39. Every Rose Has Its Thorn #3
He walks backward out of the living room and into the hall, leaving a trail of words to get into my head.
Behind me, Andrew’s gripping the edge of the counter, staring at the ground. Every muscle in his body’s tense.
Ben’s bedroom door slams.
Then the house goes silent.
And my heart’s standing there, looking up at me with something to say, but she doesn’t wanna be the one to say it.
I close my eyes,
lean in to hear her whisper.
Then—
“This is the skin of a killer, Bella.”
I don’t know how long I stand here, rattled.
Ten seconds? Thirty? An hour?
Ben’s words are secondhand smoke.
When Jersey leaves your ass…
You’re burnin’ it all down for him, Baby…
Every syllable chokes like ash—
hot, dirty, coating the well of my throat.
I already know how this story ends, Ben.
It ends with a pack of regrets
and no lungs left.
It ends with me coughing up parts of myself for him to leave with.
But Andrew’s already burned a hole into me, already soaked into my bloodstream.
I kept telling myself—one more drag.
One more inhale. One more exhale.
If he doesn’t sign the contract…
I’ll quit.
Cold turkey.
Then I go and fuck him.
And now he’s standing in my kitchen,
back turned to me, facing the fridge,
staring at Jalen and Honor.
My teeth tear open my lip again, and pain pulses through my mouth. I wince, tasting the blood, and pat my mouth with the back of my hand, realizing my hand is shaking.
I push off the counter,
chest tight as I head for the wine fridge.
Andrew disrupts the silence,
“How long’s this shit been here?”
I open the wine fridge, slide out a bottle of Pinot Noir from Willamette Valley. “Held interviews yesterday.”
“Jesus Christ,” he laughs. “You brought in another one.” He yanks open the freezer door. “Been real busy these last few days, huh.”
I open a drawer and dig for a lighter.
I find it, flick it, the flame jumping,
and slam the drawer shut with my hip.
“Remind me—
“when’d you sign the contract?
“I must’ve missed it.”
Andrew shakes his head.
Disappointed, maybe.
In me. In himself.
In the whole dumb hope that he could’ve changed the terms, thinking he was going to beat the system. That maybe the rules didn’t apply to him.
He grabs a bag of frozen blueberries, shuts the freezer door, and his eyes slice back to the taped-up headshots, Honor’s face fluttering from the breeze.
He flicks the paper.
“This one? Five-an’-a-half?
“Ain’t no fuckin’ way.”
I don’t bother looking at him.
“Already fucked a six-an’-a-half.” I shrug. “Figured I could make one more exception.”
His head snaps to me,
stare molten and mad.
“This the guy you fucked?”
“No.” I hug the wine bottle against my chest. “But I did hire him. Moves in the following Monday.”
Andrew’s brows jump with his smile. He’s so blindsided that his frown looped all the way around, full circle to a grin. “Get the fuck outta here.”
“Swear to God.”
My eyes nudge the bag of blueberries.
“And those are Ben’s.”
He steps closer. “One—that ain’t fuckin’ happenin’.” He flips the blueberries up once, catches them. “Two—don’t give a shit. Look at your face.”
I snatch the bag out of his hand.
“It’s already done.”
He grips the edge of the marble.
“So that’s how this goes? You fuck me, then you go fuck some other guy, then you go hirin’ a new roomie? Right before you disappear across the country?”
He yanks off his hat,
rakes a hand through his hair,
frustration in his fingers,
before it’s back on.
“We just—”
He stops,
blows out a breath,
trying to calm himself.
“That night? With me? That made you happy. I know it did,” he says, then smacks the back of his hand against his palm. “So why you doin’ this to you? To us? The fuck are we even doin’, huh? ‘Cause I swear you got me losin’ my damn mind.”
Losing your mind?
I talk to my heart like she’s my cellmate bitch. I don’t sleep. I overthink. I haven’t had a rational thought since my eyes landed on your hips at Type.
Before you,
I was just a weirdo.
Because of you,
I’m fully fucking deranged.
“Don’t know what you’re doin’, but me?” I say, pushing off the counter.
“Right now, I’m takin’ this wine, this bag of blueberries, these smokes...
” I swipe the pack off the counter without looking.
“And I’m gettin’ naked, drunk, and maybe cry in my hot tub.
‘Cause, yeah, everything hurts right now.”
He stands there, gaze conflicted,
unsure if he’s tired or turned on.
“Allison. You got punched in the face. You ain’t drinkin’ in the hot tub with a head injury.”
My eyes narrow. “I literally have alcohol in my system right now.” I sidestep him, juggling everything in my arms, and head for the terrace. “Little more won’t be what kills me.”
I fumble with the locks, fighting with the door until it opens, and winter punches me in the face. It’s New York cold, with wind ripping across my mouth, stinging the split in my lip.
Snow’s still falling. It sticks to the edges of the hot tub, melting instantly when it hits the surface of the water.
Steam rises up thick into the cold air, dramatic and moody. I head straight for it, dumping everything on the ledge before stripping down.
One sneaker, then the other.
Socks peeled.
Jeans down.
Crewneck over my head.
Sports bra gone. Panties off. Skin bare and screaming as thirty-degree wind snakes between my legs and crawls across my chest. My nipples go tight, goosebumps racing up my arms as I tie my hair up high and off my shoulders before stepping in, sinking into the steam with a sigh.
The skyline’s wearing December,
the lit-up high-rises wrapped in fog,
snow falling sideways.
I reach for the wine,
already halfway tasting it.
But I find the cork still sealed.
Sonofabitch.
Andrew snatches the bottle up from the ledge and flicks the knife from the corkscrew. “Uh-uh. Lemme break it down for you, angel.”
He slices through the foil, eyes on mine.
“You kiss me like you do?
“Fuck me like you do?
“Bleed for me?
“Then act like you ain’t in this?”
He drives the screw in and twists.
“Bull-fuckin’-shit.”
He tilts his chin with a heavy side-eye.
“So here’s what we’re gonna do.
“We get drunk and strip it all down.
“Naked in every way.
“Lay everything on the table.
“Just you and me—Allison and Andrew.
“Nothin’ to hide behind tonight.”
Pop. He crouches and hands me the bottle with a cocked brow.
“You in or out?”
I look up at him, knowing I shouldn’t.
But I already fucked him,
so what’s the worst that could happen?
“I’m in,” I say, a sigh leaving me.
“But we’re gonna need more wine.”
Not even a minute later, he’s back, double-fisting two more bottles of Pinot with bottled water tucked under his arm.
I sink deeper into the water,
neck submerged,
chest stinging from the cold,
then warm,
then cold again.
I take a swig straight from the bottle,
take a drag of my cigarette—the only thing that makes my mouth stop wanting his.
Clove and menthol.
Sweet on inhale, frostbite on exhale.
Exactly how I want to be remembered.
I watch him collect my clothes off the deck and lay them out across the chair, conditioned to clean up after people. Then he sits and pulls off his sneakers.
“You should see yourself right now,” he says, his eyes traveling over me.
He removes his hat and glasses.
“Steam all around you.
“Hair off your neck.
“Split lip bleedin’.
“Wine in one hand. Cig in the other.
“Manhattan lit the fuck up behind you.”
He slides his crewneck off,
then his white tee,
his chest rising underneath,
gold chain glinting around his neck,
abs shadowed under the terrace lights.
And that tattoo—
ink slashed across his ribs.
It shakes my pulse every time.
He whistles low. “Don’t even know, do you? How fuckin’ sexy you are.”
He undoes the button of his pants
and lowers the zipper.
“Lemme take a picture?
“For when you leave my ass again.”
He swipes his phone off the chair behind him, then stands with his pants undone, zipper split wide, boxers riding low on the edge of his hips. A light trail of dark hair cuts a narrow path from his navel, through his V.
He snaps a photo.
I flick ash off my cig, turning my back to look out at the city. “Better make it your lock screen,” I say. “Save yourself the time tomorrow for when you’re alone.”
“Look at you,” he mutters behind me.
“Already plannin’ your next exit.”
My gaze climbs back to him.
“You smokin’ with me or just watchin’?”
Andrew chuckles as he sinks into the steam, eyes hot on me. “I don’t smoke.” He flicks his fingers for one. “But, yeah, aight. Gimme one. Ain’t lettin’ you do it alone.”
I reach for the pack and slide one out.
“I don’t smoke all the time,” I explain, holding out a cig to him. “Maybe when the climax don’t hit. When I’m tryin’ to burn off a Boy. When I’m tryin’ not to cry.” I move closer through the water, my hips parting his knees. “Alone in the studio when the words don’t come out right.”
His eyes track me as he brings the cigarette to his mouth.
I flick the lighter once and hold it steady.
The flame jumps between us,
our eyes staying on each other.
I cup his cigarette and light it for him.
He drags deep before smoke spills out of him and ghosts down my throat.
“Now, tell me,” I say. “What the hell is the myth of Andrew Harding?”
He laughs hollow as he leans back. “Oh, we goin’ straight there? Right now? You wanna know the myth of Andrew Harding, huh?”
His gaze settles on me, and my face falls serious. “Aight. But first you gotta know how the whole mess started.”
He points his cig at me.
“And you ain’t gonna like it.”