Maybe I did.
I give it a few more minutes, the apartment remaining quiet, before I take a deep breath. Face your fears…
I peek around the fridge and step out, barely making it three steps through the kitchen when a shadow moves in the darkness, a figure stepping into the doorway. Fuck. It’s like being punched in the chest, the air leaving my lungs, my vision blurring for half a second as I grip the handle of the knife tightly, ready to fight.
I raise my arm, but before I can lunge, bright light hits me, and I wince. What the fuck? It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up, for my eyes to make out the sight of Lorenzo, his hand on the light switch right inside on the kitchen wall.
The asshole turned the light on.
He raises an eyebrow, not saying a word, as he casually leans against the doorframe, clutching a bottle of liquor, taking a drink, his eyes on my hand.
On the knife.
Shit.
Instinctively, I release my grip, letting it clatter to the floor by my bare feet. My hands are trembling. I clench them into fists, but it doesn’t little to calm me down. “Jesus Christ, Lorenzo, you scared me!”
He meets my gaze, taking another drink, before waving the bottle toward the knife. “Thought I told you not to pull another knife on me.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” I say. “You didn’t exactly announce yourself.”
He says nothing, drinking some more, watching me as he does. His gaze crawls across my skin, giving me goose bumps. I shiver again, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m fully clothed, wearing pajamas—old gray sweats and a black t-shirt, my hair still wet from a shower, knotted on top of my head in a messy bun. I’m wearing not a stitch of makeup, my skin bare except for the lotion I always wear.
Shoving away from the doorframe, Lorenzo strolls through the kitchen, approaching. The closer he gets, the more my heart races, my stomach doing somersaults. He’s not drunk, I don’t think, the bottle in his hand only a quarter of the way gone, but there’s something off about him. I can’t put my finger on it. “What’s wrong with you?”
He stops right in front of me. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
Even the way he says that feels wrong, but I can’t exactly explain it. I don’t know what it is. Besides, he just answered my question with a question, which is a giant red flag.
I don’t answer him, since he didn’t answer me. After a moment, he raises a hand, to touch me, but I take a step back, putting space between us. His brow furrows, and I try to go around him, to get out of the kitchen, but he grabs my arm, pulling me back toward him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I asked you first.”
“I don’t give a shit,” he says. “Answer my question.”
I want to tell him to fuck off, that I don’t owe him any answers, but he’d probably just ask again and again until I caved and gave him what he wanted. “You’re being weird.”
“How?”
“Ugh, I don’t know.” I pull my arm from his grasp, and he lets go without a fight. “I can’t explain it. It’s just a feeling I’ve got.”
He stares at me again, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly with a hint of a smirk. He takes a swig of his liquor before walking over and picking up the discarded knife. It’s small, with a blunt tip and a serrated blade, the first knife I came across and probably the worst one to try to attack somebody with.
Shaking his head, he tosses the knife onto the counter before turning back to me. “You’re just being paranoid. There’s nothing wrong with me, except maybe that it’s cold as fuck in here. Does the heat not work?”
I relax a bit. Okay, that’s plausible. I might be paranoid. “The heat works. It just, you know... sucks.”
“Sucks,” he repeats, walking back over to me. “I guess that’s one way to keep warm.”
“Is that why you showed up here? Think you can drop in any time you want and get your dick wet?”
“Can’t I?”
I roll my eyes, starting to walk away again, when he laughs. He’s laughing. The sound stalls me.
“I’m just fucking with you,” he says, pausing before adding, “or well, not fucking with you. However you want it. Not a big deal.”
He skirts past me, out of the kitchen, flicking the light off as he goes, leaving me standing in the dark alone. Brow furrowing, I follow him to the living room, thinking he’s leaving. “Where are you going?”
“To smoke,” he says, bypassing the front door, instead going to the ladder that leads to the roof. “Join me or not. Whatever you want.”
Ugh. I scrub my hands over my face, groaning, as he makes his way up onto the roof. He’s giving me whiplash. Dealing with him is the last thing I expected to be doing tonight, considering I just saw him this morning, but now he’s here... well, he’s up there... and it kind of just makes me want to be wherever he is.
I know he’s just a man. A man with flaws. A man with his own problems. And I know he can’t solve my problem. Not really. He can’t fix what’s wrong with me. Nobody can. They can’t even understand. But being around him, it makes me feel things, things I’ve missed just as much as the music and the laughter, things that make me feel alive again.
He’s excitement. He’s adrenaline.
He makes my heart do stupid shit.
Shit my heart shouldn’t be doing.
Because everything that turns me on about him could also snuff me out. He’s violent. He’s temperamental. He’s dangerous. So dangerous. Twenty-four hours ago, I watched him murder someone. He didn’t even flinch as he pulled the trigger.
But then again, neither did I.
I watched him do it without reacting.
Maybe we’re not that different.
It doesn’t really matter, though, because the devil already took my soul. I have nothing to offer Lorenzo.
Not that he’d even want it.
Sighing, I stalk over to the ladder and climb up onto the roof. Lorenzo sits on the ledge, legs dangling over the side of the building, a cloud of smoke already surrounding him. I smell it as I approach and climb up on the ledge beside him, sitting down so close our arms touch.
Lorenzo turns to me and leans closer, like he might kiss me, but instead he lets out a stream of smoke. My lips part, and I inhale deeply, taking the remnants of the hazy air into my lungs, closing my eyes as I hold it, relishing the slight burn in my chest.
I exhale after a moment, reopening my eyes, and catch him staring at me, still just a breath away from my mouth.
I turn away, lowering my head, looking down over the side of the building, down at the chaotic city. My heart continues to batter my ribcage, chills covering every inch of my skin. I gently swing my legs, my bare foot grazing against his black combat boot. His boots are untied, loose on his feet, like at any moment they might fall off, but he doesn’t seem to give a shit.
It’s a long drop. I live on the sixth floor. From up here on the roof, it might as well be seven stories.
“Do you think it would hurt?” I ask, gazing down.
“What?”
“Falling.”
He takes a hit of his joint before wordlessly offering it to me. I take it, bringing it to my lips and inhaling, as he glances down.
“Falling doesn’t hurt,” he says. “I imagine it feels nice those few seconds, soaring through the sky.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s hitting the ground that hurts.”
“I wouldn’t even say that. From this height? You’ve got about a ten-percent chance of surviving. The hit, it probably doesn’t hurt. It’ll either kill you or incapacitate you, and either way it’ll be instant. Pain won’t come until you wake up and realize you’re not dead. So no, I don’t think falling hurts, but living through it sure as hell would.” He lets out a dry laugh, taking the joint back from me. “That’s usually how it goes, you know... dying has nothing on the horrors of surviving.”
How true that is...
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I mumble. “Falling.”
“I swear to fuck, Scarlet, if you jump off of this roof…”