A Sh*tload of Crazy Powers by Jackson Ford

Author:Jackson Ford [FORD, JACKSON]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2022-05-10T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY

Teagan

Not for the first time, Africa saves my ass.

I use the word deliberately. When he catches me, it’s ass-first, his big hands cupping my butt. Normally that’s the kind of behaviour that would earn you a flying object to the windpipe, but in this case, I’ll give him a pass.

I don’t know he keeps his balance. He turns me, letting me drop into his arms, like a husband carrying his bride across the threshold.

With an undignified flapping, the pigeon shoots past above us. I stare up at Africa, so stunned I can barely speak.

“Jesus Christ,” Kanehara says.

“You OK?” Africa says. I’m amazed at how calm he is, as if I merely missed the last step on a flight of stairs and came down a little hard.

“Fine,” I manage to squeak. And it really is a squeak. Fuck me. Let’s do not that again.

But of course, there’s no choice. Somehow, we manage to get me standing, and this time, Africa manages to push me all the way up onto the ledge.

The joined section is about a foot wide, just enough for me to kneel on. I have to make myself stop shaking, quiet the alarm bells in my head.

“Can you get up from there?” Kanehara calls up.

Be an awful goddamn shame if I can’t.

The edge of the roof is actually surprisingly close. I have to stretch a little to reach it, and I’m worried that I won’t be able to pull myself up, but that turns out not be a problem. The lip is narrow enough for me to get my fingers around. It takes a few seconds of grunting and flailing and awkward mantling, but I manage to pull myself up and over.

And I really do mean over. The lip and the surface of the roof aren’t on the same level – the surface is a few feet below. When I roll over into open air, I do a little undignified flapping of my own, landing hard on my forearms.

God, I hope I’m alone up here. This is the least stealthy entrance of all time.

Getting to my knees, I finally get a look at the Del Rio’s roof.

I’m in a narrow trench that borders the back of the helipad, running end to end across the roof. It must have something to do with maintenance, or wind control. For all I know, it’s where the celebs stash their coke. It’s maybe four feet deep, and the metal surface under my knees is damp and grimy, soaking through my pants. Bulky air conditioning units line the roof to my left and right, spaced at intervals, fans whirring quietly.

Waist-high metal railings ring the helipad above me. I sneak a peek over the edge: as expected, the pad itself is empty, no chopper. The bar is a squat structure at the far end of the roof, maybe a hundred feet from the big H, a patio surrounding it. Glass barriers enclose the patio – can’t have the stench of helicopter fuel killing the vibe, I guess, or gusts of propeller blowback ruining actresses’ hair.

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