Roofers.

40. Valley buildings.

Scarlett POV.

Jules wanted to get some things from his apartment.

So here I was, leaning against the wall beside the door to the two bedroomed hell hole filled with broken bottles and liquor stains. It smelt of sex and cigarette buds, old furniture dragged in from garbage heaps and other things too risky - too undetermined - to mention. The numbers 397 had faded, the metal 3 only had one screw left, letting it dangle as if it would fall off in the presence of a light breeze, the others had long since rusted and left a mark. The day was slowly beginning to come to an end; the sun had begun to sink back into its recluse, the only evidence that it ever hung bright in the sky was the fading rays of sunlight that peaked over the distant treetops.

This apartment building was more of a dusty motel than a residential area. With cars driving in and out too often. There were cars too old to drive lined up in front of all the rooms. They always parked in the same way. Black, yellow, white, purple, pink and whatever Mr Devonté decided to do with his car. This place was the epitome of pimp my ride. Here you'd find cars with flames painted onto the doors and eyelashes to envious of, sequins that sparkled like diamonds, gold plated rims to match the driver's grills. We all knew who those cars belonged to; we all knew never to say a thing about them. They were purple coat wearing, brass knuckle having pimps waiting in those cars. If you lived down in the valley, then you'd seen them before; knew exactly who they were and exactly who worked for them. It was one of things I didn't miss about living here.

I buried my hands into my pockets, drowned myself in a hoodie to shield myself from the many prying eyes that would ask too many questions. Familiar faces that somewhat recognised me. The last time I'd been here, I was covered in blood and crying like a baby — that's not something you forget — no matter how long ago that was.

So instead of paying them any mind, I watched as married men pulled prostitutes into some of the rooms on the ground floor. And as they handed their money to men who waited in those cars. I watched the silent glance between them and the girl in the married mans arms; the unspoken deal — the fearful pact of loyalty she gave him. Then he'd nod, and the two went into the room — went about their hustle with no complaints. I watched as mothers left their kids unattended as they searched for their next high. Not an ounce of regret on their faces as they ignored their screaming children. They needed their next hit more; that mattered more than some tears to them. Across the street a gang of misguided preteens rob the small grocery store, the old man who works there is too tired to call the police, and as if by routine he simply limps his way back to the other side of the counter and raises his cigar to his grey and tired lips.

The smell of cigarettes was strong here, it was as if everyone in this damned apartment building had taken a single puff of the same stuff and exhaled in unison. A cloud of grey smoke stuck to the roof like duct tape. It was all too familiar. And I was trying not to let the fact that Rico used to live in 401 get to me. Trying to forget how hard life was when I lived down the street; at least back then we had each other — even if we had nothing else.

I closed my eyes, counted to one hundred as I waited for Jules to come out again. I couldn't believe this was where he was staying. The thought of him becoming so accustomed to this chaos made my stomach twist and tighten like a bottle cap. In my mind at least, Jules deserved so much more than he got. In my eyes, he deserved the universe. I think I finally understand why he took football so seriously; football was his ticket out of this place. Not just this city, which was hell in itself, but he wanted to get out of the Valley too.

He'd confessed that he'd given me the wrong address at first because he didn't want me to know where he lived. He thought I'd judge him, and to be honest I don't blame him. The people in this city are always just about ready to judge every last ounce of who you are, all the time. When you're a roofer, you get used to bending the truth to suit your cause. If anything, I was just glad he was finding it easier to tell me.