘He who spares the rod’ kind of house.”
She hums. “Nice.”
“Didn’t make it to the ‘love thy neighbor’ part.”
