56. Be More #2
“Your wet dream’s comin’,” he says,
walking off.
Over my shoulder,
Teddy’s heading right this way,
pure heroin in his stride.
Years.
Years I’ve been waiting for this man, imagining how it’d feel to stand next to him.
How he’d smell.
(Like a Chicago jazz club after dark.)
If he’s the same tired-eye seduction he is on stage, the same jukebox romantic from his songs, or if that’s all act and album storytelling.
And as he slides up at the counter,
hips turning toward me,
looking down at me
with masochistic bedroom eyes that say,
darlin’,
you and I got one hell of a night in us,
turns out… he’s everything.
He sighs,
tapping his rings against his glass.
“Leavin’ me defenseless back there?” he drawls. “That’s cold-hearted behavior. Thought we were a team.”
I give him a closed-mouth laugh
‘cause it’s safer than moaning.
“Maybe one day,” I say, hating myself, knowing I’m standing at the edge of a mistake, already feeling the possible regret setting in.
Teddy scans for the bartender, leaning one elbow against the counter, and tips his chin when Andrew looks over. “Whenever you have a second,” Teddy tells him.
I’m scared to look back at Drew,
but when I do, his brow’s lifted, like—
Trust me, bro. You don’t want that drink.
I press my lips together
to force back my smile.
It’s useless,
so I have to turn in my stool to hide it.
When I do, my knees accidentally brush the top of Teddy’s thigh, and I can feel the heat of him through the thin slacks.
(It was an accident. I’m not lying.)
In my peripheral, Andrew steps up,
and I throw my hand out before he gets a word in. “First, I need a moment to take this in,” I say, my gaze swinging between my two men.
Andrew, the pissed-off gorgeous man
my soul wants to press up against.
Teddy, piano-bar pretty love of my life.
I reach across the bar.
“Andrew, give me your hand.”
“No, I don’t trust your ass.”
I force out a tight laugh,
then follow it with a sweet smile.
“Andrew. Give me your hand.
“Now. Please,” I hiss.
He does, not wanting to look like a jealous dipshit.
Then I hold my hand out to Teddy,
hoping he takes it.
He does.
And his hand hurts-good in mine, like—
Mmm... yes, right there.
That knot.
That’s the spot.
And then I’m holding both their hands.
And they both feel warm, right—fuck.
My chest gets woozy. My skin goes hot.
My body does this small, sick flutter,
ready to whore herself out.
Teddy glances down at our hands.
Then at Andrew.
Then at me.
“Alright,” he mumbles.
“This is… strange.”
I snap out of it.
Let them go.
“Your participation is appreciated.”
Andrew drops his head, shaking it,
then looks up at me through his lashes, like—That’s my dream girl? God help me.
I prop my elbow on the bar,
jab a thumb at Teddy next to me.
“Andrew, this is Teddy,” I say with only slight caution. “Fifties-era crooner. Very anti-label for a man currently standing at a label party.”
Teddy’s arousing laugh lands in my hair.
Andrew reaches across the bar to shake his hand, hardened gaze moving from me to Teddy.
“Teddy, this is my boyfriend Andrew,” I say, staring at their palms meeting because I’m a sick, sick girl.
They both go still at the boyfriend title drop, which I didn’t expect. And it makes me want to slam my forehead into the bar.
With my hands behind my back.
Repeatedly.
Andrew’s stare crashes into me, his face shattering up in the smallest, most devastating way. And he lets out a tiny breathy laugh, not knowing how badly he needed to hear that.
Celie, I think you were right.
I drop my chin into my palm, smiling to myself as Andrew pulls away, watching the way he looks almost embarrassed by how much it means to him.
“Damn,” Teddy laughs with a story-of-my-life nod, disappointment in his face, “lucky bastard.”
He stands taller,
clapping the edge of the bar once.
“Well, good meeting you.
“And Allison, thank you for the duet.
“Very nice meeting you.”
His eyes flick from Andrew,
then back to me.
“I get it—bad timing,” he says with a little smirk. “But if you’re ever interested in getting together on a song, my schedule’s always clear for you.”
“Okay,” Andrew cuts in, waving him off. “Merry Christmas, man.”
Soon as Teddy’s far enough away, Andrew’s eyes fall to me, and he shakes his head with a rising smile.
“What?” I ask nonchalant,
leaning across the bar,
snatching a cherry from behind it.
He laughs, still staring at me.
I pop the cherry into my mouth.
“What?” I ask again around the stem.
Andrew empties his pockets—
a wine key,
a microfiber cloth—
and points at me.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
He turns to the other bartender. “You got the rest of the night covered, man.”
The guy nods. “Thanks for the help.”
Andrew’s rounding the bar,
sleeves shoved up,
hair not perfect anymore,
sweat at his temple.
I turn in the stool to follow him.
“Andrew… where are you—”
But he’s coming for me,
not stopping until he’s in front of me,
my knee brushing against his thigh now,
and it feels like… home.
Then he slows down all the way,
the jazz slipping underwater,
the laughter blurring,
the Christmas lights melting,
as his warm palm cups my jaw,
thumb brushing my cheekbone.
He lifts my face until we’re looking into each other’s eyes.
Then his gaze falls to my mouth,
and he breathes out,
inching closer
with that slow-motion tilt of his head…
My chest panics.
The rest of my body freezes, wanting him to take my mouth hard, and not wanting him to take my mouth at all.
And before his mouth touches mine,
I press my palm against the center of his chest, dragging up, gripping the back of his neck, stopping him from coming any closer.
“Please don’t,” I murmur.
The muscles in his face flex, jaw ticking,
heartache spilling across his expression.
My fingers rake his nape,
a disgusting attempt to soothe,
and the words leave a bitter aftertaste.
‘Cause I want to kiss him—I do, madly.
But it wouldn’t be fair to let him go there. I need to tell him about what happened with Raymond.
Tonight.
I'm going to tell him tonight.
Andrew presses a kiss to my forehead instead, sad, intense, his warm exhale hitting my skin.
In the background of him, the band fades into the intro of a Teddy Vale song, an old-timey melody with 1950s misery.
Teddy takes the stage,
fingers curling around the chrome mic.
Andrew slips my hand into his.
“C’mon,” he murmurs across my brow.
“One dance before we go.”
He drags me off the stool, our fingers lacing together as he guides my hands to the back of his neck. Hardly able to catch my breath, I sink into him as his other hand dives warm down my bare back, pulling me flush.
He ignores the weight of Teddy singing around us, swaying me into a sedating rock, holding me close so I don’t drift away to another man’s voice.
For the moment, I close my eyes,
let myself be cracked open,
wanting all of him,
and only him,
to fill me.
In our little pocket of the world, he slows time and dims everything that’s not standing in the spotlight of us.
But when I open my eyes again,
reality comes crashing back down.
More than twenty feet away,
through the forest of clink and chatter,
champagne flutes, and expensive suits,
Raymond’s dark silhouette lurks in the corner, the shadow of him flickering against candlelight. Even while holding a conversation, his stalking eyes are locked on Andrew and me.
His thoughts flood his cold expression.
He knows the absolute power he has over me is slipping through his fingers, and he’s staring right at the man responsible.
Andrew’s forehead melts warm into mine, the pulse in his neck hammering frantic under my thumb.
I return my attention to him, drag my fingers down the nape of his neck, and his hooded gaze crawls up and up my body, until it hits mine.
For a second,
the whole world stops behind his eyes—
gaze gone,
eyes ravenous,
lids falling heavy.
“What?” I hum.
“Nothin’,” he murmurs,
brushing his nose across mine once,
then, “I miss you.”
I glance down at our feet.
“C’mon, Andrew.”
He closes his eyes tight.
But only for a second,
then he opens them again,
his hips resting against mine.
“You know what it’s like?
“Bein’ with you. Like this?”
He glances away,
trying to bite back the words,
but he can’t help himself.
“Bein’ with you, it’s like—it’s like
“standin’ on the boardwalk in July,
“starin’ at a cold glass of water,
“dyin’ of fuckin’ thirst.”
He rolls his forehead slow across mine.
“I’m allowed t’hold the water,
“trace the rim…” he says,
fingertips trailing the line of my spine.
“Feel the cool condensation.”
His lips slip to my ear.
“Lick the sweat right off the glass,
“taste the wet on my tongue,” he murmurs, feeling the quivering vibrato in our bones.
“But I can’t ever drink from it.”
His temple grazes my hairline
until I’m looking into his eyes again.
“I’m so parched, Allison,” he says, exhausted. “And you’re right here. In my arms.” He squints. “So when I say I miss you? I’m sayin’ I’m near death an’ fadin’ fast.”
His hand slides down again.
“I need you closer than this.”
His fingers dig into my waist.
“I need more…” He scoffs, shaking his head once. “Not some title to make up for feelin’ guilty about tonight, so you can feel better.”
I tense, then pull back to look at him.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Hearin’ you say that felt real good.
“For all of five seconds.
“Til I realized how empty it was.”
His eyes bounce between mine.
“Don’t get it twisted. The things I’d do for your name written all over me, Allison. Your fingerprints all over my fuckin’ life. But, nah. Not like this. This? This is a fuckin’ joke.”
He licks the truth off his bottom lip.
“Callin’ me your boyfriend?
“Baby, I can’t even fuckin’ kiss you.”
His next breath leaves exasperated.
“Title means shit to me now.”
His hands leave me next,
and the cold instantly replaces them.
“I’m goin’ to grab our jackets,” he mutters. “Maybe make the second half of my shift. If I didn’t lose my job.”
Andrew steps away, my hands fall to my sides, and my eyes land on Teddy on stage from more than twenty feet away. He’s singing with his eyes closed, his troubled brow slanted, two hands on the mic.
The song circles me,
the high note trembling