“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” And the truth of the matter is I don’t give a flying fuck about the drink. I would’ve bought it anyway out of plain manners, but something tells me I just walked right into her well-maneuvered game, and fuck me if I’m going to stay there.
“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” She raises her eyebrows as she brings the cocktail to her lips. And of course my eyes veer down to watch her run the tip of her tongue over the rim of her glass to the drop of liquid that falls there.
My mind drifts to the pleasure she could bring with her mouth and her tongue… purely out of male fascination.
“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” I grunt out the words, unsure why I’m pushing her away so hard when she’s done nothing wrong.
“So you’re the one, huh?”
Her comment stops me with my drink midway to my mouth, and my thought process falters as I slowly look over to her, trying to figure out what she means. “The one?”
“Yep, the one that every reporter in this room hates and wants to be all at the same time.”
I take in the glossy black hair pulled back so that little pieces fall down to frame her face and soften her strong cheekbones as I mull over her comment. When our eyes meet, there’s defiance laced with amusement in hers, and as much as I want to face her challenge head-on, I won’t. Not here, not now – and definitely not with a room packed with other journalists who are watching my every move to see if I’m going to fall apart in some way or another.
I motion to the bottle of Fireball sitting across from me and look at the bartender as I slide my money across the counter. He picks up the bottle and sets it in front of me at the same time as I scoot my chair back. When I grab the neck of the bottle, I look back and give her a half-cocked smile. “Yep, I’m the one.”
And without so much as another word, I head out of the bar. The guys give me shit as I walk past about being a pansy-ass until I hold up the whiskey bottle to show them I’m not really turning in early. Pauly catches my eye and nods, knowing where I’m headed and that I need the solitude I can find there.
The fucking problem, though, is even as I ascend the stairs up the dank stairwell, the only thing I can think about is her.
Chapter 2
T
he door is stuck.
A part of me likes that fact because it means that possibly no one has been up here, and another part of me appreciates the physicality it takes to get it open when I put my shoulder into it.
The metal door slams back and clanks against the concrete wall behind it. The sound cuts into the silence of the night as I stand there, momentarily cautious for some reason, even though in this place I’ve found more peace than anywhere else in the strife-torn country.
I was worried how I’d feel coming up here – wasn’t sure I’d be able to face this the first night back – but standing here, I know it’s for the best to face the memories head-on. To fight the ghost of her that’s been haunting my dreams with reliving the memory of her in “our” place.
The noise from the city streets below is faint and comforting, but I don’t notice much beyond the dust particles floating in the stream of light from the open door. I have to talk myself into stepping over the threshold. After making sure the door is secured so I don’t get locked out, I make my way across the rooftop to a little section on the far end. I walk around the stem walls erected in the shape of a plus sign that protects some air-conditioning units on three of the four sections to see if it’s still here after almost five months.