We walk by a group of women, a few of whom I recognize from one of the popular shows on TV right now, and their eyes narrow and follow us closely.
“Who’s she?” one of them whispers, though I expect she intended for me to overhear. “And why’s she with Dex?”
Dex either doesn’t notice or pretends not to as he leads me to a spot where we can look out over the city and take in the twinkling lights. He releases my hand, leaving my fingers feeling cold, so I wrap them around the iron handrail to keep from trying to reach for him again. The rain clouds have long since departed the sky, and the moon shines down on us, bathing LA in silver.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, blinking as the cold breeze brushes my cheeks and pushes my hair back from my face.
Beside me, Dex reaches into his pocket and pulls out a joint and a lighter.
“You mind?” he asks, and I shake my head.
He puts the end of the joint between his lips and flicks the lighter once, twice. I admire the tattoos on his fingers, the way the rings he wears accentuate the ink on his skin. The lighter catches, and he shields the flame from the wind as he holds it up. The end of the joint starts to smolder. Then he draws in a breath, holds it, and exhales the light gray smoke into the night. I’ve always liked the smell of pot, and its musky scent is enticing as Dex takes another drag and then lets it out slow.
Finally, his eyes meet mine, and he holds my gaze.
“So . . .” I say, leaning back, gripping the cold iron rail as I turn to look out over the city.
“So what?” he asks, his voice low and smooth. It doesn’t feel like he’s in any hurry, and something about his casual confidence has me melting inside.
“Why’d you bring me up here?” I glance at him, and just under the collar of his baggy tee, a bit of ink stretches up his neck and toward his ear. It makes me want to reach out and pull the fabric down, to run my fingers across his collarbone and trace the ink as it swirls across his skin.
“Because I wanna know you.”
My gaze snaps back to his, but his expression is unreadable.
What is he talking about?
“Know me?” I narrow my eyes.
He nods once, and the joint smolders as he takes another drag. His stance is easy, relaxed. He leans an elbow against the railing and plays with his lip ring. God, I wish he’d stop doing that. It makes it so much harder to remind myself that this will never happen, no matter how much I wish it could.
“Okay.” I run a hand through my hair and tip my head at him. “What do you wanna know?”
“Why the violin?”
I’m not sure what I expected him to ask, but his question catches me off guard, in a pleasant way, and I smile.
“Oh, um . . .” I ponder it for a second, and Dex remains quiet, patient. “Because it’s so emotional, I guess. I can express anything I’m feeling, and all it takes is those four strings.” I run my thumb over the handrail, thinking. “And it’s a difficult instrument to master. I like that about it.”
“You like challenges?” he asks, and now, for the first time since he brought me up here, a small smile touches his mouth. It makes heat rise to my cheeks, and I nod.
“Yeah, I guess so. I like having to strive for something. If it’s too easy, it’s not fun.”
“Said every overachiever ever.”
My lips curl up, and I roll my eyes. “Okay, my turn. Why do you wear your sunglasses indoors?”
He bursts out laughing, and the sound makes little bubbles of joy rise in my chest. I think this is the first time I’ve heard him truly laugh, and something inside me wants to hear it again. Over Dex’s shoulder, the women who whispered about me earlier turn to glare.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” he asks.
“Just shut up and answer it,” I snap playfully, and he holds up a hand.
“All right, all right. Um . . .” His gaze shifts down, and I watch the way the smoke from the joint curls sinuously into the air. “Because it’s all just too much sometimes, and people don’t talk to me as much when I’m wearing them.”
Honestly, I expected a smart-ass reply, so his candor trips me up, and I don’t say anything at first. Then I ask, “What’s too much?”
He gestures to the rooftop, then to the city. “All of it. Being in LGC . . . Being me.”
For some reason, I never thought someone like Dex would ever tire of the fame, the devoted fans, the attention. But maybe I misjudged him. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.
“I don’t think I could do it,” I say softly.
His eyes meet mine. “Do what?”
“Be famous.”
Slowly, he lifts the smoldering joint to his lips and takes another hit. After letting it out, he flicks the joint, and ash drifts into the air around us.
“All right, my turn.” He scratches the pale stubble on his chin, and the urge to run my hand over his jaw burns through me, so I grip the handrail tighter. “Are you a virgin?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “What?”
His smile is sharp, challenging. “You heard me.”
“Wow.” I turn to face him and put one hand on my hip. “No, Dex, I’m not.” My eyebrow arches. “Is that surprising?”
“Yeah, kinda.” He shrugs, and I narrow my eyes.
