51. David
LORDE
HELL WEEK: FRIDAY, DAY FIVE, LAST DAY
People v. Andrew Harding
Court: New York County Criminal Court
Docket No.: CR-80024367-22NY
Arrest/Incident Date: 9/30/2024
Top Charge: Assault in the Third Degree / PL 120.00
Additional or Reduced Charge: Harassment in the Second Degree / PL 240.26
Status: ACD / Adjourned in Contemplation of Dismissal / Pending
I’ve been lying here since four a.m. with my eyes closed. ‘Cause if I open them, then I’ll have to be Allison Jane Taylor—
stupidest bitch alive.
The girl who’s haunted by that look on Andrew’s face. And the same girl who’s thinking about all the different ways to come just to hide from it.
I went digging last night.
Found Andrew’s arrest record.
Third Degree Assault.
Second Degree Harassment.
No further information provided.
I should be concerned—
I am, to some degree—
but it's the last thing I'm worried about.
I know Andrew.
Either it was a misunderstanding,
or he was protecting someone.
What I am worried about is, how the hell did Hunter know about Andrew and his past?
“Fuckkk,” I groan, punching my fists down into the mattress at my sides.
If I lie here any longer, I’ll touch myself.
Seventeen more hours to go before I can.
I need to make it to midnight.
I need distraction.
Coffee. Get my ass to the office.
I step out of the hallway and into the kitchen, the penthouse feeling more like a glass cage over a freezing city than a safe.
I expect the silence of Andrew’s absence.
Instead, the scent of coffee hits me first,
followed by the sight of him.
I go rigid in my pajamas,
cemented to this spot.
He’s at the sink,
still in last night’s bar clothes,
looking like a man who spent the last four hours driving up and down every city street, eyes heavy with exhaustion, hair a wreck from his hand raking through it, both of us caught in the aftermath of last night.
This feeling moving through me is foreign, as if his presence stepped on my heart, and a thousand more tiny hearts crawled out of it, beating fierce at every pulse point, from my temple to my fingertips.
A jaded stare is my only defense
'cause internally, I’m caving in.
A week without orgasms,
the Fuckening,
Mom’s birthday,
Hunter’s release,
revelations, lies,
immature games,
a week of being tough as stone…
But Andrew is still here…
he’s standing in my kitchen… and
this stone exterior is begging to crack.
Next to him,
there’s dirt on the countertop.
My eyes follow the dirt path to a plant shoved into a chipped pot, crooked, leaves limp and yellow at the edges, looking just as tired and drab as Andrew.
He grabs the towel from the bar and dries his hands.
“Scored it off a stoop on Orchard Street. They were throwin’ it out, so now it’s your problem,” he says on the way to the coffee machine, sparing me no glance.
Then he turns his back to me as he reaches for a mug.
“And before you start, yeah, it’s alive.
I know that’s a terrifying concept for you.
But it won’t die if you actually give a damn.
“So give a damn.”
He shuts the cabinet,
the thud an echoing punctuation.
He exhales, shoulders falling.
“Which, by the way, means effort.”
One second,
I’m nailed to the hallway floor,
the next,
I’m cracking and spilling over,
the world becoming a blur of motion until I’m crashing into the heat of his back.
My arms wrap around his waist, my hand clutching his shirt, and I press my face between his shoulder blades.
The warmth of him instantly relaxes me.
I breathe him in,
the faint scent of his cologne, his skin.
For three heartbeats, he’s a statue.
Then, he hangs his head
and sinks back into me,
his weight settling against my chest.
The mug is abandoned, and he begins to stroke my arm—slow, soothing. It’s the first thing that’s felt like relief in a week.
For a while, there’s only the sound of the coffee machine, the slow drip of coffee into the pot.
“Aight,” he says, throat full of gravel.
“I take it you’re still not talkin’.”
Neither of us move.
We stay where we are,
my arms wrapped around his middle,
his hand gripping my forearm.
“I know you went to my place yesterday. I know my moms asked you about a date.”
His shoulders flex,
and he shakes his head.
“And, hell, I don’t know… maybe that’s why you had that motherfucker here. Fine. Whatever. But listen to me,” he says,
dragging his palm up my arm again.
“That night I drove out to Toms River, went to my uncle’s place. Asked him if he’d step up and be a donor. Didn’t want Ma knowin’. They don’t talk. Haven’t in, like, twenty years. Some family drama bullshit. But I had to try,” he explains. ‘Cause it’s her last shot.”
He slips my hand under his shirt, then guides it across his warm stomach to his scar. “I already did the transplant once,” he says, sliding my palm over the raised scar with his. “Can’t do it again. Even if I wanted to.”
He breathes out,
body melting into my hold.
“That’s it, Allison. All it was.”
There’s still fifty grand under his bed.
A second phone he hides.
An assault charge.
But at this moment,
my heart doesn’t care.
It’s slowing down to a low, angry,
Thump.
Thump.
With every swipe of my thumb across his scar. ‘Cause now I’m pissed.
Andrew cut himself open for his mom.
He let a surgeon scoop out a piece of his fucking body for her to live. And she took that second chance, and fed it straight to the bottle.
And Paola still drinks in front of her.
The whole family clinks glasses with smiles. Like Andrew hasn't literally bled for them. Like he isn’t still working himself to death.
My throat tightens,
tears dripping down its walls.
Like I can’t cry out,
so my body’s crying in for him.
I want to strangle every last one of them.
Including Andrew.
Especially Andrew.
I want to grab him by the skin and scream—stop being their hero, they don’t deserve you—as this brutal, heartbreaking realization settles:
Andrew chooses everyone,
and no one chooses him.
As I let him go,
from the corner of my eye,
Ben walks by,
catches me with my arms around Andrew, lifts his hand—
Then—
CRACK—the sound echoing through the penthouse, hard enough to jolt my teeth.
The sudden sting spreads hot, burns, flooding the spot where his hand met skin.
My body freezes.
I don’t know what to feel first—
shock, humiliation, anger.
Everything crashes into each other.
And I still can’t move,
can’t step out of it.
Andrew turns fast in my arms,
reaching over me,
slamming both palms into Ben,
shoving him so hard he bounces off the opposite counter. “What the fuck was that?” he spits through clenched teeth. He glances back at me, seeing if I’m okay.
“What’s the matter, Baby?” Ben says amused, palms up, like he didn’t just invade every boundary. “Thought that’s what we were doin’ here, gropin’ all over each other.”
Andrew’s eyes go dark when they swing back to him, and his fist catches Ben’s face fast, a wet, bone-crunching sound.
Ben’s head snaps back, his toes lifting off the floor as he hits the counter, hands twitching up on instinct.
But Andrew’s already on him, driving his shoulder into Ben’s chest, pinning him there. “Don’t ever,” he grits out, voice terrifying. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ touch her like that.”
Honor tries jumping between them.
Ben scrambles for a grip, his arm flailing and catching the edge of the plant.
Time slows as it tips.
The pot crashes to the floor,
ceramic shatters.
Dirt sprays the white marble.
The leaves rip under their sneakers.
I’m paralyzed, tears welling in my eyes.
I try to suck in a breath,
but all the air has left my lungs.
I knew the second I was seen as soft,
Ben would take the window.
Now here I am, frozen,
stomach twisted with disgust,
powerless,
with no control of my own house.
Andrew’s jaw flexes, the vein in his neck straining, as he shoves Ben off and chases after me.
I didn’t even know my feet were moving
until his voice follows.
My body wants to cry like a little bitch.
I don’t think I’ll make it.
I can feel the tears threatening,
but I can’t let them fall.
Not in front of them.
I want to get into my car.
Start the engine.
Drive until this feeling goes away.
I just want to leave.
My mind’s in a fog as I do.
The world slows as I pack a bag,
scoop the naked plant off the ground,
step into the elevator,
head down to the garage,
dirt smearing across my arm.
The spot where Ben struck me throbs as I walk to the car. Then I’m sitting in it, with the plant and all its dirty roots in the passenger seat.
Engine’s on.
Bass is pounding in my chest.
SoMo’s voice cuts through the speakers,
singing something I want to feel
but can’t.
I close my eyes.
My teeth clench down until it hurts,
until I feel the heat crawl.
I want to be okay,
but I don’t know how to be.
I don’t want to reach for the orgasm,
but I don’t know how else to make it stop.
I claw the side of my seat so hard
my nail pokes a hole through the leather,
then I let out a scream.
Nothing's helping.
So I relapse and rub myself raw.
I’m disgusting.
Dirt under my fingernails.
But I can’t stop.
I rip off my panties.
Give myself orgasm after orgasm,
the next as weak as the last,
none making me numb,
none giving me relief,
time passing by,
could be minutes,
could be an hour,
I don’t know how many.
// 10:12 AM - SOUNDWAVE RECORDS - MIDTOWN, NYC //
The elevator to Soundwave Records opens, and I step out of it dressed for the part, makeup near perfect with the plant tucked safely into a new terracotta pot, both of us walking right into a chaotic mosh pit.
Every face in the lobby is panicked.
Phones shriek.
Assistants yell across partitions.
Shoulders collide. Papers slip.
Someone’s swearing into a headset.
Then Raymond cuts through it, heading straight toward me, black hair combed back from a creased forehead, eyes shadowed on a serious face, steam coming off his broad shoulders.
“We got a situation,” he grits out. He points to the conference room with a haste in his pace. “Emergency meeting. Now.”
I turn on my heel to follow, my heart beating faster as I enter the conference room behind him.
The door shuts,
muting the chaos from the lobby.