Sins of Sisterhood

19. Mr. Mysterious... Again

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~ 19 ~

Rule #19: Men don't learn; make sure you're the lesson they can't forget.

"You, you love it how I move you, you love it how I touch you"

Ariana Grande - God is a woman

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The rooftop balcony is quiet, at least. The city below is just a blur of lights... which feels appropriately metaphoric for my life right now. Everything's a bit fuzzy around the edges, nothing quite making sense when you look too close.

I move towards the railing and I stumble, nearly falling. The whiskey in my stomach threatens to make a reappearance.

Fuck, I'm drunker than I thought.

The railing's cool under my palms, anchoring me while my thoughts spiral. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I know I should go inside. Call an Uber. Make responsible choices like a functioning adult.

But responsible choices are for people who haven't had their sister try to murder them recently.

That's when I smell it. That familiar cologne that's been haunting my nightmares.

"You need to use the bathroom," a voice whispers, low and way too fucking close to my ear.

I grip the bottle harder, mentally calculating if I could swing it fast enough to do damage.

"Great," I mutter, not bothering to turn around. What's the point? I probably couldn't make out his face anyway, and honestly? I'm too drunk and too pissed off to play whatever game this is. "Nothing says 'perfect evening' like a stalker with boundary issues."

My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a small victory. The whiskey's made my tongue loose, but my mind's racing, trying to piece together escape routes through the fog.

"I think you're overworking yourself," I continue, because apparently near-death experiences have demolished my self-preservation instincts. "Must be the whiskey. Or maybe it's the lingering trauma from my sister's murder attempt. Really puts a damper on the whole bathroom hookup vibe, you know?."

He steps closer—I can feel the heat radiating off him now.

Fantastic.

"You drink too much," he says, like he's making some profound observation about my character.

I can't help the bitter laugh that escapes. "Wow, really? What gave it away? The bottle?" I wave the whiskey in a mock toast. "At least I'm not the one playing hide-and-seek with laser guns. How's that working out for you? Better than Tinder?"

Something cold presses against my ribs, and my brain helpfully supplies:

Gun.

"Really?" I hear myself say, and Christ, I need to shut up, but the words keep coming. "A gun? What, do they grow out of your hands? Must make jerking off interesting." The whiskey's making me brave. Or stupid. Probably stupid. "Real tough guy, needing hardware to talk to a girl."

I'm rambling, and I know it. But it's either talk or scream, and screaming seems like a bad idea with Mr. Trigger-Happy pressed against my back.

"You're shivering," he says, and suddenly there's expensive wool around my shoulders. The gesture is so bizarrely gentlemanly it makes my head spin.