Page 51 of Unwritten Rules (Rules 1)

“What are you waiting for?” he beckons.

I sigh and hesitantly step in his direction.

“What’s to say you won’t push me off?”

He smiles. “Who would insult me through text messages, then?”

When I sit down next to him, it takes everything I have not to look down at the void under me. I make sure to keep an acceptable distance between the two of us, not about to let him break the touch barrier any more than he already has.

“How does that make me know you better, if I may?”

He doesn’t answer at first, throwing a rock down the abandoned building.

“I never brought anyone here. Just knowing this exists makes you know me better than a lot of people.”

When his sharp eyes meet mine, I understand them—Bianca, the random girl at the restaurant, and the group of girls in math class who swoon over him even if he is the definition of trouble.

There’s something about him.

Something about the way he talks that could make any girl feel special. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like you’re all he sees. Or the way he knows exactly what to say to get your heart racing. This boy could convince anyone that he cares if he wanted to.

And that’s probably the most dangerous thing about him.

“I come here to think,” he continues.

“Does it help?” I pick up a rock lying next to me and throw it down the building, as well.

“The silence usually does.”

I smile. I’m giving him everything but silence. “Sorry.”

He lets out a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m pretty sure a lot of buildings provide a good view. Why here?”

“I used to go to this school before… you know.”

Part of me wants to ask a million questions, but the other fears it might be a bit of a sensitive topic. I decide to try anyway.

“Did you know anyone that—”

I don’t have to finish my sentence. Our eyes connect. He knows that I’m talking about the victims.

“A couple.” The usual coldness that always fills his tone whenever a somewhat personal question is brought up comes rushing back.

“So…” I try and think of a different topic. “Why don’t you live with your parents?”

“They’re annoying, that’s all.” Sharp. Blunt. He is not in the mood to discuss his life. As always.

I stiffen up, a bit taken aback.

He gives me his version of an apology. “It’s just… I don’t like talking about them.”

“Just like you don’t want to talk about this school. Got it,” I mutter more to myself than to him.

The truth catches up to me. There will never be a way for me to know him better. Haze Adams obviously isn’t the leader of the West Side and an unbeatable fighter for his honesty and social skills.