38. Skin and Bones
DAVID KUSHNER
“Tastes so fuckin’ good.”
Andrew’s sitting on the barstool, knees wide, dipping another fry into the mayo and shoving it into his mouth. “No like—” He grabs another fry. “How has no one ever told me about this shit?”
Peter stares at him from across the table, disgusted. “You sayin’ you never dipped a fry in mayo before?”
Andrew points at him with the fry.
“One: You don’t dip fries in this, you bathe them. Two? Never. Never fuckin’ occurred to me.”
Andrew pops the fry into his mouth.
“Wow.” He leans back,
hand on his chest. “Wow.”
He licks mayo from his thumb, looking at me. “Tell me right now how you discovered this genius shit.”
“My dad always ate ‘em that way.”
Andrew knocks on the table. “That man raised you right.” He slides the mayo packet off the table. “See, ketchup’s for kids. Mayo’s for grown men,” he says, elbow on the table, waving the packet.
Then he turns it over.
“What’s even in this shit?”
Peter squints at Andrew. “Yeah, so, heads up, Allie. We’re officially movin’ through the hyper-focused phase.” His Boston drawl floats across the table. “You got about four sips left ‘til truth serum kicks in.”
I glance over.
Andrew’s mouthing the word ‘ma-yo-nnaise’ from the packet.
Peter lifts his glass.
“You ever seen him like this?”
A laugh slips out of me. “Not like this.”
He points the rim of his drink at Andrew. “This is rare. I’ve known this kid ten years and only seen him drink twice. Watch—once that second shot kicks in? Real Andrew Harding comes out, honest as fuck, and it ain’t nice.”
Andrew cocks his head. “Contains: whole eggs… vinegar… Soybean oil… Hellmann’s went hard for us, babe—” His voice stalls, eyes pinching together, then widen. “Wait. Nah, Petey, check this shit.”
Andrew tosses the packet across the table at him. “You know mayo got lemon juice in it, bro? They snuck in lemon juice and didn’t even brag.” He pops another mayo-covered fry into his mouth, then makes a face like he just came. “Oh my god,” he says. “Here on out, mayo on everything.”
His dumb, tipsy smile hits me so hard
it burns my cheeks.
I wanna look away but can’t.
I hate how beautiful he looks when he’s happy. The way I’d burn the world to protect it.
And for a second,
my heart forgets her job to protect me.
She’s watching him too,
dreamy-eyed and drooling.
Andrew wipes his hands on a napkin,
and catches me staring.
Then he crooks a finger, and the second I’m in reach, his hand lands on my hip, and he draws me in close between his legs. “It’s you, y’know,” he murmurs, his mouth at my neck. “Everything tastes better with you in the room.”
“Yeah?” Every cell in my body’s rubbing together like dry wood, sparking hot the closer he gets, burning me up and turning me to ash.
“Yeah. You bein’ here makes everything better.” His eyes slide off me and drift around the room. “Only thing I’d change is every pair of eyes on you.”
“Jealous?”
“Nah. Just don’t want anyone lookin’ at you, imaginin’ shit. Makes me wanna throw a napkin over your face so I can have you to myself.”
“Okay—” I nudge my head to the table next to us.
“Girl behind me? Been pretendin’ not to listen to every word you say.
And the waitress?” I shrug, my fingers tracing the shape of the lump that’s in his pocket.
“Girl nearly mounted you when she reached over to grab your empty glass.” Whatever it is, it’s small, solid, and bottle-shaped, and it steals my attention. “What’s in your pocket?”
“Nothin’,” he tugs me forward.
“Don’t change the subject.
“What're you gettin’ at, huh?”
I try avoiding his gaze, knowing I shouldn’t say what I’m about to say.
It’s ‘cause of the alcohol. ‘Cause I’m a guilt-ridden, manipulative coward, who says one thing, wanting the opposite.
‘Cause I went and got fucked.
Now I want him to get fucked too.
I want him to slam into pussy so we can be on the same page again.
Which is truly psychotic.
No one has to tell me, I already know.
And the truth is? If he did?
I don’t think I could move on from it.
That’s how I know once I tell him,
he’ll never see me again.
But that was the point, Allison. Wasn’t it?
“All I’m sayin’ is, you’re still single, Drew. You got options. You should go for it. Have fun. Hook up and shit.” I shrug. “With any of ‘em. All of ‘em.”
He stares, confusion bleeding through first, considering he might’ve misheard. But in the next second, he’s grabbing my face, sliding his fingers to the base of my spine, pulling me flush between his spread thighs.
And then I’m in his hands, his mouth dragging to my ear. “You make me insane,” he murmurs, both hurt and heated.
“Good,” I say.
“Nah, like, I hate how much I like you.” His thumb grazes my cheek.
“You drive me fuckin’ nuts. Push every button.
Keep sayin’ stupid shit and doin’ stupid shit every time shit gets intense.
But I still want you under me every night.
Don’t even care how long it lasts. Don’t care how it ends or if you’ll hate me. I want it.”
These words are spoken like empty bullets, as if there’s no harm to them, just brass casings dragging shivers down my spine, condoning my corruption.
But I still want you under me every night—a phrase so nonchalant and simple, like he’s ordering fucking pancakes at IHOP or some shit.
As if under-him-every-night doesn’t mean never-waking-up-alone-again.
His voice is too gentle for a statement that violent, too warm for words that cold-blooded.
And I hate how good it feels to think about pancakes and IHOP and waking up wrapped in his skin.
His breath traces my cheekbone, and his eyes are hooded, wet, tipsy, honest. “You say and do shit like that, Sonny? I can’t take it.
First you won’t kiss me in a room full’a guys eye-fuckin’ you—one already had the balls to try.
Then you hit me with some bullshit about bein’ single? Nah. Don’t do that to me.”
Eye-fucking?
You’re spiralin’ over eye-fucking?
Bro. Eye-fucked Brandon.
How can you not feel it all over my skin?
I should tell him. Right now.
My mind sets the ball for a field goal confession.
My heart goes in for the kick,
aiming the words up my throat.
Then his chest dips.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
My heart freezes, her foot an inch away.
Oh fuck me in the ass,
he’s about to say something scary.
I glance past Andrew’s shoulder.
Peter’s looking right at me,
and he mouths, told you,
before taking a cocky bite of his fry.
Andrew tugs me closer,
mouth right against my skin.
“I need to feel you.”
A laugh huffs out my nose.
“What’re you talkin’ about?
“Your hands are all over me now.”
“Yeah, but, like, I don’t want ‘em ever leavin’,” he rasps into my skin, then kisses under my ear. “Need to feel connected to you. Physically. Safe in my hands.” When his eyes find mine again, the smile’s lazy. “You’re my downbeat, Sonny.”
I stare at him, thawing fast, trying to force myself to laugh it off, to keep the fear of what it means from creeping in next, but I’m helpless.
He grins wider. “What—I’m serious.” His palm spreads warm up my side. “Never had the balls to tell you before. Been holdin’ it in. But I just… need you in my hands.
“‘Cause if I’m touching you,
“that means no one else is.
“If I’m holdin’ you,
“you didn’t disappear.
“If you’re here,
“then you ain’t anywhere else.
“And that means… we’re okay.”
Only one thing will mean we’re okay.
I fall back a step, meeting his eyes.
“You want something solid? Then stop livin’ in this in-between and sign the contract. That’s the only thing that counts in my world.”
His forehead pushes into mine. “Nah, I ain’t talkin’ to Baby right now,” he murmurs, frustrated.
“I’m talkin’ to Allison. Contract or not, you, Allison Taylor, shake me up and hold me down, and I need to know I ain’t crazy.
” He squeezes my hip, pulling me back into him.
“‘Cause right now I’m feelin’ real fuckin’ crazy.
” He laughs once, humorless. “Doesn’t even make sense.
I know. Can’t even articulate this shit. ”
His head buries into my neck, and he groans. “You got me sick, Sonny. Sick in the fuckin’ head.”
The alcohol’s a pickaxe to all his inhibitions, chipping away the swagger, exposing the underlying truth.
When he pulls back, his gaze crawls down to my mouth. “Yo, deadass, you got mayo on your lip.”
I freeze, horrified. “What?”
“Yeah, I been sittin’ here thinkin’ about lickin’ it off.” His eyes lift to mine. Then fall back to my mouth. “I don’t think I can hold back much longer.”
“Shut up. You’re lying.”
Before I can lift my hand,
he grabs my face in both of his,
and licks my lip,
scooping up the mayo, smug and fast.
“Drew!” I choke on a laugh.
“You’re disgusting.”
He holds the back of my head,
smiling against my mouth.
“You think I was gonna not?”
It starts stupid:
me grinning against his lips,
him chuckling low,
mouths bumping,
lips brushing warm.
Until he kisses the corner of my mouth.
It’s soft. Gentle.
Barely there.
Then he moves to my top lip,
where it slows,
draws out.
His lips roam unhurried,
his fingers slipping into my hair
as he draws me in
and kisses me again.
Our lips slide,
sedating,
lingering,
a faint drag of his bottom lip between mine, pulling heat.
He exhales through his nose,
hot air hitting my cheek.
And his lips part,
taking more,
pulling me into him,
holding our kiss.
Soft, softer, and so fucking slow.
He moans before I draw back.
“Sonny…”
Then he’s just…
staring at me.
“I look at you…
“and I get so full,
“and it’s, like—
“I can’t feel good without hurtin’.
“You ever feel that?”
I smile.
Then he smiles,
brushing his thumb across my hipbone.
“If I die tonight—
“like right now, just drop—
“I want it on record that
“I was looking at you.
“And I was so fuckin’ happy.”
My throat tightens.
My heart’s pressing her forehead and palms to the glass, fogging it up with every exhale, refusing to let this moment go, mouthing, why can’t you let us have this?
Why can’t you just let us be happy?
But Guilt’s sliding under my skin,
hissing—You should tell him.
Now.
Right now.
Before he wastes one more sweet word on you.