Page 69 of Playing With Fire

The roach disappears again. The landlord clears his throat. “Older buildings often have one or two–”

“Nope,” I say.

She glares at me.

I hold up both hands. “Sorry.”

“You said nope.”

“I was talking to the roach.”

Her lips press together. She’s trying not to laugh. Good. Because I’m trying really fucking hard not to tell her there’s no chance in hell she’s living here.

Not my decision. I know that.

She’s almost twenty-three. She’s smart. She’s capable. And if she wants this apartment, I don’t get a veto because her brother is my best friend or because Coach trusted me to look out for her.

But I know what bad locks mean. I know what broken hallway lights mean. I know what it feels like to hear footsteps lingering outside your door at two in the morning and lie there wondering if the lock will hold.

And there is no fucking way I want that for Laney. She’s lived a sheltered life compared to most, and I would hate for a harsh reality check to come from cheap rent and jumping on the first apartment available.

She walks back into the living room and looks around one more time. Some of the excitement has faded from her face. Not all of it… but enough.

I follow her toward the door. The landlord keeps talking about neighborhood redevelopment while I inspect the deadbolt. It works. Technically. If you lift the door first. And lean your shoulder into it.

By the time we step outside twenty minutes later, Laney has the application in her hand. The second we hit open air, I drag in a breath that doesn’t taste like dust, old grease, and bad memories. Better.

We reach the bottom of the steps. The same group from earlier is still there, only now they’re passing around a bag of chips instead of a phone.

“Leaving already, handsome?”

Beside me, Laney makes a suspicious little sound.

I keep walking. “Have a good night.”

“Don’t be a stranger, honey.”

I don’t have to look at Laney to know she’s smiling. “Don’t.”