37. The Feels #2
I dust the Giants logo with the back of my fingers. “Got blue in my blood. City-born, Giants bred. Just wanted to see if this guy was ride or die,” I say, hooking a thumb at Andrew, then knock his knee with my hip. “Sixty bucks well spent.”
“Nah, don’t play it off.” Andrew’s hand cuts the air. “You entered a room full’a drunk fans like you ain’t afraid of death. Or me leavin’ your ass hangin’. Shit gave me a heart attack. I was like, aight, so this is how I die. This girl testin’ my loyalty in public.”
He flicks the bill of my hat. “No wonder I’m scared’a you. Fuckin’ nightmare.”
Ricky sets his bottle on the table. “This a phase?” he asks Andrew. “We gotta remember her name? ‘Cause she feels real temporary, bro.”
Andrew’s brows slam down,
mouth opening—
But I lean closer, folding my arms on the table. “I’ve been on Andrew’s waitlist for months. Made it past round one. Scored a bar invite with the chance to meet his finance bro.” I cock my head. “Tell me, you in crypto, right? Is it strictly Ethereum these days?”
Peter’s halfway through a sip and has to yank the bottle from his mouth, unable to stop the laugh that’s bubbling up.
“Finance bro,” Andrew gets out under his chuckle. “She don’t miss.”
Ricky forces a tight smile, but a shade of pink crawls up his neck. “Still in crypto,” he mutters, eyes drifting to Andrew. “Still pullin’ more than the guy sittin’ across from me. Next question?”
Andrew tenses beside me.
I lean back into him, whispering loudly,
“That was crypto for ‘I’m compensating.’”
Peter nearly chokes on another laugh.
Ricky scoffs, shoulders flexing.
“Rick—walked right into that one.” Andrew lifts his chin. “I’d quit while you’re behind, bro. Take the L, shut the fuck up, and sip your beer.”
Then Andrew turns in the stool, facing me. “You hungry? You want somethin’? Fries? A drink?”
But across the bar, Mr. Grim Reaper at the high-top has his hard-edged glare pointed at us over the rim of his beer as he drains it in one long gulp.
Something in him feels wrong, cold, stormy. He sets the glass down without breaking his stare, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Beside me, Andrew rises to his feet,
sweeping up my gaze. “C’mon.
“I want your opinion on a drink.”
His chin tips toward the bar.
Third quarter starts. Giants are losing.
Grown men in Eli jerseys scream obscenities at Drew Lock. We move past them, finding an opening at the counter.
Andrew leans into one elbow, mouth close to my ear to talk over the shouting. “Aight so. You’re gettin’ a Sonny on the Beach.”
“Cute name,” I say.
“Back to the lab again, yo?”
He lifts a smug shrug. “What can I say?
“You inspire this old rhapsody.”
Our smiles hit at the same time,
like idiots, like losers,
playin’ with lyrics
like we’re some synced-up freaks.
It’s horrifyingly disgusting.
Even though he keeps his hands everywhere but near me.
He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch me anymore. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m not allowed to touch anyone else.
Sex touched us,
and now we’re all fucked up.
I bump my shoulder into him.
“Talk drink to me.”
“Aight, aight,” he murmurs, leaning into his hip.
“Grapefruit juice. Coconut water. Agave nectar. Splash of club soda. Lime wedge and sea-salt on the rim. Goes down easy, and won’t fuck up your pH.
” The corner of his mouth lifts. “And if you wanna behave badly tonight—tequila blanco. Single or double. I got you.”
My smile sneaks out sideways to meet his. “You care about my pH, Drew?”
“I mean… yeah. If it’s you, it’s all of you. Top to bottom.” He closes the distance, hand out like he’s about to lay some dirt. “Don’t tell nobody, make me look real sweet, but I been workin’ on a menu with your name on it.”
His gaze drowns in me, but all I hear is the sound of Brandon’s zipper.
He straightens the bill of my hat.
“So tequila or nah?”
I clear my throat, trying to erase Brandon from my head. “If I’m drinking, you’re drinking with me.”
That makes him pause.
It takes two seconds for him to think,
then, “Aight,” he nods,
“but two’s my max.”
He taps the bar twice with his knuckle, and when the guy pops over, Andrew lists ingredients, nodding toward me, telling him the fresh shit only—no canned—and not to fuck it up.
And while he’s busy playing bartender through someone else’s hands, I’m mentally drawing backup plans.
Plan A: get him shit-faced,
tell him I fucked Brandon,
and pray he doesn't remember tomorrow.
Plan B: push some other girl at him.
Let him fuck her, so it cancels out what I did.
Plan C: get eaten alive by this lie that’s not even a lie ‘cause it’s not like we’re committed to each other.
Plan D: be a grown-up and confess.
Watch him walk and lose him
like I’m supposed to.
Peter’s palm hits Andrew’s chest.
“Yo, lemme steal you a sec.”
Andrew hesitates before being pulled a few feet away, but he stays close enough for my ears to pick up scraps.
Peter's in his ear, talking fast. “Swear I’m good for it. Just—Leo’s cast was three-fifty outta pocket. It’s off-season. I’m drowning. My sister’s drowning. You know how it is. I’m gonna need a few more weeks.”
Andrew’s not looking at him. He’s watching the screen—Giants down by six. “C’mon, man,” he mutters. “This ain’t the time.”
“I’m just sayin’. I know I owe you. I hate that feelin’, bro.”
A voice slams into me from my left—
low, deep, and inches from my ear.
“So which is it?”
I flinch, turning fast,
expecting to see Hunter’s face.
Grim Reaper’s staring me down,
ink creepin’ up his neck.
I didn’t hear him walk up.
I didn’t hear a fucking thing.
The space beside me was empty ten seconds ago. Now it’s him, hunched over the bar, chained shadows in his eyes begging to be unleashed. “Giants or Eagles?” he asks.
I step back, my pulse in my ears,
my heartbeat skipping fast.
When Andrew cuts in—“Nah, bro.”
In seconds, he’s flush behind me,
hand on my hip,
keeping me glued to him,
the heat of him screaming up my spine.
“She’s good. Back off, alright?”
Grim Reaper gives Andrew a once-over,
a smirk rising late, lopsided and insane.
Something’s off about him,
like he laughs in courtrooms,
smiles through sirens,
hums while doing fucked-up shit
with his bare hands.
Andrew looks him over.
“Somethin’ got you confused?
“You ain’t hear me the first time?”
The guy is amused, gesturing toward me. “What, you her boyfriend or some shit?”
Andrew opens his mouth—
Nothing comes out.
His eyes drop to me,
then move to somewhere past me.
I watch the hesitation lock up his jaw.
For a second, a horrific thought crashes into me: I want him to say yes.
And that reeks of romantic roadkill.
“That supposed to stop you or start somethin’, huh?” Andrew says. “All you need’a know is I’mma be your problem in five seconds if you don’t back the fuck up.”
The tension stretches between them.
Then the guy laughs as he turns and walks off. Andrew’s heated eyes follow him the whole way back to the window, his vein in his neck bulging, fingers digging into my hip.
Once the guy slides back in with his boys, Andrew looks down at me.
“Hey, you good?”
I try to play it off, as if my heart’s not sitting in a fetal position in the corner of my chest. “Yeah. He just gave me the creeps.”
I don’t want to think about Hunter, and I don’t want to see him in every jump-scare, but every time, there he is. As if fear has no reason to bother with inventing new monsters anymore, it’s already picked a favorite face, and it’s his.
Andrew’s hand slides up the back of my neck, his thumb brushing over my pulse that’s slamming into my throat. The second he touches it, he glances back down at me.
My chest is still rising too fast,
falling too deep.
He starts to pull me into the heat of him,
when the drinks hit the bar like bombs.
THIRD QUARTER // EAGLES 16 — GIANTS 10
Game’s lagging ‘cause of Midtown WiFi.
The whole bar groans when Lock botches a wide-open slant.
I’m still a little shaky, side-eyeing the Grim Reaper, making sure that fucker stays on that side of the bar.
And Little Death’s here now too,
thanks to the Reaper.
It’s all poetic in the most fucked-up way.
Little Death’s standing tall on my cervix,
tapping his watch—
we got somewhere to be, a clit to rub.
Andrew’s back in the barstool, laughing behind me. “Yeah, nah. I’m not bettin’ you again,” he says.
“This is redemption,” Peter insists.
“This is addiction,” Andrew slaps back.
I finish off my drink, the alcohol comforting enough to keep me here, but not enough to make Little Death disappear.
The ache’s still spreading slow between my thighs.
I don’t want to crave it, but my mind’s already planning the when, where, how, pussy foaming at the mouth for a lockable door and ten minutes alone.
Lock gets sacked and a guy one table over from ours mouths off at Peter. “Nah, Lock can’t throw a checkdown.” He’s wearing a fake Rolex, fake gold chain out, beer half-spilled on his joggers. “Shoulda kept Dimes. Dumbest move they ever made.”