Page 17 of Broken Pieces
Her mouth lifts, barely.
Not a smile. More a crack in the wall. The kind of expression you give someone who’s been stabbed in the same spot too many times.
“Got kicked out of the last few for fighting. And, you know... being me.”
She cuts me a look. “So, being an asshole?”
I grin, slow and unapologetic. “A charming, fuckable asshole.”
“You really think that’s a selling point?”
“Depends who’s buying.” I stretch out on the tin, heat still clinging to my jeans.
“Christ," she groans. "Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
“Only when my mouth’s busy doing better things.”
She snaps her head around, with a glare that’s sharp enough to cut through bone.
But her cheeks betray her. There’s heat rising. That soft pink that says more than she wants it to.
“You’re a fucking pig.”
I grin slowly. “And yet, here you are.”
She flips me off without a word, but she stays right where she is.
I nudge her foot. Just enough to make contact.
“You ever try to run?”
“Twice,” she mutters. “Got caught both times.”
“Same. Made it all the way to a gas station once. Thought I was free. Got tackled by some guy outside a 7-Eleven wearing camo and fucking crocs.”
She laughs, head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut. Sound bursting out of her chest like it hasn’t had permission in years.
That sound cuts through all the shit. Makes the weight in my chest feel a little less heavy.
Her smile lingers, slower now. She’s watching me, really watching, and it’s not pity. It’s this quiet kind of seeing that undoes me. She looks at me like I’m not broken glass, like maybe I was never sharp enough to hurt anyone in the first place.
I don’t say a word. I won’t risk shattering whatever this is.
The sun drops low behind us. Everything turns gold. The roof. The rust. Her face. It hits her cheekbones first, then her lips. That mouth I can’t stop staring at. That mouth I want on mine.
“I’ll be out soon,” I say, staring out across the rooftops. “Two months. I turn eighteen on November fifth. After that, they can’t touch me.”
She shifts, pulling her knees tighter. “November fifth?”
I nod. “Why?”
Her mouth tugs into something that almost resembles a smile. “Mine’s the eighth.”
I blink at her. “No shit.”
She shrugs, eyes on the horizon. “Guess we’re both on borrowed time.”
“You know this doesn’t mean we’re friends now,” I say, my voice low.
