Page 4 of These Wicked Hearts

I open the door and step onto the rooftop, and the warm October air breezes by me. I guess I didn’t need the hoodie. I walk out further and see something on the edge of the rooftop. What the fuck?

I slow my steps when I realize there’s a person sitting on the brick ledge looking over the side of the building. The last thing I want is to startle him.

I clear my throat, and his head whips in my direction. “What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps.

I glance around. “Me!? You’re the one sitting on the edge of a skyscraper.”

“It’s not a skyscraper.” He shakes his head, turning back around. I move carefully up to the wall then lean my elbows on it and look down over the edge. My stomach sinks. “How is your stomach not all swoopy?”

“Swoopy? Are you fucking five?”

“And a half actually.”

He stares at me for a second, then his mouth twitches. It’s just a whisper of movement before his lips flatten back into place. “Just leave me alone.”

I rest my chin on my arms to look at him. “I’m kind of lonely.”

“Not my problem.”

“What if I want to make it your problem?”

He exhales hard, scratching his fingers through his blue hair. It’s long at the top, pulled into a tiny ponytail with some pieces falling in front of his face. The sides are shaved and dark brown. The electric blue brightens his brown eyes a bit. “Why are you even up here? Most people just use their balconies.”

I shrug. “Didn’t feel like being in my apartment. I moved recently and I’m⁠—”

He exhales. “I wasn’t really asking.”

“Yeah, but I’m really telling.” I grin. “Sorry. I’m kind of a mess tonight.” And every other night.

“And you thought dumping on a stranger was a smart idea?”

“You know, you’re kind of bitchy.”

His dark brows lift. “Did you call me a bitch?”

“Bitchy, technically, but yeah, with confidence.”

“Asshole,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of amusement I catch. “Maybe I think you’re a bitch.”

“You don’t, though.” I smile, and this time I see his own spread a bit wider before he wipes it clean off his face. “Well, fine. I guess I’m a bit bitchy tonight. So, what’s wrong with you?”

He exhales, long and tired. “Too much.”

I take in his clothes. He’s wearing a light, black zip-up hoodie, the zipper open revealing a black tank top. I see tattoos peeking out here and there, and his eyebrow is pierced. I look at his ripped jeans as his fingers pick at the frays. His nails are painted black, and there’s a tattoo on his hand of a sunflower.

“How many tattoos do you have?” I ask.

“A lot.”

“Me too—” I lift my hoodie over my head and watch him take me in. “Sleeves on both sides. Then a tattoo on my chest.” He takes in my arms, and I know they’re hard to see through the shadows. The city lights aren’t very illuminating up here. He turns back, staring out over the city. “I’d feel better if you got down.”

“And I’d feel better if you shut the fuck up.”

“But I don’t want to.” I don’t know why, but I can’t walk away. I should, but something about this feels off.

“Why are you being a brat?”

“Because I like getting my way? Duh. Why does anyone like to get their way?”