38. Skin and Bones #2
“Drew, I gotta tell you something.”
“Nah, I gotta tell you something first.”
His conflicted eyes locking on mine—
drunk, nervous, wild, and scared…
“Fuck. Forgetaboutit. Never mind.”
A held breath breaks free from me.
“Never mind what?” I probe.
“Nothin’. I—uh…”
He looks sideways. “Shit.”
He adjusts his grip on me,
holds me tighter.
“I care about you, alright?
“If you ever second-guess it?”
He lifts a shoulder.
“I do. I can’t bullshit us.
“That’s it. All I wanted to say.”
I squeeze his thigh. Yeah, you care now.
Let’s check back in a few hours,
see if that still holds.
He closes his eyes,
forehead tipping to mine.
“Nah, nah, nah. This shit ain’t real,” Peter says.
And that’s when I remember we’re in the middle of a bar, and the table went dead quiet, as if someone hit mute.
I glance over.
Peter’s staring at us, mouth full of fries.
“What the fuck is goin’ on right now.”
Ricky’s frozen with his drink mid-air.
“Seriously. I’m in a twilight zone.”
Andrew sends them a glare, doing that cut-it-out slash of his hand at his throat, then snatches up his drink, pretending I didn’t see him do that.
I scan the table, lost.
“What? What am I missin’ here?”
“Nothin’,” Andrew pops a fry into his mouth. “They’re just bein’ dumb.”
Peter chuckles.
“Oh, word? I’m bein’ dumb?”
He swipes a napkin across his grin.
Then he leans in, elbows on the table.
Andrew curses in Italian under his breath.
Peter waves it off. “Nah, bro. You brought this on yourself.” He points at Andrew, eyes on me.
“What I'd tell you? I’ve known this guy a decade. Ten years, not one girl. Ever. And in public? He’s got two modes when he ain’t workin’: ice cold or Houdini.
Walks away from tens like it’s nothin’. And drunk Andrew?
Worse. Grade-A asshole.” Peter’s gaze swings to Andrew.
“Only that ain’t what the fuck happened, is it?
“You went rogue tonight, bro. I had money on the classic Harding moves. But this?” He gestures wide, hands spread out.
“Touchin’. Kissin’. Smilin’? The fuck is this?
” He lays a hand on his chest, fake wounded.
“Lost me a Benjamin, bro. I was ready to make a quick hundred, swoop in on her for you, get her off your hands, ‘cause that’s love, man.”
“Nah.” Andrew lifts his drink. “Love is me tellin' girls we ain’t close so they don’t try to fuck you just to get to me. That’s love, Petey.” He winks. “But you try swoopin' in on Allison? You’ll get your Grade-A asshole.”
“Damn.” Ricky raises his beer.
“R.I.P. to the myth of Andrew Harding.”
“Yeah, and you.” Peter points at me. “Whatareyou, the fuckin’ Antichrist? This some fantasy? A deal? Can’t figure this one out.”
Andrew sets his drink down, eyes flicking to me, then back to Peter. “Aight. Shut the fuck up or I'll slap the Boston outta you.”
“Wait,” I turn to Andrew, “you’re twenty-seven. You never been in a relationship before?” But the table falls quiet. Mikey and his uncle said the same, but I didn’t take any of it literal… “What about that girl at Type?”
Ricky laughs, fist coming down on the table. “Andrew’s in a secret relationship with everyone.”
Andrew’s speechless, staring at me—
When the entire bar erupts, the Giants scoring a touchdown with ten left on the clock.
But we’re still staring at each other.
Me, wondering, why me, why now,
what exactly are you after?
And him, with panic in his eyes.
We just keep staring.
Even when a shadow falls over Andrew,
we stare.
Then my gaze breaks as the waitress bends over him, hand on his shoulder, finger brushing his throat as she says low in his ear, “Your card declined.”
Ricky’s eyes shoot to Andrew,
brows raised, grin rising with it.
Andrew nudges his chin, muttering, “Nah, that’s not right. Try it again.” He leans back, sliding his wallet out of his front pocket.
But I’m fixated on her,
heat simmering under my skin.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
It looks like jealousy, but it’s not.
It can’t be.
It’s the way she's touching him
as if she's allowed to.
It’s the guilty secret I’m babysitting.
It’s Little Death now pinching at my clit.
Maybe it’s all of it crammed into me,
one breath away from blowing up.
Jealousy, rage, withdrawal, lies—they all taste the same as they decompose inside.
The second she walks off, Ricky leans in.
“Yo, you good?” he says, amused. “You want me to cover it? I got you, fam.” His wink’s even cockier than the waitress.
Andrew shoots a shut-the-fuck-up glare.
But under the table, his wallet’s out.
Only a ten. Barely enough for the tip.
I step in front of Andrew, blocking Ricky. “WiFi could be actin’ up or some shit,” I say, sliding a folded bill into his lap under the table, my hand still shaking. “This is why you always carry cash.”
His gaze falls weak. “Allison—”
“No, I gotta disappear for five minutes.”
“Disappear for five?” he says, a little disappointed. “You really about to walk off and handle that solo?”
A wayward laugh slips out of me.
“Yeah. I am. And if you tip her more than twenty percent after she put her hands all over you? That’s how you’ll be leavin’ this bar.”
I’m gone before he has a chance to get a word in, Little Death taunting me with every step.
But when I reach the hall,
I glance back at Andrew.
He’s staring down at the hundred,
humiliation in his fist,
knee bouncin’ uncontrollably.
Instead of disappearing into the bathroom, I tuck myself behind the frame, arms crossed, watching as he pulls his phone from his pocket, taps quick across the screen, then slides on his glasses as he stands.
He fixes his crewneck, those perfect shoulders flexing under cotton, eyes sweeping the floor.
The waitress is standing behind the taps.
He heads that way and calls her aside with a nod that says—we’re gonna talk.
As she walks over,
Andrew sinks a hand in his pocket,
standing with that lazy, Jersey lean.
I can’t hear the first thing she says,
but soon as Andrew opens his mouth,
the smile drains from her face.
“You crossed a line.
“Hands on a customer?
“While you’re on the clock?”
His thumb hooks back at the table.
“And doin’ it in front of her?”
He shakes his head.
“That was unprofessional
“and disrespectful as fuck.”
His words go down smooth,
but has that 80-proof aftertaste—
a bold, brutal burn.
“From one bartender to another?
“Lemme give you some advice.
“If you see a guy sittin’ with a girl,
“you want a decent tip? Don’t play flirty.
“You give your energy to her.
“Make sure she’s taken care of.
“Because when she feels disrespected?
“You lost both of ‘em. That tip? Gone.
“Especially when she’s footin’ the bill.”
She nods, and he swings the bill forward between his fingers.“You’re real lucky ‘cause her bein’ solid? That’s what saved your tip.”
When I head back to the table, Andrew spots me from across the bar and stands, coat in hand. “You good?” he asks when I slide up beside him.
Ricky’s eyeing us.
“Hold up. Y’all takin’ off?”
Andrew’s halfway through a hand clap,
half-turned, about to answer,
when over his shoulder,
the Grim Reaper has his eyes set on us,
heading right this way.
I grab Andrew’s arm. “Drew—”
But before Andrew has a chance to turn,
Reaper’s palm slams into his shoulder.
Andrew stumbles back a half step,
catching his balance,
then stands taller, pissed,
neck straining below a steel-cut jaw.
He tosses his coat onto the chair.
“The fuck’s wrong with you?” he says.
“Can’t take a hint?”
Reaper smirks.
“Nah, this was never about your girl.
“This been about mine from the jump.”
Realization rains down Andrew’s face.
He has that look, like—here we fuckin’ go,
as if he’s been down this road before,
as if he’s heard this speech before,
different name, different guy, same story.
One of the three hundred other times,
I’m sure.
He points at Reaper. “Don’t even finish that sentence,” he snaps. “I ain’t doin’ this here. Not in front of her.” He reaches behind him, finding my waist. “You got a problem? Take that shit to your girl. This’s got nothin’ to do with me.”
Reaper pushes Andrew again, harder. “Think I’m lettin’ your punk-ass walk outta here? Nah. Been waitin’ on this.”
Andrew barely rocks back, teeth clenched. “You wanna feel tough? Go swing on a wall, bro. ‘Cause I ain’t throwin’ hands over some nonsense.”
Reaper squares his stance.
“Nonsense? You think this is nonsense?”
A bitter laugh cuts through Andrew. “I think you’re mad ‘cause you know the truth and you need someone to blame.” He lifts his chin. “You mad at the wrong person. Whatever lies she told you, that’s between y’all.” Andrew leans over to grab his coat again. “We're leavin'.”
“Oh, so she a liar now?” Reaper’s palms drive into Andrew’s shoulder so hard he stumbles backward into me. “You even know who I’m talkin’ about, dumbass?”
And the second Andrew knocks into me, he loses it.
“You know who the fuck I am?!” he spits, steppin’ forward, giving him a once-over.
“You think her name means shit to me? If we hooked up? It’s ‘cause she walked her ass over to me and asked for it. Didn’t say shit about you.
So check your girl before steppin’ to me, yeah?
‘Cause I can guarantee I never wanted her.” Another step closer.
“Now back the fuck up. For real, I ain’t playin’. ”
The guy lunges closer, and Andrew throws an arm behind him, pressing his hand against my stomach to keep me at a distance.
“You really gonna swing? In a room full’a cameras?
Over some lies?” he asks, nodding around the bar.
“Don’t be stupid, man. Think for a fuckin’ second.
If she was really about you, we wouldn’t be standin’ here.
Catchin’ charges over a girl who ain’t even loyal?
She ain’t worth a thought, let alone the record, bro. ”
My stomach drops.
He may as well be talking about me.
I’m not worth a thought.
Reaper charges closer,
hands curling into fists.
Andrew slams into him,
both palms to his chest,
bouncing him back a full step.
“Last chance—back the fuck off.”
Peter’s beside him fast.