We have a thing that started when I moved back to Texas at fourteen. After all the shit surfaced with my dad in New York and the way it went down, I hated everything and everyone. So, Chase would force my ass up to the roof of his house. Nobody but us. No reason to hold it all in. I could tell the person I trust most in this world whatever I needed to get out.

It became our ritual. Something shitty happens, we find a rooftop—even if we had to pop a lock for access. Hell, we go on them without a reason anymore.

It’s just what we do.

No surprise, he invites the lifeguards to go with us. Conveniently, they all have trench coats.

The closed stairwell up still has a throb of bass, but the tempo switches the closer we get to the top. Chase smirks at me before he throws the metal door open. And we walk out to a rooftop rave. Glowsticks and boomsh-boomsh and a strobe-lit dance floor under a canopy. People sprawl on glowing cubes, serving as furniture, and we might be the only ones not splattered with blacklight body paint.

Which seems like a top priority.

Chase already has a bundled-up lifeguard under each arm. “Let’s paint, drink, and then we’ll get you ladies out of here.” He nods at the brunette he’s been forcing on me all night. “Foster will give you that tour of flat surfaces in our flat with the flat of his tongue.”

I let out an exasperated, “Dude,” but don’t finish because he walks off toward the stall set up for paint.

After another douche move, I’m seriously considering bailing, but the brunette grabs my bicep and hauls me in that direction. We stop behind the other three, people everywhere, close to a speaker. The last two shots are kicking in, which has everything developing a slight haze.

The brunette shouts up at me, laughing and hanging off my arm. Her hold slides all the way down, and she links our fingers. I look down at them, entwined, my eyebrows lowering. Her hand in mine, mine in hers. It scrapes at something inside me—and as she tries to tuck herself against my side, my mind finally catches up.

I can’t detach myself fast enough. I actually have to hold her wrist to retrieve my hand. Then I walk away. From her. From the pounding music and the wasted crowd and the entire fucking scene.

None of it’s what I want right now.

Maybe that should be a glaring reason to stay. The fact I have no interest in all the things I should want. Things I was interested in until a little red dot appeared on my screen in Paris. When Remi Saint told me to stop looking at women and show her beautiful things.