Page 45

Except tonight won’t be like the dozens and dozens of other times I’ve climbed buildings just to look down on the world. Tonight, I’ll be remembering that time I sat atop that one particular skyscraper with—

Fuck.

It’s been four years since I once sat atop a tower with a hooded stranger, shared a cloth-covered kiss. I never even saw his face or got his name, but it’s haunted me ever since.

I try not to think about it. Weirdly, I want to. All the damn time. Would haunt me especially tonight, I’d imagine.

The cab pulls to a stop and I pay, get out. I don’t bother to study my surroundings; I remember where I’m at. Three blocks from my apartment in Back Bay, where I always have cabs drop me off so I can take a roundabout route home, so there’s nothing to lead to the place I sleep. Not that anybody’s watching.

Not that I’m hoping a particular someone is.

I stroll through a tight alley lined in brick buildings, unbuttoning the collar of my dress shirt as I walk. It’s quiet here, a little clustered with cars but otherwise devoid of signs of life. I guess not a whole lot of folks choose to traipse through dark alleys at night.

I reach my building, keep walking. I don’t want to go inside, sit on my ass on a cold leather couch in front of a TV I’ve never turned on because it’s ridiculous to imagine I could possibly stay still that long. Listen instead to the never-silence of sirens and voices and cars and horns and city living. I’m not ready to return home. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe I’ll keep walking until I walk right out of Boston.

Jesus, I’m in a mood. Maybe it’s a sign. I need . . . something. A drink. Or ten. I could say fuck it to my teetotal caution, let myself get fucked up, drink myself into oblivion. Surely, it can’t hurt for just one night. At least I won’t be thinking about the cost of the treasure I pulled out of Nick’s pocket.

Still haven’t looked.

Still don’t care.

Whatever it is, I feel like I paid far, far more for it than it can possibly be worth, and I don’t know why I feel that way—or how to feel about feeling that way.

I’m not supposed to be affected by this kind of shit. People. Relationships, good or bad, friend or foe. And yet somehow, for some reason . . .

I tell you man, I’m in a mood. My head’s already fucked, why not throw a few drinks into the mix? Fuck it. I’m twenty-six. Maybe it’s time I hopped a few bars like the kid I never got to be.

I walk faster. I’m gonna fucking do it. Just for one pathetic, tiny night. Why the hell not?

It’s not a long walk to the closest bar: a chic lounge with cool hardwoods, faux-marble walls, and uncomfortable-looking leather chairs clustered around little round tables, all of it beneath the faded glow of mood lights. Counting Crows plays “Big Yellow Taxi” in the background. The marble-topped counter stretches along the back of the cavernous space under a vast—and tantalizing—wall of alcohol.

Three guys sit toward the middle of the bar, and about half the individual tables house nicely dressed folks, sipping drinks, chatting, laughing. Generally enjoying each other’s company in a quiet, pseudo-sober kind of way.

Lovely. Not quite my mood tonight, sorry ladies and gents.

My feet don’t falter. I beeline for the furthest stool at that bar of salvation, nestled into the corner in pools of shadow, and throw myself into the seat. Salvation, I tell you. That’s why I’m here. Because I want out of my own damn wild head.

The bartender slides up beside me, and for once, I’m not making note of all the possible angles and details, all the ways to play him. I’m sure I could.

There’s just not a point. Not tonight.

“Rum and Coke,” I say, because why the hell not. “And make it a double.”

His brows lift. “That kind of night?”

“That kind of life.”

He laughs, and I don’t thrill at the sound, like I normally would when I’ve played someone right. I’m not trying to play him. I’m not trying to evoke a laugh.

I’m not trying, but it happens anyway.

He smiles. “I got you, man.”

The drink slides in front of me, and I drain it in one sip. “Another. Please.”

“Wow, you weren’t kidding.”

I’m really, really not. I need to get out, away, from my thoughts and my head and my fucking depressed-ass mood. I should’ve climbed a fucking building. But that would’ve just made me remember—nope. Not going there. “I walked here. No car keys to take away.”