Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I love the thought of it.
Just like those stars, there will come a day when I die. But maybe there’s a chance that, if I continue to turn my life around, I will leave a legacy behind that outlasts my physical life. And until then, I can carry on the lights of those who have gone before me. My grandparents, for example.
Or Griffin.
I wipe a tear from my eye, chastising myself for letting my mind wander to my baby sister. Especially with an apartment full of booze and weed below me. I return my gaze to the stars.
If I ever had the chance to go to college, I would’ve studied astronomy. I would’ve also studied music. In some weird way—for me at least—the two go together.
Of course, there are songs about the stars. Lots of pop songs especially. But my mind goes to the song “The Impossible Dream” from the musical Man of La Mancha. The song ends with a line about reaching the unreachable star.
For a long time, my unreachable star was sobriety, a stable life.
Now I have a new one. Diana Steel.
I’m attracted to her. But I can’t have her. Forget that she’s too good for me, which she definitely is. Staying in her penthouse is my one chance at getting my life together in Denver without going completely broke. I can’t jeopardize that by hitting on her. She already feels unsafe with me around. Why else would she have installed that extra lock?
I breathe in, breathe out, breathe in again. Focus on the stars.
And within a few minutes, the pulsing amber bottle Tracy was holding is a distant memory.
I suppose I should go back down to the party. Diana may be wondering where I am. Or she may not.
But on the off chance she is, I don’t want her to worry.
I walk to the door of the roof and—
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I grouse out loud.
The door is—of course—locked.
How do people in this building throw parties up here if the door locks behind them?
Ah. A keycard reader. That’s how they do it. My gaze falls to a couple of large bricks sitting next to the door. Right. For when no one has a keycard. I should have noticed those when I came up here.
I do have my phone, though, so I call Diana to let her know I’m up here. Good thing she insisted we exchange information.
The phone rings several times before it goes to voicemail.
Hi, this is Diana Steel. I’m sorry I can’t get to the phone, but please leave your message, and I will get back to you right away.
“It’s me, Dragon,” I say into the phone. “I went up on the roof to get some air, and now I’m locked up here. Sorry for the inconvenience, but could you or Teddy or somebody come get me?”
She may not have heard her phone, so I text her as well, hoping she might see it.
Whatever. I guess I’m up here for a while.
I rub my arms against the chill.
I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but still, it’s October, and once the sun goes down, the temperature drops.
Some folding chairs are stacked in one corner alone with a few folding tables.
I grab a chair and sit, looking at the sky.
But this time it offers me no peace or solace.
Not here in the city.
I’d go back to the western slope in a minute if it weren’t for my rehab.
Eventually, though, I’m going to have to trust myself not to relapse.
I don’t feel ready yet, though. Not when that beer pulsated with my own heartbeat and called to me in a seductive siren’s voice.
I settle in. This is nothing. I’m a little bit chilled, but it’s not the worst place I’ve been locked in.
The judge is a large man—his skin is dark, and he wears those half glasses. He looks at me, and his eyes are saying something. He’s a good man. He’s trying to do what’s right.
“This is the matter of Dragon Locke.”
I sit with a person—a young woman with brown hair and blue eyes—who is my guardian ad litem. I don’t know what that means, but I memorized the words. She sits with me while my parents sit at a different table.
The judge, whose name I can’t pronounce, turns his gaze to my parents.
“Mr. and Mrs. Locke,” he says gravely, “do you understand what you’re about to do here?”
“We do, your honor,” my father says.
“You are voluntarily giving up parental rights to your son,” the judge says again.
“Yes, your honor.” My father clears his throat.
“And you’ve discussed this with counsel, and you’ve come to the conclusion that it would be in the best interests of all parties involved?”
My mother sniffles, wipes her eyes with a tissue.
My mother cries a lot.
She’s been crying ever since Griffin got hurt.
They’ve accused me of some very awful things. Things I would never do.