Track No. 9 Wanted DeadAlive — Acoustic Version （Bon Jovi） #2
Bro. I lost it. Never even felt my arm move. Only the aftershock, the pop in my elbow. Harding’s head swung sideways, and his body followed, shoulder slammin’ the side mirror on pump six, snappin’ it off.
A cop car cruised past but didn’t slow.
Newark after dark—nobody gives a fuck.
I lit him up again. Hard. Fist to face. Cheekbone to Civic.
He slammed the taillight, plastic shattering, metal crumpling, before his body hit the ground. Bro ain’t swing at me once. He chilled right there.
‘Feel better, bro?’ he asked, cocky as fuck, givin’ me a smug-ass stare, brows up: ‘That do it for you?’
My fist was itchin’ to break every bone in his face, and I threw it into the side of his car, right by his ear. Metal popped and my knuckles stung. ‘Say her name, bitch.’
He ain’t say shit, so I grabbed his hoodie at his chest, yanked him forward. ‘You remember it, right? Black Camry. Popeyes. Half-hour smoke break. You remember.’
His smile didn’t fade. Shit grew with a shrug. ‘Nah. Never got her name. Ate that juicy-ass pussy and called her sweetheart.’
Yo—I ain’t never been so mad. When I say I almost caught a fuckin’ felony that night? It’s the truth. Two seconds from twenty-five to life.
I headbutted him right in the bridge of the nose, feelin’ the crunch before I heard it, like a stepped-on Coke can. His head snapped back and dented the metal of his car. ‘Say one more thing. I dare you. Say one more fuckin’ thing.’
But I ain’t give him a chance. I kept goin’, kept throwin’ until my knuckles went numb. Didn’t let go ‘til he fell limp in my fist and his body dropped, slidin' down the back of his Civic, face lookin’ like roadkill.
Did I feel better? Nah. I ain’t feel shit.
Some lady was yellin’ two blocks down. Then off to the side of the buildin’, some crackhead laughin’ to himself. World kept movin’ as I stood there, busted hands twitchin’, waitin’ for God or Karma or the asphalt to split and eat this motherfucker whole.
Never happened.
So I crouched down in front of him.
‘See you all lovey-dovey with some bitch you care about? I swear on my fuckin’ life I’ll take her. I’ll rip her outta your arms and fuck every hole right in front of you. You’ll never be able to kiss her or eat her pussy again without tastin’ my cock.’
I hawked one right in his face before leavin' him there, busted up, a pile of bones, lookin’ more dead-body than man under the busted Sunoco light.
You wanna know the sickest part?
I swear t’God, he ain’t even sorry.
That smirk told me one thing: he’d do it again.
And again. And again.”
NO. 07: THE FANTASY TURNED FUCKBOY
// TONI - MARCH ’23 - THE CLOVER - EAST VILLAGE, NYC //
“I know exactly who Andrew Harding is.
If I could lobotomize the part of me that remembers him, I would.
No hesitation.
Except my pussy. And my brain.
‘Cause he ain’t got the decency to be forgettable.
Could’ve been just another late-night backseat mistake. Could’ve been just another pair of bedroom eyes and a freakishly long tongue. But no.
I knew exactly who he was before I ever let him walk me to my car after The Clover closed—him all sweaty forearms, dimple, his tired voice that sounds like he’s got a heartbreak-lined throat. I should’ve known better.
Instead, I let him pull me into the backseat of my Altima.
Let him slide off my jeans and panties. Let him spread me open with both hands. Let him look at me. Taste me. Make me come so hard I saw stars. Then convinced myself I was special ‘cause he licked me clean too.
After he was done, he disappeared, not botherin’ to answer my texts or calls when I got home that night. Then the following night, when I waved at him through the bar window, he never waved back.
So I waited outside The Clover like an idiot gargoyle almost every night for a few weeks.
Three-forty in the goddamn morning, standin’ across the street under a jewelry store sign, puffin’ Newports.
Wind was brutal, knifin’ through the avenue and rippin’ between buildings.
My thighs were numb. My toes too. But I waited while every pair of sketchy-ass eyes groped me as they passed by—the reason Staten girls keep knives in their glove compartments.
I knew his schedule better than my own menstrual cycle. Thursdays? Always came out the side exit ‘round 3:45, apron slung over his shoulder.
It made me sick, watchin’ him through the front window, laughin’ with the other bartender with the fake tits, some fantasy turned fuckboy. Made me wanna throw a brick through the window and scream, ‘You ever clean her up with your tongue, too?’
When he finally came out the side exit? He didn’t see me.
He started his tired-little-prince-of-the-Clover stroll—head low, headphones in, walkin’ as if his cum tastes like vanilla ice cream.
He headed east toward 1st Ave, where MTA buses pulled through late at night.
When he was half a block ahead, I dropped the cig, crushed it under my boot, and peeled off the wall to follow him.
We passed the red-door speakeasy, where he flirted with some other skank last week, then a guy pissin’ behind a delivery truck.
Every streetlamp buzzed above as I passed: don’t do it, girl. Let it go.
I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted… I don’t know. To be seen, maybe. A little recognition like, ‘Oh shit, it’s her.’ Something. I wanted to drag him into the street, shove him onto his back, pull down my jeans and panties, sit on his face and say, ‘Still not ringin’ a bell?’
Is that so crazy? Probably.
By the time we got to the bus stop, my lips were numb and my lungs had Alaska in them. He propped himself against the map glass, starin’ at his phone while I was standin’ there, ten feet behind him with his dried spit still between my thighs ‘cause I refused to wash it off.
I stopped and watched him tip his head back and close his eyes. His nose was red from the cold. His ears too. And I swear on everything in me, I still wanted to kiss him.
That’s how messed up I was.
Soon as I stepped up, he opened his eyes and squinted, tryin’ to place me. And that honestly fuckin’ hurt. So I turned it into a laugh.
‘You forgot me already? Maybe if I spread my legs you’ll recognize the view?’
He pulled an earbud out, mouth parting for some soggy half-truth.
But, no. I didn't wanna hear it.
So one second he’s breathin’, blinkin’, bein’ beautiful.
In the next second—whack, I smacked his cheek hard, my palm lightin' up red. His head snapped sideways, earbud goin’ airborne and flingin’ across the sidewalk.
He stood mannequin-still. Only thing movin’ was his jaw grindin’ and his nostrils flarin’ as he tried to keep calm, avoidin’ my eyes.
God, he was hot when he was hurt and pissed.
I wanted to punch him in the dick.
‘Oh, not stickin’ your dick in me makes you a saint?’ I hissed. ‘You think goin’ down on girls and makin’ them come makes you a god?’ He froze, starin’ at the sidewalk. ‘You’re not a good guy, Harding,’ I said. ‘You’re just a polite piece of shit.’
And then I came at him, drivin’ my fist into his chest so hard he turned sideways to protect it. I wanted to tell him he’s lucky I left the knife in my glove box.
‘Don’t bother answerin’ my texts,’ I snapped, steppin’ back. ‘I blocked your sorry ass.’ It was a lie. But if he does text me back? I swear I’ll block him.
I stormed off with my middle finger behind me, pointin’ at the sky, before he could pull the soft-eyed sorry act. He didn’t stop me, probably processin’ what happened, not used to girls rejectin’ him.
I give it three hours before he’s scrollin’ for my message in his phone to hit me up. But, nah. I’m done. Hope he catches TMJ every time he tries to make another girl see stars.”
NO. 08: JUST A GUY
// ANDREW - JULY 4, ’23 - 10:12 PM - WEEHAWKEN, NJ //
Andrew Harding just wanted to be left the fuck alone.
Fireworks were poppin’ off over the Hudson, cheap ones by this time. All the big finales were done. He was leaned back against the trunk of his Civic, arms crossed, watchin’ smoke ghost under the ferry dock floodlamps while Manhattan blazed across the river, untouchable.
Weehawken was sweatin’, street still steamin’ from sunburned pavement.
Someone was blastin’ REO Speedwagon down the block, the bass thumpin’—a slow-punch heartbeat under his feet. A few feet away, a cluster of drunk girls stood by the railing, red Solo cups in hand, heels off, gigglin’ back and forth as ferry water slapped the dark.
They’d been lookin’ over at him, whisperin’.
One did the elbow-tap thing, go talk to him.
He dodged their stares, not wantin’ to invite it. Which made him seem like an asshole, but he didn’t have it in him tonight. He was tired, exhaustion livin’ in his joints, and sick of smellin’ the alcohol buzzin’ off everyone around him.
Mikey was in the car, windows steamed up, backseat rockin’, too far gone to know he was fuckin’ his brother’s ex. Andrew tried warnin’ him. Bro didn’t wanna hear it.
Jay and Nico dipped, said somethin’ about hittin’ a rooftop spot in Jersey City, but Andrew didn’t wanna leave Mikey and his car behind.
So he posted up, black T-shirt soaked and clingin’ to his back, sweat at his temples, tryin’ to avoid eye contact, avoid girls, not flinch each time a bottle rocket popped off, not fall asleep standin’ up.
Then headlights splashed across the pavement, tires crunchin’ on gravel as a gray Ford rolled up, windows halfway down with loud-ass reggaeton leakin’ out.
‘Yo, let’s go!’ the driver called out, snappin’ the girls out of their laughter. He had a snapback turned backwards, neck covered in tattoos, an arrogant face for someone pushin’ a ’98 Taurus.
The guy scanned the street, then glanced left, stare landin’ on Andrew.
And stayed.
‘Yo,’ the guy said, tossin’ the word into the backseat, eyes on Andrew. ‘Yo—hold up.’ He turned to talk to his boys. At once, the two in the back turned to look at Andrew.
The engine cut out, the doors opened, and three sets of shoes hit pavement—dirty white Uptempos, creased Timbs, and slides with socks (real disrespectful).