Page 6 of Intrepid

He tipped his head, eyes roving up and down me, as if in appraisal. “You don’t seem the type.”

“Why’s that?”

As if the light hit just right, catching the scar at my chin, his eyes seemed drawn to that part of my face, flickering with the same curiosity I’d seen countless times before. In fact, I anticipated he’d ask the same question that’d plagued me for the last two years, so I didn’t even bother to hide the scar that time.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked instead. “Only two reasons people ever come up here. For a thrill, or to escape something.”

“Neither. I was just curious.”

“What are you curious about?”

I looked out over the city, then back to him, biting my cheek to hide a smile. “How long it would take for some asshole to find me up here and harass me.”

His lips twitched like he might smile, too, but he glanced away as if to squash it, before turning back. “You came with two girls, right? Braids and the vampire?”

“Maybe. Why?”

He jutted his chin toward me. “Think your ride’s leaving.”

Jolts of panic rippled down my spine, and I pivoted to see Simone and Bea shuffling to their car, the scant bit of moonlight catching the silver braids and that conspicuous red cardigan. Two extra silhouettes, presumably Theo, the guy Dax’d sent off, and the nosy backseat drunk stumbled after them. “Shit!” I leaned forward, fingers curling around the edge of the building. “Bea! Simone! Wait!” Jogging along the edge of the building, I attempted to get closer. “Wait! I’m up here!” Not even my hands waving in the air elicited so much as a glance back. “Bea! Simone! It’s Sera!”

The four of them piled into the Prius, and I spun around, searching for the stairs.

“Don’t think you’re going to catch them. By the time you make it through the crowd and back through the building, they’ll be a long ways down Jefferson.”

I lodged my fingers in my hair, my heart beating hard enough to punch through my ribs. “They’re my ride. What the hell am I going to do? Is there a bus, or something?”

“It’s two in the morning. If there is a bus, I imagine it’s packed with all kinds of shady ass characters.”

Lifting my phone from my pocket, I scrolled through names. “Damn them! I can’t call my dad. He’ll kill me,” I mumbled. “I’ll have to get an Uber, or something.”

“Or I can give you a ride.”

Something about the way he said the words tickled my spine. “I don’t even know you,” I answered, perhaps a bit too brusquely.

“You know the Uber driver?”

“No. But there’s a certain accountability. They …. They’re not supposed …. They could—”

He tipped his head, watching my fumbling with amusement. “We have some accountability between us, too.”

“How so?”

“You know Dax. Dax knows your friends.”

“None of whom know I’m up here with you.”

“That was pretty stupid of you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes, and when he offered me one, I declined. “Here’s the deal,” he said around his cancer stick. “You can take the bus. You can call some fuckin’ pansy ass Uber.” He flicked his Zippo, shielding the end of the cigarette with his cupped palms, and puffed it a few times, blowing the smoke off to the side like some kind of modern day James Dean. “Or you can say to hell with this suburban girl shit, and let me give you a ride.”

No lie, I actually thought about that for a minute.

But only a minute.

“Thanks, but I’ll take my chances with the pansy ass.” I stepped past him, noting the difference in size, and breathing in the heady notes of his cologne that hit the back of my throat. An intoxicating sweetness quickly stamped out by my frustration, as my hands burned with the urge to throttle my roommate’s neck.

With anger simmering in my stomach, I hustled down the dark stairwell, flashlight leading the way, certain that the stranger would pop out any minute and grab me.

My feet slowed. Halfway down the stairwell, I stopped. I was behaving as my father expected. In fact, I could almost hear him laughing at my panic, telling me that was what I got for choosing a Detroit school and hanging out with thugs and hoodlums, as he commonly referred to the art majors. He would’ve told me I couldn’t handle a city like Detroit. He did tell me that.