46. Fallingforyou
The cue ball rockets forward, cracking against the eight,
sending it spinning—
rolling—
rolling—
‘til it drops into the corner with a hollow thud, the pocket’s black mouth swallowing it whole.
It sinks.
A relieved sigh stumbles out of me.
My gaze slowly lifts to Andrew,
but his eyes are still glued to the table.
I track the line of his stare.
The cue ball’s still creeping forward.
Still crawling.
Still drifting.
In the direction of the pocket.
“No, no, no…” I whisper.
It hesitates at the rim,
teetering there—
then tips.
Falling in.
Scratching.
My stomach plummets.
I lost.
I stare at the empty table,
a painful breath leaving my lips.
Andrew doesn’t move,
but I feel his eyes heavy on my skin.
Then the world crashes in all at once.
Guitar strings crying,
violins bleeding through the jukebox.
Pool balls clacking.
Another table erupting in laughter.
My eyes climb until they crash into his.
Andrew straightens,
hands slipping from the wooden edge.
I fall back on my heel.
One hour tied up.
One hour acting
like I’m not drowning in trauma.
But I don’t skip debts—I’m Allison fuckin’ Taylor. I’ll chain down the panic and play it cool.
I can do an hour.
I’ve done years. This won’t kill me.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
And all this shit started
‘cause I couldn’t let him go.
And now the game’s done.
Contract’s built.
After two signatures,
I’m his and he’s mine.
Why does it feel like I got everything I wanted by handing over everything I swore I’d never give?
Monogamy.
Blehhkk.
I pluck a solid from a pocket, toss it up, catch it. “Guess that means Baby Contract’s out. Boy-Toy Contract’s in.”
“Nope. The Only-Us Contract.”
He points at me.
“That’s the one, aight?”
I roll the ball across the felt.
“The One-Dick Deal.”
He catches it.
“The My-Pussy Papers.”
I arch a brow.
“The Fuckin’-A Agreement.”
He laughs. “The Best-Decision-You-Ever-Made Contract.”
Our voices die.
Only silence left,
his eyes keeping mine
until he cracks into a smile.
That happy, real, dizzy-ass smile.
Then my smile follows, stupid, reckless.
He tries to talk at the same time I do.
Both of us miss the moment,
And we laugh over the top of each other.
He shakes his head, pushing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, aight, twin. Get your ass over here and sign it.”
I rest the cue on the felt, boots peeling off the sticky floor as I take the stool.
Andrew stands next to me,
shoulder grazing mine.
He flips the laptop around,
signs with one swipe of his finger,
then spins it back toward me.
I’m reading every word,
digesting nothing,
trying not to sweat.
But the panic collapses my senses as my eyes skim each clause, flashes of the last half hour strobing fast—
laughter circling the table,
stolen glances across the felt,
jukebox songs,
barely-there touches—
then it hits me fast
that something’s missing.
I click under the last clause
and tap the return key.
A new line blinks, waiting.
I type out one more.
“Don’t think I don’t see you sneakin’ shit in, Sonny.”
My fingers slide off the keys when I’m done. Now it feels finished. “So I just… scribble my name somewhere?”
He leans over, arm caging me in, chest pressed to my back. His eyes catch the line I left behind:
Don’t fucking die on me.
His gaze hits the side of my face.
I stare forward at the screen, rigid.
One glance up and he’ll know it isn’t a joke. It’s me begging.
He shifts behind me, the table wobbling under his weight. “Sign there. Right under me,” he says. “Use your finger. It don’t gotta be perfect.”
His warm breath tangles in my hair as I drag my finger across the pad, and the letters come out messy, shaking, but they’re mine.
The screen disappears when Andrew snaps the laptop shut. He hooks the stool and spins me to face him. Both hands catch my cheeks, and his forehead dips to mine.
His breath’s rough, ragged, spilling relief across my lips after months of running through every wrong turn to get us here.
Our shoulders drop as we exhale.
It’s fake calm.
Inside, my body’s throwing chairs and lighting cigarettes. My heart’s giving my brain the middle finger, saying,
See, wiseguy? Told you he’d get in.
But my brain’s too busy laughing like—
Ya outta ya fuckin’ mind.
Gimme a call when it all burns to hell.
Then there’s Andrew, his thumb brushing my jaw, hearing the arguing inside me and bringing me back to him.
I sigh in surrender, then shove his stomach with the force of a girl trying not to kiss him.
He catches my hand
and pulls himself back in,
mouth landing
on the center of my forehead,
kissing me there, lips lingering.
Then he rips himself away.
“Stay put, Sonny. Don’t move. I’m grabbin’ us shots from the bar.
” My eyeroll dies halfway when his finger cuts through the air, pointing at me.
“Don’t roll your eyes. One shot. That’s it.
We’re toastin’—to the contract, to you for lettin’ me keep you, to me not losin’ my fuckin’ mind tonight…
pick one.” His knuckles tap the pool table on his way to the bar.
“An’ table’s ours ‘til the hour’s up. Rack ‘em if you want another shot at losin’. ”
I hop off the stool and circle the table, plucking balls out of the pockets and rolling them across the felt. When I glance up, Andrew’s already at the bar. He throws one look over his shoulder, giving me that pussy-soaking smile that slides through me.
I reach for another ball—
A phone rings.
The sound’s crawling out of Andrew’s backpack on the floor, light bleeding through the half-open zipper.
I crouch, ready to silence it,
and freeze mid-reach.
It’s not the same phone I’ve seen him with. This one’s older with a black case, screen cracked.
‘No’ flashes across the screen.
I kill the sound.
‘No’ disappears when the ringing stops.
The screen screams:
277 missed calls. 99+ texts.
What the fuck.
My stomach falls hollow.
My brain spins out.
The first stop’s the obvious explanation:
This isn’t my Andrew’s phone.
This is their Andrew’s phone.
The yeah-sure-I’ll-text-you number.
The late-night,
I’m-hard-and-bored hotline.
The emergency-break-glass number
for when he’s out of options.
Probably No for the
never-wanna-touch-her-again.
Yes for the
wanna-round-two-with-that-pussy.
A number to keep the two lives separate.
A number from a life he swore off,
but apparently couldn’t quit.
Because it’s still charged.
Still ringing. Still with him. Why?
My finger hovers.
Half a second from digging deeper,
half a second from pretending I never saw it.
Either way, I hurt.
I drop it back into the bag.
It’s nothing. You’re overreacting.
But my hand still feels heavy.
Like the lie didn’t let go.
And then the song fades in.
“Every Breath You Take” crawling out from the jukebox in the corner, its guitar riff plucking, a heartbeat-drum lurking between, each repeating note clipped like Hunter’s footfalls stalking the darkest parts of my memories.
I’m paralyzed.
And I’m not in the pool hall anymore.
I’m back at the motel, room 613,
the original one—
candle smoke smothering the air, flames casting shadows of him across the wall,
my wrists raw, tied to the headboard,
my legs spread,
rose petals sticking wet to my thighs.
That song, on repeat, on repeat.
Then a cue cracks against a ball.
I flinch, blinking back to Jack & Jagger,
the billiard lights stinging my eyes.
Sounds smear around me—
the song,
clack of balls,
laughter,
pint glasses clinking.
I stand on wobbly knees and scan the corners of the room, the booths, the mirrors, the bar, paranoid and waiting for Hunter to step out of the song.
Every stranger’s face is his.
Every laugh is his.
I distract myself at the pool table,
go back to collecting balls,
dropping them one by one into the rack,
when warmth creeps close behind me, the weight of a shadow pressing between my shoulder blades.
It’s not touching me,
but I know someone’s behind me.
My blood runs cold.
I glance back to the bar.
Andrew’s talking to the bartender.
My heart pounds harder as my gaze wanders to the window’s reflection.
To the shadow standing behind me.
Hunter.
I choke on a strangled breath.
This cold feeling stabs right through me
and chips my spine.
“Baby,” he growls, a chill in my ear.
It plunges through me fast.
Fight, flight, fawn—gone.
All I’ve got left is freeze,
panic trapping me in my own skin.
“Remember our song?” He sighs. “You got any idea how long I been waitin’? Ain’t nobody keepin’ me from you.” His words saw against my neck. “Three years.” He gulps loud in my ear. “Three years, Baby, and now you’re right here in front’a me.”
Every nerve inside me turns to icicles.
The urge to move is there,
but my body won’t.
He nudges his mouth closer. “What’re you doin’ with this guy, huh? This prick don’t even know you, Baby. You think he’s got you? Nah.”
Then he is touching me.
A hand climbing,
inch by inch around my hip.
Invasive,
intruding.
Time slows.
All I hear is my blood thrashing in my ears.
Andrew blurs at the corner of my vision.
His mouth’s moving,
but no sound reaches me.
Everything’s muted,
as if I’m dunked underwater.
Only my heartbeat fills my head.
Crash—
shot glasses slip from Andrew’s hands,
shards exploding against the floor.
The sound rips me back into myself.
“The fuck you think you’re doin’?!”
Air slams in when Andrew rips Hunter off me, shoves him into the brick wall. “You outta your fuckin’ mind?” His arm shoots behind him, searching for me. “Allison, you good?”
An invisible hand is around my throat.
I can’t speak.
I can hardly stand.
Andrew’s eyes turn crazed when he sees me shaking. “Jesus. Talk to me. The fuck he do to you?”
Hunter laughs against the brick, eyes nailed to me. His brown hair is buzzed now, his eyes unblinking with that same creepy hazel stare, that same fucked-up fixation.
Andrew snaps his head back at me, gaze lit with rage, hand coming up rough at the back of my neck, forcing my eyes on his. “Hey—look at me, look at me. You know this guy?”
My throat locks around my words,
bolting them down.
Nothing comes out.
The freeze won’t break.
The jukebox stutters,
track skipping like my pulse.