Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“We can’t go on the roof right now,” he protests.
“We absolutely can, and we’re going to.”
“Why does it have to be out here?” Noah asks, hesitating as he steps out through the narrow window, protecting his injured arm.
“Because that’s how we fucking roll,” I tell him. “And I need a minute away from the block party. Watch the sunset with me.”
“Sunsets exist on the ground, too.”
“Yeah, but you like rooftops,” I tell him. “And I want to do this with you.”
He grabs one of my arms as I hop out of the attic window onto my good leg, pulling in a big breath of fresh air.
Downstairs, Red Row is blocked off from traffic with barricades, big speakers are blasting summer jams, and a crowd has been filtering in all afternoon.
The sun is low on the horizon now.
I stride out onto the roof, pulling in a long breath of air.
“Holy fuck, can you chill?” Noah says. “You’re the only person I know who can get a bullet wound and then hop onto a roof two weeks later.”
“I’m fine,” I say, waving him off. “And quit telling people I have a bullet wound. I was grazed by a bullet.”
Noah glares at me as he steps forward on the flat shingles. “A wound is a fucking wound. I don’t care how deep it went, it scared the fuck out of me and I spent half that day at the hospital thinking you were going to bleed out.”
I puff out a laugh and stride over toward him, leaning in to give him a little bite on the cheek.
“So worried about me,” I tell him. “What would you do without me?”
Noah’s arm is in a brace. He got a hairline fracture but the doctors said it was in a spot that can heal well if he gives it rest.
But he’s been downplaying his own injury and hyping mine up, as if I got my entire leg blown off.
“Stay on this side of the roof. It’s flatter.”
“It’s almost completely flat,” I tell him. “We are fine. Trust me.”
We walk down to the edge of the roof, which even has a little, short iron rail for extra protection.
“Wow,” Noah says. “The block party looks fucking awesome from up here.”
“It looks like we’re watching a living painting.”
Oliver insisted on putting string lights and a bunch of glowing paper lanterns between dozens of the trees along Red Row. Now, they’re all lit in different colors, warm little dots of pink and red and yellow and orange, all along the street.
Weston also set up a bunch of little games, and Noah helped as much as he could with his broken wrist. There’s a giant Jenga game, cornhole, and even a mini putt-putt golf area that Sevan insisted we put in.
Later on there will be a charity tug-of-war where people who come to the party can battle different groups within the three societies, too.
“Look at Roman,” Noah murmurs, pointing over toward the grills down in the front yard, where Roman’s cooking up burgers, hot dogs, and veggies. “He’s smiling for the first time in days. He needed this.”
“He needed it badly.”
Roman wasn’t close to his cousin Kuzma. But even watching a distant member of his family betray him before being shot by a Maletti has to have been fucking with his mind.
“He’s been seeing more of his family than usual this week. For Roman, this whole situation just made him double down about how loyal he really is.”
“No one is going to fuck with the Petrov family for a very long time.”
Noah nods. “Roman said the man who died in the driver’s seat was someone new to the Maletti family, but Antonio Maletti was their kingpin. He’s in jail now for a very, very fucking long time.”
“That’s what happens when you shoot someone in full view of the police,” I mutter.
Noah’s gazing out toward the sunset filtering through the trees, now, and I hate seeing his expression drop again.
He glances over at me, giving me a sad smile.
“I can’t believe it’s over. We can just… exist now.”
I put my arm around him, tugging him close against my side. “We can.”
“Oh, shit,” Noah says softly. “I forgot to cut up the pineapple slices for Roman to grill up for you. I should go down and do that.”
“You’re doing the thing again,” I tell him. “Quit worrying about me.”
“I’m not worried about you. You just enjoy pineapple. So sue me if I want to make sure you have some.”
I can hardly stand the way he’s looking at me.
The way I can tell that it’s so important to him, this tiny little preference that he learned I had for a certain fruit.
I’ve slept in his bed every night since the car chase.
We haven’t really talked about anything too serious, because we were both too shellshocked, and I was on painkillers for the entire first week, anyway.