Quinn's eyes dip, then flick back up to my face, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Oh, I can tell. Your nipples are practically trying to take my eye out.”
I swear she just says these things to annoy me.
“Can you not look?”
“A bit hard not to,” she chirps.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Will you get a move on instead of looking at my nipples?”
A sense of unease washes over me, and I glance around, the distinct feeling that we are being watched settling heavily in the air.
I’m being paranoid.
“Alright, babe,” she claps. “I need you to climb up and go to her window. It's usually unlocked. You get in, grab the book, and get out.”
I blink at her. Once. Slowly. “Hang on. You want me to do it? All for a fucking book?”
She bounces on the balls of her feet, gripping my shoulders as she shakes me to emphasise her point. “You're all flexible and shit. And stronger. So yeah, I need you to do it. And yes, a book,” a playful smile spreads across her face. “I’ll even let you read it.”
That seals it. I am absolutely questioning this friendship.
I stay rooted to the spot. Quinn sighs dramatically, leans forward, and taps my nose. “I’ll give you a boost. Now move.”
I groan, loud and long, but shuffle toward the drainpipe anyway. She laces her fingers together and drops into a squat. I plant one foot in her hands, grab the cold metal pipe, and when she pushes up, I jump—muscles straining as I haul myself higher.
From below, she whistles. “You really do have a great ass.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, the wind snatching half the words away.
I haul myself higher, muscles burning as I inch toward the roof, arms shaking, stomach screaming in protest.
“Just motivating you, babe.”
“It's not motivating,” I grit back, teeth clenched as I adjust my grip.
“Sorry,” she calls. “Next time I’ll dangle Elijah's yoghurt slinger in front of you.”
I thunk my forehead lightly against the pipe in pure frustration.
Don't kill her, Willow. Orange is not your colour.
I grab the edge of the roof and swing my weight, my legs slipping free from the pipe so I’m left dangling for a few heart-stopping seconds.
“Alright, now pull yourself up. It's a bit cold down here.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and drag every ounce of strength out of my arms, hauling myself up and rolling onto the roof. Thank God this section is flat. I push to my feet quickly, staying hunched, and creep toward the window with the obnoxiously bright pink curtains.
Peeking inside, heart hammering at the thought of getting caught, scanning every shadow. It's empty. No movement. No ex-girlfriend to scream bloody murder.
Relief rushes through me.
“You in yet?” Quin shouts again, volume absolutely unnecessary, like I’m not trespassing.
“I’m going,” I mutter, already moving. I grip the latch and push the window up.
It slides open without resistance.
Unlocked.
