43. Because The Night
PATTI SMITH
If whiskey had a church, this pool hall would be the cathedral.
Lights pour down from stained glass shades, scarred wood for pews, shadows where the confessionals should be.
And over the bar,
neon burns red for an altar.
PLAY DIRTY. STAY RECKLESS.
Along the walls, guitars stand in glass tombs, strings drawn tight, mouths frozen mid-hymn.
Each table’s a saint—
Hendrix, Mercury, Cobain.
This is where whiskey does the talking
and cue sticks do the fighting.
But not for me.
I’m about to walk down the center aisle,
straight to an empty casket,
classic rock strumming under my skin,
the jukebox choir for my funeral,
where Andrew awaits to say his goodbye and bury us for good.
I dressed to leave a mark:
Red nails. Red lipstick.
Black denim mini skirt,
ripped to threads around my thighs.
A white crop top painted across my chest.
Dad’s leather jacket—patches, scars, stories stitched into the hide. Eight years later, still smells like Newports and his cologne.
I stand by the door, every set of eyes turned my way, guys in Yankees caps hunched over the bar near the lotto machine, twenty-somethings in Chucks and backward caps, chewing toothpicks around cocky grins.
My eyes skip over bodies until I spot Andrew in the back corner, alone.
His head lifts, feeling me near—navy eyes finding mine through chalk dust and smoke, cue stick riding his shoulder. His chest rises with that doomed stare as I cross the room.
He’s in black jeans that ride his hips.
Plaid unbuttoned over a white tee.
Sleeves rolled up,
his arms making my pulse sprint.
Bright white Nikes
flashing under the shadows.
He stands tall,
beautiful,
and heartbreak-still.
Not the same man who walked out of my penthouse six nights ago.
Girls hover near him, probably been circling long before I walked in.
They watch him watching me.
Then they’re watching me.
Crossing the pool hall feels longer than it should under their gazes.
This is his turf. Hoboken knows Andrew Harding, and I can’t help but wonder if every smirking stare has already seen him on his knees.
When I stop in front of him,
he abandons the cue against the wall.
There’s one second when I’m not sure if he’s about to break my heart, or take me up against the pool table and break my back.
But then his hand slides under my hair,
to the back of my neck,
the other at my hip,
pulling me close
until our foreheads meet,
and our hips lock together.
His cologne wraps around me—the scent of stormclouds raining deep amber.
His mouth presses between my brows, then drags to my temple, next to my ear, breathing me in, staying a second longer for someone who left me like he did.
They’re not kisses.
They’re I-hate-missing-yous.
After six nights without him, my obsessed heart’s hurling itself against my ribcage,
snorting his cologne,
drunk on his lips,
overdosing on his touch,
begging to be broken by him again.
He keeps me close, thumb brushing the edge of my cheekbone. “Still hurts?” he asks.
“No.” I step back, and his hand fall away. “I’ve felt worse. This? This is nothing.”
He leans against the pool table,
gaze drifting down my legs,
sliding across my bare stomach,
my chest,
tracing my mouth,
back to my eyes.
His hands flex around the table’s edge, fighting every cell that’s starved for my skin.
I cross my arms, falling back another step. “So what’s the deal? Why am I here?”
He looks down,
fixing the bottom hem of his shirt.
He’s nervous.
He’s about to say something stupid.
Or something that’ll piss me off.
“Allison—”
I turn statue,
bracing for whatever’s about to drop—
bomb or bullshit.
I’m counting the seconds.
He’s taking his time, debating whether he’s sure he wants to say it, and already hating my response.
Which only makes me more nervous.
When he meets my eyes again,
his shoulders sink.
“Allison, I’m not signin’ your contract.”
…Uh.
I beg your fucking pardon?
My breath quits in my throat.
Don’t flinch, Allison.
I pinch my skin on the inside of my arm,
dig my nails in until it bites.
All tough for someone
with a heart that’s about to cry.
“Okay,” I say, stone-faced, nodding.
“Thank you for your time.
“Guess this concludes our meeting.”
Coulda told me over text.
My eyes find the exit first.
He slides in front of me,
catching me at my hip.
“Allison. Whoa. Hey—” His brows lift. “Can you gimme a sec? Can you hear me out?” I don’t say yes or no, but I don’t walk away either. “I get it, alright? I know what it’s for. But that contract? That’s built for the past.”
He dips into a murmur,
“And I ain’t the past, Sonny.”
I try to brush him off.
“I don’t need your reasoning, Drew.
“No was all I needed to hear.”
I step left.
He steers me back to him.
“Stop, stop. Listen to me.
“I ain’t done with you.”
I don’t stop. ‘Cause I’m afraid what will happen if I do.
“Allison, please—” he says until my eyes meet his, until he has me. “Lemme make you an offer.” He nudges his chin past me. “See that bag? That’s mine. Laptop’s in there.”
I turn, spotting a backpack by the wall.
“We build a new contract. Together. From scratch. Right now.” He steers my eyes back to his. “Somethin’ that fits what we already got and what we both actually want outta this.”
My eyes are probably doing some weird shit. Narrowing. Widening. Squinting. I don’t fucking know.
I’ve got nothing.
Every word inside me is dust.
I’m so empty of thoughts.
I swallow again and again,
my mouth starving to say something.
Anything.
And he’s still staring at me, waiting.
Then—
I’m laughing.
And laughing.
“Oh my God…”
My head tips back,
my laugh crumbling into a groan.
“This whole thing between us? Yeah. This feels like Midnights-era insanity.” I jab a finger into his chest. “Same damn record that keeps comin’ back, new cover, no idea when to stop.
” Another laugh buckles out of me. “Ooh—let’s draft a new contract,” I mock in my best Jersey boy voice.
“At a goddamn pool hall. We don’t need no lawyer, pen, or coffee.
Why when we got stripes, solids, and stares from all the pussy you’ve licked? ”
“Jesus—” he flicks his eyes sideways,
pinching the bridge of his nose.
My patience wears thin,
and I drop my head to the side.
“My life a joke to you, Drew?”
His brows slant upward.
“Allison—c’mon. No.
“This ain’t a fuckin’ joke to me.”
He closes the space, his hand finding mine and threading our fingers together. He tugs me closer, his thigh against my thigh. I glance away, and he tilts his head, following me until I’m trapped in his eyes again.
“I wanna be with you,” he says, closer, his next words landing warm on my lips, “Fuck—I wanna be with you.
“But I’m not one of your Boys.
“I can’t be. You already know.
“You tried tellin’ me from the start, and I didn’t wanna hear it, didn’t wanna let this go. And I ain’t draggin’ you and me into somethin’ that’s settin’ us up to crash and burn in the end either.”
My eyes narrow. “Wow. You’re dead serious right now, aren’t you? Like you’re not fuckin’ around.” A shaky breath leaves me. “You actually wanna write a new contract right now.”
His thumb slides over my knuckles. “I got the fine print pulled up. It’s all black and white, no bullshit. All it needs? Our rules, the ones we make together. From the top.”
It’s not only my breath shaking anymore. It’s my hand, too. The one he’s not holding. The one that’s been tracing the seam of his jeans.
I hide it from him,
burying it in my jacket pocket.
This went from slow burn to free fall,
panic hitting hard,
nothing to grab on the way down.
So. Alright.
Andrew wants a personalized contract.
Maybe that’s not the dumbest idea.
Or maybe it’s a death sentence.
“The hell you know about drafting contracts, Jersey?”
He lifts a shoulder,
mouth tugging into a slow smile.
“Don’t forget—my aunt’s a lawyer.
“Contracts, business stuff I can handle.
“Always been good with that shit.”
This all still feels like a setup.
Might even be one I trapped myself into,
I can’t tell anymore.
Not when there’s a knot in my stomach—nerves or fear or sickness. Hard to tell the difference when it all tastes the same.
“But before you say anything…” he says carefully. “I gotta be real with you.” His hand tightens around mine to either anchor himself, or make sure I don’t pull away.
“My ma’s dyin’. Might have months, maybe less. You know that.” His head dips as he shifts closer. “I can’t give up what little time I got if you’re not wantin’ more with me.”
His navy irises are soaked in nerves.
“But if you want the same thing I do?
“Then, yeah… I’m in. All the way.” He takes another beat before the hammer drops. “So before we go any further? I got three conditions that are non-negotiable.
“If you can’t do it, I’ll understand.
“It’ll fuckin’ gut me, but I’ll respect it.
“And I’ll walk… for good.”
I fall back a step,
away from those words,
but they follow me like a curse—
I’ll walk for good.
The only ending I can never outrun.
My throat tightens.
This motherfucker.
He’s threatening me with the one thing that scares the fuck out of me, as if I haven’t been trying to walk first this whole time to avoid it.
It’s taking everything not to shove him in the chest and walk off. The only thing that’s keeping me rooted is how deprived I am of him.
“Alright, what are they, huh?” Fear breaks my voice, and I hate that it does. “The magic three that keep you from leaving me.”
His head drops, eyes holding me in that
Why’d you have to put it that way? stare.
I don’t budge.
He exhales.
“First—no more walkin’ away.
“And that goes for the both of us.”
His fingers drift lazy on my thigh, his other palm inching up my side and under the jacket, looking for bare skin to touch. In case it might be the last time he touches me ever again.
“You need air? Fine.
“Wanna call it quits? Say it.
“But don’t disappear, leavin’ me to wonder where the hell we stand.”
We hold each other’s stare, unblinking.
“Second—
“You’re mine, Allison.”
Mine.
One word, a knife dipped in truth. And he just threw it at me as if it wouldn’t hit anything vital.
It did.