~ 55 ~
PEYTON
The city felt different from way up here. No sound, just wind. It was easy to focus on the motion of every avenue, every car, every person. To watch them curiously, moving along their own tiny paths, slowly winding their way to their own destiny.
My destiny however, was still up in the air.
“The way Christmas felt, when I was a kid.”
Ripley’s voice startled me out of my trance. He stepped up alongside me, his bare arms flexed outward, muscles rippling as he stretched his back.
“What did you just say?”
“Back in the glass house,” he murmured. “When the three of you were talking about what you missed most, from childhood. I never got to take a turn.”
Together we leaned out, over the railing, looking down at everything and nothing. My hands shifted. The metal felt cool again, beneath my palms.
“I miss the way Christmas felt, coming home from my grandmother’s house on Christmas Eve,” Ripley said quietly. “My parents driving. The snow falling. And me, in the back seat. Thrilled out of my mind, for what was coming the next morning.”
“No responsibilities,” I smiled. “Just toys.”
“Yes.”
“I can get behind that.”
“Me too,” sighed Ripley. “This was before the accident, of course. Before my grandmother got sick. Before I got folded into the foster system.”
I stepped sideways, moving my body against his. His warmth was comforting, as I slipped an arm around him. It barely made it to the other side of his thick waist.
“You never get that feeling again, you know?” he sighed.
“Yeah. I know.”
“But you get other feelings,” Ripley said, adding a smile. “Even better, more powerful feelings.”
On the cold metal railing, his hand found mine. It squeezed gently, just as the glass door slid open behind us.
“You two being all serious again?” Theo chuckled, stepping out onto the balcony. “Pretty sure that’s illegal in this city.”
The wind whipped my hair sideways, as I turned to look back over my shoulder.
“Pretty sure we broke worse laws last night.”
I nodded into the bedroom, just beyond the doors. Our giant bed was a horrendously unmade mess of black and white silk sheets. The floor around it was littered with empty water bottles, and pieces of clothing.
Theo followed my look and grinned. “Fair enough.”
He moved to my other side, and stared down into the streets. His body blocked the wind, providing me even more warmth, more protection.
“Donovan’s done,” he said, nonchalantly. “Every media channel and news outlet is already eating him alive.”
“Good,” grunted Ripley.
Another set of footsteps fell in behind us. Colson appeared beside Theo; white T-shirt, bare arms, five-o’clock shadow. He put his own hands on the railing and sighed.
“Late start?” I teased him.
For once Colson wasn’t scanning for threats, or checking the exits. Instead he looked me up and down, his eyes crawling over my body without apology.
