knew where to find him when my life was turning to hell.
The pigeons cooed and sang like it was Showtime at the Apollo and Roan was Steve Harvey, laughing at their noise like it was the sweetest music he’d ever heard. He was somewhere upwards of 6’2, a wiry old man who wore his salt and pepper beard a little long, a little unkempt but his clothes, which reminded me of some once-was player still keeping himself sharp and his swag on point, were pristine, ironed jeans with starched creases and a designer sweater, wool pea coat, and a page boy pulled low over his bushy eyebrows.
“Nephew,” Roan said, laugh low, amused at the small tease he’d shot my way. I wasn’t his kin but he still liked to call me that, and when he did, the word always made him laugh. Roan waved me onto the roof when I peeked out of the stairwell door. “Come on.”
“My man.” I greeted him with a quick slap of our palms touching before he gave me a one-arm hug. “How those feathery rats of yours?”
“Watch your tongue.” He still smiled despite my insult, those light eyes of his, almost green, lighting up as he messed with one of the cages; two pigeons jumped on the railing in the center, flying closer to the other side. “What’s up? You lost? Haven’t seen you in going on two months.”
“Been trying to perfect the code. Duncan is getting restless.”
Roan nodded, one corner of his mouth twitching up as he continued to adjust the broken side of the pigeons’ cage. “Seems to me, from what you say, that Duncan is always restless.”
“He wants to start throwing money at the company. I’m close. He knows it. He’s ready for me to sign a contract so he can start promoting.” This time Roan shook his head, nibbling on his bottom lip like he had to fight to keep something rude from coming out of his mouth. That never lasted for long. “Go on,” I told him, laughing as he shrugged.
“It’s not my business…”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
He smiled outright then, pulling off the gloves he wore so he could push his hands into the pockets of his coat. Roan leaned against the low brick ledge that divided the roof into sections. All around us that brick was covered in graffiti, artwork from gang members or punk kids he’d scared off some years back when he bought the building. He’d never bothered fixing the place up and now, if I came here to see him and that paint was gone, it wouldn’t seem like Roan’s place at all.
“This Duncan cat, you’ve mentioned him a few times and seems to me, every time you have, it’s to say something about money.”
It was the truth, but that had more to do with Duncan and what he always wanted to talk about than me projecting when I complained to my old tutor. “That's kind of his job, I guess. After all, money makes the world go round, man.”
“No.” Roan pulled all expression from his face and the deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes hardened just then. “Greedy men, sad men, that’s what they think. Money don’t rule the world. At least, not a world worth living in anyway.”
The air was cooler than it had been the day before and I tugged up my collar as Roan pulled out another pair of gloves, leather, not fit for messing with dirty birds or the mess they made. “I guess you got a point.” I hated the sound of my voice, how the missing sleep had turned it to gravel, how the dreams and Willow had distracted me so that I couldn’t focus, couldn’t relax.
My mind buzzed and simpered. It felt woolen and sharp with so much chaos, so many things twirling in my conscience thought, it was hard to quiet it enough to rest. And even when I did, my attention got split between the life of the girl who was so familiar, so comfortable and the echoes of images I didn’t recognize at all. Something with libraries. And the scent of sandalwood... and a hint of bleach.
Whatever I felt must have been written on my face. Roan stop messing with his gloves and tilted his head, sizing me up like he thought I might be sick. “Boy, what is wrong with you? You look dog tired.”
“I am.” That confession came out with a sigh and I closed my eyes, stretching my neck