63. Angel #3
I keep walking toward Rockefeller Center, teeth chattering, eyes burning, boots clipping sidewalk, hand shoved in my pocket around my phone, 911 one tap away.
‘Cause I’m not stupid. (Says the girl walking through Midtown alone at midnight while her stalker’s out of prison.)
So...
Stupid-adjacent.
The tree rises ahead,
standing over the plaza,
branches drowning in lights.
Below it, the ice rink cuts a cold pale hole into the city, skaters circling under the gold statue, falling on their asses, laughing, kissing with hot chocolate breath.
I don’t think about who I should be thinking about.
I don’t think about Andrew.
I think about Little Death.
Tiny little bastard.
A four-point-five-inch penis-shaped devil with horns and three grabby little fingers on his pitchfork.
Waiting at the edge of the ice, like—
Look at all these people holding hands.
Disgusting. You should touch yourself.
I walked away from the compulsion ten hours ago, and I stand here, still feeling…
unended.
Not giving in to the urge,
it feels like an unclenched fist.
Like leaving a gate wide open,
and nothing walking through.
Like stepping off a treadmill after a sprint.
Like stopping CPR,
stepping back from the body,
waiting to see if it’ll take a breath.
Buzz.
Today 12:13 AM
Andrew
Get dressed and come down
I'm not at the penthouse.
His typing bubbles appear.
Disappear.
Appear.
Disappear.
He’s either panicking or spelling.
What do you mean not at the penthouse?
I mean my body is not inside the penthouse.
Hope his helps.
Smartass.
Where are you?
The Reckefeller tree.
You alone?
Yeah.
The fuck you doing at the tree alone at midnight?
Idk. Just thinking.
...Okay
What's my girl thinking about?
Teddy Vale.
No bubbles this time.
For a good thirty seconds.
Too soon
Way too fucking soon
Stay there I'm ten out
I’m smiling.
I realize it too late.
Then I’m shaking my head
‘cause I can’t stop.
Eleven minutes later, my phone buzzes.
Andrew calls instead of texts.
“Walk to Sixth,” he says.
I squint in that direction. “Why?”
“Just walk to Sixth, Sonny.
“Stay on the phone with me.
“Don’t hang up.”
I walk west through Rockefeller Center.
For a few seconds, the line’s silent,
horns and New York madness in my ear.
I huff. “I feel stupid, talk to me.”
“Nah, you talk to me,” he breathes into the phone, a grin in his voice, “Tell me, what’re you wearin’?”
A laugh slips out of me. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Drew, I’m walking through Midtown.”
“Yeah, and I’m sittin’ here, picturin’ you walkin’ through Midtown. Help your boy out.”
My face heats.
I look down at myself,
when his voice slides back in—
“You got a coat on?”
My smile flashes, and I shake my head
“You're so dumb. Yes, the black wool one. The one you hate.”
“Only ‘cause then you don’t need me,” he says, then, “What else you got on?”
Swear this boy makes my bones blush.
“Black cashmere sweater—completely useless at hiding the fact that underneath?”
I drop to a whisper,
“I'm wearing nothing.”
Andrew groans rough.
“Mmm. My bad fuckin’ girl.
“Don’t stop now.”
I bite my lip.
“Black mini skirt. No tights. But only you’re allowed to touch my thighs…”
His exhale blows sharp. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I hear his car door slam shut.
“Keep goin’.”
“Boots,” I say. “Knee-high boots.”
“Fuck.” His breath catches. “Where are you?”
“Almost to Sixth. Do I gotta cross?”
“No, baby. Just look left.”
A woman shoulders past me.
I swipe back my hair. “Andrew.”
“Yeah?”
I breathe out.
Smile.
“I’m gonna kiss you,
“just so you know.”
His laugh comes out ruined.
“Yeah?” His voice dips.
“I’m gonna let you.
“Tongue and all.”
By the time I hit Sixth, I look left—
Then I see him.
And freeze.
Andrew Harding—black leather jacket, black thermal, dark jeans—leaning against a black 1982 Firebird,
phone to his ear, engine running,
tailpipe blowing out white clouds,
hazard lights blinking at his ankles.
My mouth falls open.
The cold air slaps my wide eyes.
My hand falls to my side.
“Shut the fuck up right now!”
I bend forward, eyes still wide.
“You rented a FIREBIRD?”
Andrew’s smile breaks open,
that cocky, Jersey-boy slant,
and he pushes off the car,
pocketing his phone.
“Ours for the night, angel.”
I stare at him.
Then at the car.
Then back at him.
“Are you fucking KIDDIN’ ME?”
I jump right into him,
my boots leaving the ground,
arms around his neck.
He catches me,
hands under my thighs,
staggering back against the Firebird,
laughing into my mouth
before I kiss him.
And then he melts.
“Madonn’, baby,” he rasps out. “That good, huh?”
The Firebird growls through Midtown until Rockefeller Center’s behind us.
The city transforms block by block.
Christmas windows become locked doors.
Tourists become smokers outside bars.
The pretty skin of Manhattan peels off,
and underneath is the honest shit—
scaffolding, steam,
black trash bags under streetlights,
cab tires whooshing through puddles.
The engine’s rumble vibrates through my boots, up my legs,
past the hem of my mini skirt.
Classic rock blows smoke through the speakers, some guitar riff older than both of us.
Andrew drives with one hand on the wheel, the other skimming the gearshift.
His eyes slide to my legs, catching me still shivering, so he reaches over and cranks the dials on the dash.
The old floor heater blasts a wave of dirty heat up my legs.
I have no idea where he's taking me.
For the moment,
I don't care if it's straight to my death.
I've never felt this free as we plunge into the tiled, yellow-lit tube of the Lincoln Tunnel, the V8 engine bouncing a deafening scream off the curved walls before we burst into Jersey.
“Aight,” Andrew says loud over the engine. “I get it now.” His gaze flicks over at me. “This was a good idea.”
“Where are you takin’ me?” I yell back.
“On a date. Keep up.”
I roll my eyes. “Sorry. I forgot what a date looks like. It’s only been ninety business days,” I grumble, and he throws his head back with a laugh. “Shouldn’t I be asked before I’m on a date or somethin’?”
Andrew glances over, his smile lingering. “Allison Taylor, you wanna be on this date with me?”
I stare at him,
the Firebird humming under us.
“Yeah, no. I’m taking the date,” I say, then mutter loud under my breath, “God knows when you’ll offer another one.”
Another laugh slips out of him,
this one caught and embarrassed.
He reaches across the console for my hand, threads our fingers together, brings it to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles. “Baby, you shoulda told me you wanted boyfriend shit,” he says, smiling against my hand, lips brushing my skin. “I can give you boyfriend shit.”
And now I’m smiling like a girl.
Fantastic. All hot-faced and obvious.
The smile doesn’t let me go.
Neither does Andrew’s hand.
When he has to change gears,
he keeps my palm lazy in his,
two fingers slipping away to shift,
and each time, I feel it in my thighs.
We end up in a diner with fogged windows, chrome details, red vinyl booths, and Christmas garland scalloping the counter.
Andrew orders. Everything.
Coffee. French toast. Pancakes. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Basket of fries. Onion rings. Christmas pie. And a melt with jalapenos.
After the waitress leaves, he wanders over to the neon-lit jukebox near the bathrooms. Stands in the dim corner with one hand in his pocket, head bent.
He presses one button.
Then another.
Then he pauses.
Looks back at me.
His smile hooks the corner of his mouth.
My stomach drops.
“Oh, no,” I say.
He presses the last button.
The jukebox clicks, and a second later,
“Bed of Roses” fills the diner.
I’m shaking my head slow.
The hot tub fantasy.
The firebird.
The midnight diner.
The song.
The date I built when I was drunk.
Andrew walks back to the booth.
Slides in across from me.
“So how’m I doin’ so far?”
“You’re a little shit,” I tell him.
He lifts his coffee, smirking.
“Your little shit.”
Long after the food arrives, he ends up beside me with his elbow leaned on the table and the back of my hand pressed to his mouth—not kissing it, just holding it against his lips.
“I have one question,” I say. “And it’s black and cotton and lives under your pillow.”
He turns his head away,
my knuckles grazing his brows.
“Shit. Aight.”
He laughs awkward.
“Let’s get it outta the way.”
I squeeze his hand. “Did I write a song about someone else’s thong?”
His brows snap together, offended.
“They’re yours. You lunatic. Yours.
“Who the fuck else’s would they be?”
Relief leaves me. “Drew. Why do you have those under your pillow?”
He drops his head into my knuckles,
rolling it from side to side,
cursing himself.
When he lifts his head again,
he can barely look at me.
“Took ‘em ‘cause they’re yours.
“Ain’t a trophy or nothin’ just—
“that’s it.”
The table falls quiet.
I let the silence sweat him out.
If I fill it, he gets rescued.
If I don’t, he confesses more.
His eyes slide back to mine.
He sees that I’m enjoying this,
and a staggering, ashamed smile hits him. “‘Cause I’m sick over you,” he finally says. “Happy?”
“No.” I pop a fry into my mouth.
“I want details, like—
“what do you do with them at night?”
He’s shaking his head, face hot.
I push harder.
“C’mon, you can tell me.”
“Nah, I’m actually gonna die.” He laughs, cupping a hand over his eyes. “Don’t ask me that. You don’t wanna know.”
I chew, studying him.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.”
I turn into him, tug him closer
until his ear belongs to my mouth.
“Show me later, and you can steal the next pair right off me.”
He exhales hard through a laugh,
heat crawlin’ up his neck.
“Jesus Christ, Allison.
“I gotta stand up eventually.”
It’s almost three in the morning by the time we leave the diner. The earlier, responsible Allison would be tired.
The present-day Allison is not.
I’m used to three now.
Three a.m. is Andrew clocking out from the bar, the sound of his keys jingling in the quiet penthouse,
the shower running,
a wet mouth finding my neck,
warm skin covering mine.
This is the hour he belongs to me.
Clock strikes three,
and my body sighs, like—
finally, any minute now.