“What the fuck are you doing?” I squealed. Alcohol always caused my voice to go up a few octaves. Too much alcohol made me sound like I’d just taken a hit of helium from a foil balloon. I teetered toward the hoodie-clad figure. Note to self: six-inch Louboutins and six (or was it seven?) shots of tequila were a sprained ankle waiting to happen. I couldn’t see the person’s face very well, either because of my alcohol-induced beer goggles or maybe it was just too dark on the rooftop. But something I could see well was the Glock he held in his trembling hands. The silver barrel glinted under the dazzling neon lights, beautiful and lethal. The muzzle was in his mouth.

I couldn’t remember why I decided to go up to the roof, but now that I was here, I couldn’t very well leave.

Shit.

Of all nights.

Why me? Why now?

I was too wasted to think clearly, but not wasted enough to turn around and pretend I didn’t walk in on an attempted suicide.

The man slid the gun out of his mouth, turned, and glared at me. “What the fuck does it look like?” he retorted, clearly pissed I’d interrupted his date with the Devil.

“Looks like you’re giving head to a gun. I can think of so many better objects to practice with,” I said, shuffling closer. My right heel got tangled up in something, so I bent over and took the damn shoe off. Then, for balance, I removed my left stiletto, too. Barefoot, I took another step closer.

Gotta keep him distracted and talking.

Gotta stay clear-headed long enough to talk him out of this.

“Fuck off. Leave me alone,” the man grumbled, his voice hoarse and cracked like hissing magma. He sounded like an angsty teen who’d just broken up with his first girlfriend.

I shook my head. “No way. I need some air, and I happen to like it up here. You can almost see the stars…if only there wasn’t so much goddamn neon pollution.”

Rustling fabric. He adjusted his slumped position. “I was here first. Go find some other rooftop for air.”

Where was the gun? Did he put it down?

I took another step closer. “What, something wrong with me? This place is big enough for both of us. You mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine, okay?” Oh crap, please don’t let me step on a needle, broken glass, or a dead bird.

The man pushed himself to his feet and approached me. I noticed the gun still clutched in his right hand. My intrusion only delayed his death wish, not stopped it.

I stood my ground, pretending to be unfazed by his approach. Half my body was veiled in shadow, so he couldn’t see my knees knocking together like twigs in the breeze. Or the twitch in my eyelid I got every time I was scared, or cold, or both. I needed to pee so badly my urethra stung. Sweat made my spandex thong dig deeper between my ass cheeks, and a wave of nausea threatened to empty the fifty dollars’ worth of shots I’d done less than fifteen minutes ago.

I should’ve left him alone.

Why did I always go around poking beasts?

Maybe I’d made a mistake. With my impaired judgment and motormouth, maybe I’d pissed this guy off so much he’d shoot me before he shot himself. Hey, this was Vegas. Anything could happen. It wasn’t too late to make a run for the door. I could go down to the bar and call the cops. Goddammit, of all nights to forget my cellphone at the hotel…

I still couldn’t quite see his face properly, but I could tell he had a straggly, short beard and smooth, wide lips. Something dark and wet trickled down the side of his face. Blood? Blood. He was late twenties to early thirties, I guessed. What happened to this man that was so terrible he felt suicide was the only answer? Didn’t he know suicide was a permanent solution to a temporary problem?

“I’m armed and feeling emotionally unstable right now,” he continued. “You sure you want to keep telling me what to do? If I say beat it, I mean beat it, lady.”

“I’m armed too. Concealed carry,” I lied, squaring my shoulders. “And I just got dumped, so there’s no telling what I might do.” Feeling brave, I took another step toward him until we were less than a foot away from each other. I glanced at the gun, then backed up until I met his gaze. He had kind, but troubled blue-gray eyes, ones that looked like they’d seen too much. His left eye was swollen. “Why don’t you put down the gun and let’s bitch about our shitty lives together?” I slipped my hand into my too-tight push-up bra and pulled out a small flask of whiskey I’d snuck into the club. “Want some?” I offered. “It’s good stuff. The expensive kind.”

“You’re already boozed up and you still want to drink more?” he asked.

Who was he to judge? I wasn’t the one contemplating blowing my brains out.

“I was offering it to you,” I said. “Seeing as how it’s cold as monkey balls up here.”

“Monkey balls aren’t cold. They’re mammals,” he pointed out.

“You want some or not?” I extended my arm, and he swiped the flask from my hand.

He unscrewed the metal cap and took a long pull. Then, he wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve, screwed the cap back on and returned it to me. “You’re right. It is good shit.”

“I don’t settle for anything less,” I said proudly. I stuffed the monogrammed flask back into my bra. “Now you feel like opening up a little or what?”

“I don’t even know you’re name,” he said.

“Makes it easier to speak your mind, doesn’t it?” I played with the buckle on my little beaded purse, which I only brought for show, and held absolutely nothing. “Well?”

If this guy decided to hurt me, I wouldn’t even have pepper spray for self-defense. I could see tomorrow’s headlines already: Rooftop Suicide Goes Awry - Claims Two Lives. Would they mention my professional accomplishments and awards in my obituary?

He didn’t answer.

“So, what prompted you to perform fellatio on that Glock?”

“Why did your boyfriend dump you?” he answered with a question.

I shrugged. “He got bored.”

“Bored of what?” he asked, crinkling his forehead.

“Bored of me. Of us.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine, don’t believe me,” I said. I let out a small burp. The whiskey in my bra was calling my name, even though I was already so inebriated I could barely stand. “We were together almost ten years,” I explained. “Things got boring. It happens.” A violent belch exploded from my tiny frame, carrying with it acid that burned the back of my throat. For a second, I was terrified I’d puke all over the man I’d just saved. I looked at him. He’d taken off his hood. The man had dark greasy hair, a straight nose, sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes, and a few crusted-over cuts. It was a harrowed, ordinary, and utterly forgettable face, not handsome, but not unpleasant. But there was just something about his piercing eyes, something indeterminate. Cleaned up and with a few extra pounds on him, he might be considered attractive. “Your turn, buddy.”

“I hate my life,” he confessed. “It’s a disgusting rat race and I want out.”

“How old are you? Thirty? Thirty-five? And you already want out? Pathetic, don’t you think?” I said. I had no sympathy for him. He lived in one of the greatest countries on Earth and he wanted out of the ‘rat race’? He thought suicide would be the answer? Pfft.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he replied. “You have no idea—”

I shrugged. “You’re a coward. What more do I need to know?”

The man lowered his head and looked at the gun in his hand. A thin film of sweat clung to his hairline. “What do you know about courage?”

I sat down on the foot-wide ledge that separated me from certain death and looked down at the street, five stories below. A breeze teased my flaming hair, making it come alive. Suddenly, vertigo crashed over me like a careening semi. My gut roiled, and my booze-filled stomach rumbled in complaint. “I just broke up with Jeremy and like I said, we were together almost ten years. We were planning to get married, have kids. Now my picture-perfect future is ruined. It’d be so easy to just lean forward and—” instead of finishing my sentence, I looked down at my feet and pretended to consider jumping.

The man, who was now standing behind me, grabbed my shoulders and yanked me back. I landed flat on my ass and a burning pain seared my tailbone and shot through my spine. “What was that for?” I yelled. “I was enjoying the view!”

“You—”

“I’m not you,” I said. “If I was suicidal, I would’ve jumped already. I wouldn’t have wasted time telling a stranger about it.”

The man held up the gun, studied it, and then looked back at me. “Are you saying I should just blow my brains out?”

I nodded. “But you won’t, because you’re a coward. Case closed.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ll—I’ll do it,” he threatened, waving his gun around like a toy. Just like that, his guard was back up again. Why the hell was I tempting Fate?

“Do it, then. Who cares if I’m here? If you really wanted to do it, you’d do it. Go on. Go out with a bang,” I encouraged. “The world won’t miss one less selfish asshole.”

“How is killing myself selfish?” the man asked, eyebrows scrunching. “More like I’m doing the world a favor.”

“Please, honey, boo hoo. Who are you trying to fool? You’re doing this for you. You don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else.” I rolled my eyes and sized him up. He looked to be around 5’11’, about my height when I wasn’t in heels. Slim build. His scuffed, hole-ridden Adidas high tops looked like they had taken quite a beating over the years. The shoulder seams of his hoodie were splitting, and there were large rips in his jeans. “Well, I’m waiting. Are you going to do it or not? I don’t have all night.”

Shaking hard, the man lifted the gun and, this time, put the muzzle up against his temple. “If you want a show, I’ll—I’ll give you a show. I’m good at that. I live for the stage.”

I folded my arms across my chest, already certain he wouldn’t go through with it. I’d been working in the TV business for ten years. Could read people as well as any professional shrink. I knew this guy’s type. Weak-minded, low self-esteem, no self-discipline. Probably addicted to drugs or alcohol. Maybe had some mental health issues. He probably needed a hospital, too. He was a bag of skin and bones, and probably severely dehydrated.

I drummed my fingers along my leg. “Go on, you selfish little prick. Whatcha waitin’ for?”

He slowly raised his gaze to mine, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears and a strange light reflecting his inner storm, and then he actually smiled. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a filthy mouth?”

I grinned. “All the damn time. Ask my friends.”

The guy sighed and lowered the gun. “Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, was an idiot.”

“I know.” I watched as he threw the gun on the ground. I grinned. “So…did I just fucking save your life or what?”

We both looked at each other and burst out laughing. But the laughter was soon replaced by somber contemplation. If I’d shown up minutes later…would I have met his corpse instead?

“Care if I take another hit of your whiskey?”

“‘Course. What’s mine is yours, hombre,” I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulder. I pulled out the flask again and handed it to him. He took a long, hard pull, then winced when he handed it back to me, as if the alcohol was fire in his mouth.

I bent over and picked up my two-thousand-dollar Louboutins. “Whatdayasay you help me back downstairs? I’m a bit woozy. Might puke on you,” I said.

“Sure.”

We began walking toward the steel door. He pulled it open for me and helped me into the dim stairwell. “I still don’t know your name yet.”

“And I don’t know yours,” I replied. “Wild night, huh?” I wrapped an arm around his shoulder and held on tight, claustrophobia squeezing cool sweat from my pores. A colony of ants burrowed through my back muscles, making me squirm. God, that was one of the craziest encounters I’d ever had. And it could’ve easily gone south. I could’ve been shaking his dead body instead of sharing whiskey with him.

He looked at my ultra-skanky costume, something I’d usually never wear, and I watched as his gaze lingered on my cleavage. We took a step down, our footsteps sending vibrations up my bare feet and into my calves. “You went to a Halloween party or something?” he asked.

I tugged at my bright red, sexy devil costume. It was so short, half my ass was hanging out, waiting to be groped. But I guess that was the whole plan. I came here to get drunk, get laid, get groped…whatever it took for me to get over Jeremy. The dress had a million little sequins that shone in the dark. My boob sweat was making everything slip. Accidentally flashing this guy would not be a good end to my night. “No, I just got off work,” I deadpanned. “This is my stripper get-up.”

“Which club?” he asked, playing along.

“Satan Worshippers’ Club.” I giggled and let out a slow breath.

It was going to be okay. He was going to be okay now.

“So, who are you? Some sort of superhero? Do you regularly patrol the rooftops and stop suicide attempts?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Think I would’ve gone through with it if you hadn’t shown up?” he asked.

“You were trying to kill yourself with the safety on.” I laughed too loudly. This guy had clearly never held a gun before, let alone used one.

If there were brighter lights in the stairwell, I probably would’ve seen him blush. He cleared his throat, and we kept going. We made our way downstairs in silence, until I could hear the bass shaking the walls. “This is me,” I said. “My friends are waiting for me at the bar. Girl’s weekend. To celebrate my newfound singlehood—singledom or whatever you call it,” I explained. “I’m supposed to fuck a stranger tonight.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he said. He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. I would’ve preferred a thank you, but whatever. He had damn kissable lips, though. But I had no intention of hooking up with a stranger so soon after my breakup, no matter what my besties said. Besides, attempted suicide was kind of a huge turn-off. “Have a good life,” I said, waving. “And get rid of that gun, yeah? It doesn’t suit you.”

“Hey, lady?” he said, a slight quaver lingering in his voice.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for talking me out of it. I owe you one.”

So, the idiot did have some manners.

“No problem. You’re my good deed of the year,” I said. “Take care of yourself.” I pulled open the door to the club and slipped back into the chaos.