Page 65 of Missed Sunrise
With surprising strength and precision, AJ yeeted me onto the tree branch on the first try, and I had to hold back a howl of victory. The adrenaline was truly pumping now, but I didn’t want to lead him on by letting him think this was going to be a bonding or healing experience for us.
It made me feel like an asshole, but it wasn’t like I had a handbook for what to do when childhood friends made horrible choices that hurt the ones you loved.
And if I had such a thing, it’s not like I would’ve read it.
I shimmied up the tree until I reached the branch closest to Bree’s former bedroom on the second floor.
This part of the house didn’t have much visible damage from the outside, but I knew I needed to be careful regardless.
As if echoing my thoughts, AJ yelled from below, “Cody! Take it slow, man.”
A few maneuvers later, I was perched outside the window just as I’d done dozens if not hundreds of times before, though back then, I’d brought a handy stepladder with me to get onto the branch.
But a stepladder couldn’t call 9-1-1 for you.
I eased the glass up, surprised when it opened effortlessly, and crawled inside, immediately choking on a cough at the acrid smell.
Doing my level best to compartmentalize my existence and my errand, I tucked the lower half of my face into my shirt, pushed through the watering of my eyes, and took a tentative step into the room. The sun had never reappeared after the morning’s rainfall, so it was nearly pitch-black inside. A smarterperson would’ve brought a real flashlight, but I made do with the one on my phone, following its narrow lit path to the closet, where, like the moron I was proving to be, I tentatively poked the folding door’s handle as if it might still be hot more than four months after the fire.
Huffing inside the front of my shirt and making it flutter, I gingerly opened one side of the door and nearly collapsed in relief.
They were there, and they were undamaged.
Her boxes.
These were so much better than the little trinkets I’d brought back from the ship.
Steeling myself, I extracted the five plastic containers—all of them bigger than a shoebox but smaller than one of those big storage containers—one by one. I stacked them in a tower, set my phone on top of them, and then picked them up carefully, placing my chin on top to help balance them. With more care than I’d taken with anything in my life, savenotstripping Liem Lott naked in a public stairwell—why,whywould such a thing cross my mind right now?—I made my way back to the window.
I perched my ass uncomfortably on the sill and unloaded the boxes onto the overhang outside the window as flashes of Liem Lott, writhing and lit by fireworks, played in my mind.
My compartmentalization must have been effective, because the truth of the matter was that my discomfort wasn’t courtesy of my surroundings. It was all thanks to the surprise boner I was sporting because of that intrusive daydream about Liem.
And his hips.
The tattoos on his fingers.
His hands.Have mercy,his hands.
I held back a shiver that could have knocked the derelict house down and released a groan into my shirt before letting the fabric fall from my face.
Fuck. My. Life.
Barbara Ann Copeland was going to haunt me for the rest of my days for having filthy, gay daydreams while literally sitting on her house.
“Cody, what’s happening?” AJ’s voice heralded from below, deflating my boner—and my spirit. “Are you hurt?”
Taking one more beat?—
No.
Taking abreathto compose myself, I waved a hand outside the window to indicate that I was fine.
“If you’re signaling for help, I need you to use words. Or, like, scream or something,” AJ hollered, sounding closer than I expected now that I was applying my senses to my actual surroundings.
Poking my head out the window, I peered down but didn’t see?—
“Uhh, dude, are you crying?”
