String the Player

3.

I fall into a crouch and scramble to catch the stupid evil in a bottle just before it tumbles down the edge. I huff out an annoyed breath and stand up to face the man who is probably here to kick me out.

Resigned to my fate, I slowly turn around to find someone leaning sideways against a lamppost near the loungers. The harsh glow from the bulb hides most of his face, but going by the fitted suit—hugging all of his heavy muscles—and crossed arms combined with crossed ankles, I'd say he doesn't work here. Unless the owner of this establishment has personally come to throw me onto the streets—I mean, I'd be honoured if that were the case—I don't believe this man has a right to say what I can or cannot do.

"There's no point," he repeats, breaking the silence.

And I cock my head, my eyes searching to his left and right. No one else is in this area other than us. The gala is at the far end, and now I can faintly hear someone talking into a mic.

Is this man speaking to me? How does he know I'm faux-texting my ex and am one step away from flinging my self-respect off the roof?

"In?" I ask with a shaky tone.

"In just standing there." His voice is scratchy. Deep. In a way that say he most likely smokes a lot. A grating of the throat. I would know. Not saying it doesn't sound butterflies-in-my-belly sexy, though.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—" he steps out from under the lamp and walks further to the shrubs, stepping onto the divider preventing the mud from spilling out "—you just standing there serves no point."

Oh.

Oh!

When an asshole stands right at the edge of a wall four hundred feet above the ground, there are very few conclusions to jump to. When said asshole is pacing the wall with a phone in one hand and booze in the other, there's just one any sane person will directly hop onto.

And since we've already accepted the fact that I'm an asshole, I play along.

"Who says I'm here to just stand." I slip my phone into my pants pocket and leave my hand there. The man has to stretch his neck to regard me. I can see him a bit more clearly now. He's sharp. Sharp eyebrows, sharp gaze, sharp trim of his stubble. "Are you here to help me?"

He hums and doesn't say anything. Instead, he turns and hops down from the divider. I scoff. That was short-lived. Even by my standards.

I stare at his broad back as he walks away. Only for him to whip around and, with loud thumps, run towards the wall like he's about to hulk out. He uses the divider as a launch pad and jumps to grab onto the wall edge. I move to help pull him up, but by the time I can, he does it well enough. On his own. With no paint chips on his chest and shoulders.

Safe to say, I'm offended by this turn of events.

He dusts his palms, and when he speaks, there's no trace of breathlessness. Awesome. Now, I'm very offended.

"I saw you from there." He points to the other end. "I saw you climb up the wall," This night keeps getting better and better "go to the edge, and you just stood there. You seemed hesitant."

"Maybe I am waiting for someone."

I'm not sure what he says next because I'm too busy looking. Yes, I'm staring. Unapologetically. Beautiful people are meant to be stared at, and this guy is no exception. It's dark up on the roof, but I like what I can see of him. He has sharp features, sure, but it's not without reason. He's put together. Clean. Regal. Confident. But he has his intrigue. It's present in the long hair only half pulled back, in his scratchy voice, in his smirk that almost qualifies as a sneer. He's quite a bit shorter than me and probably comes up to my ear, but he's still labelled as tall. I'm just taller. He fills out his clothes remarkably. Not too buff, but not on the lean side—my side—either. This is exactly the kind of guy who belongs on the cover of Vogue. Not my sorry ass. Maybe I should drag him down to Rita Dhaave and shove him in her face.