64. Crazy #2
“I bought this building for her,” he explains. “In four months, she’s opening a sex museum.”
“It’s not a sex museum,” she argues.
Ty rests his chin on her shoulder.
“She says that every time.”
Kate turns on him, lifting her chin. “It’s an erotic archive, with an aphrodisiac restaurant, and an immersive intimacy experience.”
“Wait,” I say, eyes sliding back to Kate.
“That’s, like, really cool.”
Kate knocks her hip into Ty.
“See? She gets it.”
I look behind me at the building.
The exposed brick.
The unfinished floors. Black steel.
“An erotic archive in an old industrial building? Fuck—sensual art, nude photography, sculpture, old letters, private rooms, aphrodisiac food—the hunger.”
“Yes!” Kate’s eyes light up. “Bodies are art. Intimacy, a language. You can be with someone for years and not even know how deep sex actually goes. How it can be healing, rough, quiet, playful, ugly-cry emotional. Whatever—”
“Kate, I’m serious,” I say, shaking my head. “I want to marry whatever part of your brain built this. This is insane. A whole religion.”
Kate presses a hand to her chest.
“No, I mean it,” I say.
“When’s the opening?”
// 10:00 PM //
By the time my paranoia gets comfortable, I’m pressed to walk the catwalk again.
The main rooftop kept reaching for the birthday boys, chanting their names, teasing with the bet-you-won’ts. Ty points at his friends on the roof as he crosses. “Aight. And I’m sober. So I’mma remember every second of everyone embarrassin’ themselves.”
For half an hour there’s:
girls kissing cheeks,
cameras flashing,
Linc getting dragged into lap dances,
laughter.
“This is Andrew.”
“Andrew.”
“Andrew.”
Everyone’s packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Hookah hoses pass across the velvet couches.
Andrew ends up on the outskirts with Bowie, Ty’s producer and best friend, and Sinclair, one of the lead guitarists from Linc’s band, laughing, smiling, relaxed. A few girls stand near, inching closer.
Near the DJ, Kate and her friends surround me as the party turns up, the pulse of house music shaking the blood in my veins.
As I turn in place,
I realize they’re closing in on me,
a tight, spinning circle,
their laughter bouncing off the night.
“I’m just gonna… yeah—” I slip out,
“preserve the vibe by removing myself.”
Just in time before grinding bodies melt into one another.
Roxie tries pulling me in, reaching for me, but I wave my hand. “No, you’re good. You look hot. I need more room for the slutty shit I might do.”
I step a way, a loser.
‘Cause I want to.
I want it so bad it almost hurts worse than the fear, worse than watching it from the sidelines:
Kate laughing.
The girls singing.
Everyone’s arms up,
their skin glowing under rooftop lights.
It shouldn’t be this fucking hard.
But all I see are hands—
reaching, moving, sliding.
I can’t track whose belong to who fast enough, and it only makes my anxiety compound.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper,
though no one hears me.
For what, I don’t know.
Being no fun, maybe.
Then Drake’s “Rich Baby Daddy” thuds through subwoofers.
From a long velvet couch, Linc and Ty break into side-to-side shoulder sway with the beat, turning the energy all the way up to the max.
For the longest time, they weren’t even on speaking terms. Now, seeing them like this, brothers again, makes my cheeks burn.
Ty stands with that signature rapper bounce, but it collapses into hips, swag sunk in rhythm, driving the girls around the couch a little crazy.
But his eyes lock on Kate, who’s wedged in a cluster with her friends. He reaches into the circle, snatches her hand, and tugs her into him.
His lips are on hers fast as they dance.
Four years, they’ve been together.
Ty still won’t talk about her publicly—
refuses to say her name in interviews,
refuses to put a target on her back.
He’s seen the ugly side of fame,
he’s still living the aftermath of
a concert, a fan, a gun,
his girlfriend and sister gone from one bullet, and the damage it did to him and Linc’s relationship.
I can’t tell if that makes Kate feel protected, or trapped behind bulletproof glass.
When I glance left, ten feet out,
a guy sets his sights on me.
He’s headed this way.
Seven feet out.
Then six.
Five.
He smiles, hand gripping his neck.
Four, and his mouth parts to say—
Andrew’s hands land on my hips, and he pulls me close, his chest warm on my spine. “Not fuckin’ happenin’,” he murmurs in my ear.
I lay my head back against his chest with a laugh. “Damn, Drew. That was fast. You literally aimed right at me. Like a horny security camera.”
His chuckle lands in my hair. “I'm always watchin' you. And I know your body wants that dance floor so bad it’s pissin’ me off. C’mere.” His hand spreads wide over my ribs. “Dance with me.”
The song is neon lights of an after-hours party, smooth club music with a nocturnal vibe.
He drops me into a sultry, hypnotic rhythm of the song. With every beat, his hips dip filthy, grinding into me, chin brushing my shoulder.
While Andrew’s hands are the only ones on me, I still feel touched by the bad feeling I can’t see.
Midnight keeps getting closer,
and so is whatever’s coming.
I try to pretend this dread is bass—
this doom is boom.
I reach behind me,
gripping the back of his neck,
my hips rolling slow.
His mouth ghosts my throat, then my ear as the song turns obscene, “Rich Baby Daddy” pounding through the speakers.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes hot, rough.
He grips my hip, holding me as I grind back into him, the whole rooftop disappearing around us.
// 10:45 PM //
Seven of us end up back on the Deck of Death around the fire pit, the music low as a server takes our drink orders, a black tray tucked against her hip. “You?”
“I’m good,” Andrew says from the corner of the couch.
Ty hooks a thumb toward the bar behind him. “You sure, bro? We got a premium bar.”
Andrew lifts two fingers.
“Yeah, nah. Don’t really drink.”
From the fire pit glass, Linc lifts his rocks glass, ginger ale glowing whiskey-gold. “Respect. One year sober over here.”
Ty raises his glass from where he’s sprawled across the couch, his head in Kate’s lap. “Soda water. Goin’ on four years.”
Andrew looks between both of them.
“Damn,” he says, impressed.
“Good for you guys. For real.”
“Thanks.” Ty lifts his eyes to Kate, the reason he’d changed his whole life around. “Label hates it. Harder to rob a man who remembers shit.”
Linc eyes his brother from the fire pit.
“You know the dumbest part?”
Ty sighs. “Please don’t start.”
Linc starts—“You don’t need them anymore.” Linc’s pointing at Ty with two fingers around his drink. “Bro, you got the money. You got the studio. You got the following.” He grins, like—c’mon now. “You post a black square, no caption, and people show up.”
“Yeah,” Ty answers. “And one bad play, shit falls apart.”
“Signed doesn’t mean safe,” Linc says.
Roxie nods. “Bianca Vega was signed. Look how that worked out.”
My eyes slip to the ground,
staring blankly at my heels,
like if they see my face,
they’ll know I dropped her.
My palm sweats against the leather arm.
What if this isn’t a premonition?
What if this bad feeling’s karma ‘cause everything I’ve done? I don’t deserve to sit in happy for this long.
Linc pushes off the glass, raising his palm, as if he’s not trying to start a fight. “All I’m saying. What’s Monarch doing that you can’t hire out?”
Ty rattles it off—
“Distribution. Radio. International.”
Kate rolls her eyes.
“Cool,” Linc says. “So services.” Then his attention darts to me. “I mean no disrespect, Allie. I know this is your world.”
If they only knew I’m only half here.
But really,
I’m distracted by this unsettling.
Over on the main deck, The Weeknd’s “Starboy” moves through the speakers, and bursts of partying crawl up into the sky. The rooftop is hyped for the countdown in less than two hours.
The year I’ll turn twenty-five, finally become a CEO of a label, become a reason another artist gets dropped, a reason a rapper wants to go indie, a reason a rock star feels taken advantage of.
Fuck. All I wanted to do was make music with people, not war. And now I’m scared more than ever before.
I stare into the fire,
watching embers dance in a glass cage.
I only snap out of it when Gemma slides onto the couch right next to Andrew—runway model first, fragrance campaigns second. “I’ll take being objectified and manhandled, thank you,” she says, sinking close, her knee angling toward his, her silver dress riding high up her thighs.
I glance over my shoulder, catching her tuck her dark hair behind her ear, neck long, mouth pink, mind stupid for thinking he’s available.
She leans into him,
brushing up against his shoulder.
I remain mature and run away from it, lifting off the arm of the chair, redirecting my focus. “Alright, Mr. Indie,” I say, walking closer to Linc before I’m the bad thing coming. “Let’s build a label you’d sign with and not cry about on your birthday. What’s the first thing it has?”
He stares back at me—
sunset-calm in his stance,
graveyard-grief in his eyes.
“Masters.” No hesitation. “Artist keeps ‘em. Or they revert fast. I’m not givin’ somebody my songs forever because they fronted marketing.”
Bowie, Ty’s producer, chimes in:
“Artist keeps the masters.
“Producer keeps the points.
“Writers keep the splits—
“fuckin’ simple.”
An artist’s dream.
“Transparent accounting,” Ty adds next. “No ‘we’ll get back to you’ bullshit. I wanna see exactly where the money went.”
“For real,” Kate mutters.
“I’m sick and tired of hearing about it.”
I feel the heat of Andrew’s eyes on me. “You’re an artist first. What do you want?” he asks, relaxing back into the leather, knees wide—knowing there’s a banging-hot supermodel sitting next to him, and enjoying watching it affect me. “If you could build your own label, what’s the one thing?”
The wind combs through my hair, and I step closer to the fire. “Creative control.” No brainer. “Artist approval on singles, features, album sequencing, brand partnerships. Rollouts. No executive override—final say.”
He nods, scratching his jaw and gestures to me. “Unless legal or budget’s in the way.”