45. Kiss Your Past Good-bye #2
And there’s ink in his eyes, I swear it. Blue-black like fresh ink, wet, bleeding, as if he already wrote our names on the dotted line of his irises, signed me into him.
“This is a lot,” I mutter,
half to him, half to myself.
He nods. “Yeah, it’s a lot. But listen—if I’m puttin’ myself in this deep? It ain’t ‘cause I’m tryna play house with you. I’m tryin’ to fuckin’ keep you.”
Keep me. That’s the kind of thing you hear right before you end up on an episode of Forensic Files. And yet my pulse skips like I want the chains. Like the idea of being kept by him doesn’t scare me half as much as the idea of being let go by him.
This one isn’t only my decision, though.
“What if they refuse to sign it?”
He scoffs. “They’ll sign.
“You let me worry about that.”
He inches back, chin angled high,
eyes fixed heavy through his lashes.
“Aight, your turn.
“What clause you goin’ for?”
I grab my cue off the wall. “You’re taking a second day off every week. For your moms. One whole day with ‘em, every damn week. No bail-outs, no excuses, no ‘I’ll make it up to ‘em later.’”
“Allison. That’s my bills you’re cuttin’ into. That’s—” A laugh arrives, but dies quick behind his hand. “Shit, that’s money I don’t get back.”
“You’re wrong. Money you get back. Time, you don’t,” I say, my voice betraying me.
He leans an elbow on the table next to his laptop, studying me. “You’re killin’ me here,” he mutters. “That’s what you want, huh?”
If he only knew. I’d give anything for ten more seconds with Mom and Dad. “Yeah, that’s what I want.”
His head dips in a slow nod as he reaches for the chalk. “As much as I’m gonna stress over the bills...” He chalks the tip, gaze steady on me. “Yeah, it feels good, hearin’ your winnin’ shot’s for my moms.”
It’s for you, I want to say.
But he’s already lining up the shot,
the cue gliding through his fingers.
Once, twice—
Then he pauses, eyes flicking up fast.
“Yo, tell you what—” He rises again, spine straight, cue stick clutched in his fist. “Why not make this more interesting?”
Translation:
he’s about to bend me over the felt,
metaphorically or literally.
“What did you have in mind?”
He shrugs. “We throw in a sweetener for the winner. Somethin’ fun and off the contract.”
He says ‘sweetener’
and I’m twitching like a junkie.
I know I shouldn’t.
I know it’s not smart.
But he’s holding danger in his fist, and I want to lick it right off his knuckles.
He gives me that lazy, lethal smile.
Then reaches for his Coke, indifferent.
As if he doesn’t care either way.
“But if you’re not confident,
“we can pretend it never came up.”
He's baiting you, dumbass. Say, no thanks.
“You got somethin’ in mind already?”
He points the rim of his drink at me before bringing it to his lips, talking into it, “First say you’re in, then I’ll tell you.”
Classic Jersey—
keep it vague, keep me craving.
But all it takes is his cocky smirk over the rim of his glass and—
“Fine. Yes. I’m in.”
He sets his drink down.
He sighs from the throat.
Then he licks his bottom lip. “I win? You’re gonna spend an hour tied up for me, naked and blindfolded. And whatever I wanna do with you? I’m doin’ it, and you’re takin’ it.”
He says it so casually I have to replay it back in my head twice for it to sink in.
And the more I play it back,
the deeper it stabs into me.
“That’s one of my hard limits.”
His tongue clicks against his teeth, smug, head tipping to the side, like—accccttttually. “Not in this contract, there ain’t.”
My breath stops.
I try to laugh to hide it.
“Nope. No. No fuckin’ way.”
He shrugs into one shoulder.
“Sorry, angel. That’s the point of a bet.
“You agreed. Can’t back out now.”
Blood drains from my face so fast I sway, remembering what it feels like to be bound.
It doesn’t matter that it’s Andrew,
that he means it with heat, not harm.
My body doesn’t know the difference.
It hears tied up and it thinks: trap.
His smirk fades.
He steps in close, eyes searching mine.
“You’re panicking,” he says.
“Tell me why you’re panicking.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not panicking.”
His smile is murderous. “Liar.”
I shove it all down—the panic,
the memory clawing up my throat.
If I want to win, I need to up my odds, dangle something even sweeter that he’ll sink his own game just to taste it. Something I’m willing to do over what he’s betting.
“Then, if I win?… I’ll give you head.”
His breath cuts short.
Then he blinks.
Then he rocks back as if I pushed him.
A laugh grinds out of his throat, disbelieving. “Nah. You’re fuckin’ with me.”
I close the gap with a fake-nervous shrug. “Never done it before, but…
“thought maybe you could teach me.
“Show me exactly what you like.”
My eyes climb back to his,
let it hover in his heated gaze.
“I want you to be my first, Drew.”
His eyes slam shut for half a second, holding back a groan.
“Allison…” My name breaks rough in his mouth.
“You really tryin’ to make me throw this game?
You’re fuckin’ evil...” he says, disbelief riding his lips.
“Fuck—I want that. With you. But more than that? I wanna prove you can trust me blindfolded.” He takes a step back to put more distance between us.
“Besides, if we ever do that? First time ain't gonna be from a fuckin' bet. It'll be 'cause you want to.”
He crouches to dig a pen out of his backpack, swipes a napkin off the table, and bends over the edge of the pool table, scrawling across it. When he straightens, he twirls the pen once between his fingers. “A little insurance to keep you honest.”
Across the napkin,
the bet’s written out in chicken scratch,
his signature below it.
I lean in next.
Add mine right beside his.
Click the pen closed.
Drop it over the napkin,
a nail in my coffin.
Then he’s back in the game,
stick in hand,
lining up his shot, cue to the eight.
His veins jump in his forearm.
He slides once—
“Gotta call it,” I say.
He flinches, head tilting up.
“Side,” he mutters,
settling back into position.
He draws back.
The clack echoes.
The eight ball spins,
kisses the lip near the pocket,
slows,
then dies.
Right there on the edge.
I tip my drink toward the pocket.
“Oof. Damn, Drew.
“That fuckin’ suuucks.”
His laugh’s a humorless thing. “Yeah, head’s pretty fuckin’ busy right now,” he taps his temple as he circles to the other side, “with you on your knees for once.”
He watches me from across the table, hands braced against the edge, fingers drumming on the grain, his cue stick abandoned against the wall.
The angle’s garbage.
Eight’s tucked up near the rail.
Cue’s parked at the opposite end,
wanting nothing to do with it.
“This is it,” I say, eyeing the two balls.
He flashes a wicked grin. “No rematch.”
“I don’t lose,” I say,
seeing all the ways I could lose.
“Nervous?” he asks.
I avoid his gaze. “Are you?”
He blows out a small chuckle.
“Not one bit.”
I bend over,
the cue stick tight between my fingers,
my blood rushing in my ears.
“Not so tight, baby,” he teases. “You want it to slide easy between your fingers.”
I shift,
trying to push him out of my mind,
and step into my shot, angling myself.
But my hands feel unsteady now,
like they already know the end.
“Corner pocket,” I say,
pulling the cue stick back,
feeling the bindings around my wrists,
the blindfold shutting me in the dark—
Then I strike.