Page 2 of Unravel Me

This place, my life, was built around me, without me in mind.

With my eyes locked on the metal door at the end of the hallway, I walk with haste, pushing it open and clomping up the stairs. Fresh air hits my face as I step onto the apartment building’s rooftop deck. It’s been renovated recently, giving the feel of an upscale resort with lounge chairs, gas firepits, tables, and a lush array of plants that make you temporarily forget you’re in the city.

As always in North Carolina, the air is humid, but I don’t mind the heat that encases me as I shuffle towards a lounge chair.

But before I sit, I flip on the lights, and a zigzag of Edison bulbs illuminates the space above me. Swaying slightly as I sit down, I tuck my long, chocolate brown hair behind my ears and set the champagne bottle on the ground beside me. With my head resting back, I gaze up at the sky, wondering how in the world I got here. Drunk, alone…and falling for a man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. It takes only seconds before I begin to fidget, though, every nerve buzzing from both the alcohol and anger raging through my veins.

A fat, hot tear rolls down my cheek as I swipe it clumsily away.

“Fuck you, Jackson,” I say aloud, louder than I meant, and am startled as someone clears their throat nearby. Sitting up abruptly, I glance in all directions, noticing a man I didn’t see before. His back is to me as he leans against the railing, a cloud of smoke billowing above him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was up here.” I stumble over my words, heat creeping up my neck as I smooth my white dress.

The man turns around to face me, leaning his back against the railing, eyes piercing me. “No need to apologize. I was just about to head out anyway.” His voice is gravelly, a thick southern drawl rolling off his tongue. Not an accent you hear often in this city full of transients.

I try to shove the champagne bottle behind the lounge chair with my foot, but when I look up, he glances away quickly, a smirk on his lips. A glowing cigarette dangles between his lips, and I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to tell him there’s no smoking allowed up here. He doesn’t strike me as someone who would care about those kinds of rules, and right now, I'm not sure I do either. He remains half in the shadows of the dark night, but I stay mesmerized as he releases a roll of smoke, snuffs out the cigarette, and tosses it in the trash can.

Maybe it’s the alcohol racing through my body, or maybe I just have nothing left to lose, but no part of me feels worried about being on this dark rooftop, alone with a strange man. In fact, I stand up and take a step towards him.

It’s not like the conversation in my head is a pleasant one, so I smile weakly, and steady my voice.

“Do you live in the building?” I ask, already assuming the answer is no. The Brecken Building isn’t huge, and I know every tenant in it, especially the ones close to my age, and he can’t be much older than thirty.

He smirks, shaking his head a little. "No, ma'am. I just finished up a job in apartment six. Mrs. Lawson," he says. I nod. It checks out. Laura Lawson is a wealthy, albeit grumpy woman who is constantly renovating her already impeccable apartment. She is also continually complaining about it.

"That makes more sense," I reply as his eyebrows shoot up, giving me a view of the palest blue eyes I've ever seen. Almost silver.

"What gives it away? The boots?" he asks, and I turn red, looking down at his loosely laced, work boots.

"Oh shit, no, I wasn’t implying anything…” I backpedal, slapping a palm to my forehead. “It's just there are only twelve apartments in this building, and I know mostly everyone. I've never seen you around, but you could've been someone's boyfriend, or son, or—"

He cuts my rambling off. "It's okay." He lets out a small chuckle, his voice soothing. My heart starts to slow its hammering. "You don’t need to explain yourself."

I purse my lips together. I really hope I didn’t offend him. God, I need water and a painkiller, and certainly a break from drinking for at least a month.

He doesn’t say anything else but doesn’t leave either. He turns his back, looking over the railing out at the city, and I take this chance to get a better look at him. A worn-in white shirt, frayed jeans and work boots. Paired with broad shoulders, arms rippled with thick muscle, and a lush head of hair. I can’t peel my eyes away.

The lights overhead are a bit blurry, reminding me how drunk I am. Good thing my years of etiquette lessons are ingrained in every fiber of my soul. I’ve had plenty of polite conversations over bottles of wine at dinners and events I didn’t want to be at.

Mystery man turns back around as I stand there like a drunk fool and rakes his eyes slyly over me, landing on my feet.

"I would add, though, my choice of shoes is more practical than the bunnies you have on your feet.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a teasing smile on his face. My jaw drops as I scoff, peering down.

“Okay, okay, in my defense, I had gorgeous Louboutins on with this dress, but I figured stilettos weren’t really practical for late-night rooftop decompression sessions.”

“I don’t understand a single word you just said, but it sounds like you need one of these more than I do.” He pulls the carton of cigarettes from his pocket, extending it towards me. Without hesitation, I pulled one out. Jackson was allowed as many cigars as he wanted, but if I so much as touched a cigarette, he would throw a fit. All the more reason to do it.

I place it between my lips and he closes the gap between us, bringing a lighter up, his eyes locking with mine as I suck in. His head could rest on top of mine, and he smells like fresh cut wood. As I inhale my legs grow wobbly, and I have to rip my eyes away from his, heat rising in my chest.

I let the toxic smoke fill me, chasing away feelings of guilt. Yes, he’s attractive, but I'm not kissing him; it’s just a cigarette. He flicks the lighter closed, dropping it in his pocket and steps back, giving me space. I can hear my best friend assessing him in my head.

Strong jawline, check. Pretty eyes, check. Dirty blonde hair women would kill for, check. His hair was a little messy and curled up at the nape of his neck.

“I’m not a smoker,” I say, my voice thick as I blow out a puff away from him.

“Right,” he mumbles with a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“It’s been a long night, that’s all. I know this is bad for you.” I wiggle the glowing cigarette towards him. He bows his head, stifling a laugh.