Page 119 of Tar City
Ronny doesn’t ask questions. The man’s a professional. He nods in the rearview. “See you tomorrow.”
She told me the rooftop is always empty. We take the stairs in silence. At the top, the door sticks. I’m about to throw my shoulder into it when Sisk puts a hand on my arm.
“Hang on,” she says, stepping around me.
She runs her fingers along the door frame, feeling for something I can’t see. Her fingers stop just above the knob. She presses in, then lifts up. I hear a click from inside the mechanism. “There,” she says, a little smug. “It’s a cheap lock. The frame’s warped. You lift up when you turn the handle.”
She pushes the door, and it swings open, revealing the city spread out below us—lit windows, blinking towers, a skyline full of strangers living their lives.
“It’s nice up here,” she says quietly. “Isn’t it?”
She moves closer to the edge of the rooftop, resting her hands on the short wall.
“Yeah,” I say, stepping up beside her. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets like a fucking idiot.
She turns toward me, the city lights catching in her eyes. “See that apartment?” she says, pointing across to a glowing window framed in ivy. “That woman sits there every night with a book. And she cries. Like… full-on weeping. I don’t understand why someone would choose to feel that much.”
Her finger shifts slightly to the right. “And that one—” she nods toward a third-floor balcony “A guy used to play guitar out there. Every night, around nine, like clockwork. Then one day he stopped. The light still comes on, though.”
She gestures lower—toward a narrow window half-covered by a ripped curtain. “And that one,” her voice softens, “they argue. A lot. The kind of yelling that makes you want to call the cops. But I see what happens after. The way they just… hold each other. Like they’re the only two people left in the world. I call them Lola and Riot.”
She’s not looking at me, she’s staring out into the darkness, breathing in the night air.
“I come up here to remind myself…” She trails off, then continues, “that even the quietest lives in this city are screaming on the inside. That everyone’s just trying not to drown. That my particular pain isn’t special. Isn’t worse—or more important—than anyone else’s.”
I look down, scuff the edge of my shoe against the gravel. “Thank you for inviting me over.”
She finally turns her head. “Thanks for tonight.”
“For what? Losing the race and forcing you to ride with that dickhead?”
“No. For getting on the bike. For doing something reckless just because I felt like it. It was stupid, and I shouldn’t have pulled you into my mess.”
“I’d do worse for you.”
She glances out toward the skyline again, then back at me. “Why?”
I meet her gaze. “I like you,” I say. “Too much, probably.”
She looks at me as if she’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had. For a moment, I think she sees everything—all the ugly parts I’ve tried to bury six feet under.
“Jax,” she whispers.
The space between us disappears and I kiss her. Her hands slide under my shirt, nails digging into my back just enough to make me grunt. I grab her waist, then bury one hand in her hair, twisting it around my fist as I pull her against me.
My other hand moves from her waist to the hem of her jacket. I’ve been thinking about what’s underneath all night. I slip my fingers beneath the fabric, letting them trace the soft skin of her stomach as I wait for her to stop me.
I explore the curve of her side, my thumb brushes against the swell of her breast, and I feel her sharp intake of breath against my mouth. I let my palm cup her fully, the weight of her fitting perfectly in my hand.
I feel her nipple get hard against my palm. I brush my thumb over it, a slow circle, and she arches her body into my touch. The kiss breaks for a second as she tilts her head back. I take the invitation, trailing my lips down her neck as my hand explores her other breast.
My fingers fumble with the zipper on her jacket. I go slow, careful as hell, remembering it got stuck hours ago.
The sight of her, the city lights painting her skin in shades of gold and blue, is almost too much. Her nipples are hard points begging for attention. I lean down, closing my mouth over one.
Her hands fly to my hair, her fingers tightening as I suck gently, feeling her response all the way down to my own tightening groin.This is real. This is happening.Every nerve ending in my body is screaming for more.
She arches against me, pressing herself into my mouth, and the world narrows to just this—us.
