Track No. 10 You Don’t Own Me #2
Roger was too busy drinkin’ himself into the grave over some unrequited bullshit.
Andrew was too busy actin’ oblivious, too much of a coward to tell him straight up it’d never be like that ‘cause he was scared to lose him as a friend.
And somewhere in that look-the-other-way bullshit, Elle got buried too—alone and starved for attention.
So when Roger died, she looked at Andrew like he was the one responsible for the time wasted, the future that was ripped away from her, for all the times she stood next to Roger alone in a crowded room.
She opened her legs as if Andrew owed her.
And he let her. ‘Cause maybe she was right.
But what pissed him off was that Elle knew how easy it was to corner him, knew he couldn’t walk away when someone needed him. That’s what killed him most—that she knew she could manipulate him, and used the name of his dead best friend to do it.
And Andrew? He wanted a drink.
Wanted to split a wall with his fist.
Wanted someone—just one fuckin’ person—to give a shit about him for real. But it didn’t matter what Andrew wanted. Only thing he knows how to do is drop into character, whatever role people expect of him, and keep it dirty to distract her from the fact he’s actually real fuckin’ uncomfortable.
He still cried that night.
Did it while eatin’ out his dead friend’s girl, face buried in her pussy.
He tried to stop the tears—swear to God he did. He came up for air once, eyes blurry, the smell of pussy soaked into his skin. Then he went back in as if he didn’t have a choice, hopin’ it’d make up for somethin’.
Elle never knew.
To her, he was perfect.
Ate her for hours, gave her every orgasm Roger didn’t.
That night, Andrew stayed right there ‘til goddamn sun came up.
For Roger. For her. For the part of him that wasn’t human anymore.
He didn’t stick around after ‘cause he wanted her—shit, Andrew Harding never once wanted anyone. Didn’t stay ‘cause he craved it, either. At the time, he didn’t even know what cravin’ felt like. Nah, for the first couple weeks, he stayed out of guilt—straight-up obligation.
But then he kept comin’ back for all the wrong reasons.
Shit he couldn’t name without bein’ disgusted with himself.
Some days it felt like punishing himself.
Other days it felt like punishing her and every other person who used him.
Yeah, on some sick, fucked-up level, he figured the longer he stayed, the more it would hurt her when he walked away.
And she held on, kept playin’ her game, thinkin’ she could be the first to break Andrew Harding.
So he kept lyin’, kept the ball in his glove the whole time, lettin’ her think she was runnin’ the bases, stealin’ somethin’. And now this porch scene he’s starin’ up at? It’s his fault. Now it’s three girls drunk on themselves, phones out, mouths movin’. And all Andrew can think is not again.
All he feels is boxed in. This is always how it starts whenever he’s alone with girls. He gets turned into a show, a toy, a prop, a dare, a good time, entertainment, a mouth to pass around, a ‘bet you won’t go down on all’a us.’ Hell, whatever fucked up shit alcohol turns them into.
The nausea stirs up from his gut.
The bone-deep panic hits him all at once.
His foot slips off the bottom step, and he turns back, every step farther away feelin’ like he’s walkin’ without skin on.
“Yo,” she says, as if she’s still got a leash on him.
But he’s halfway gone and through the gate. Behind him, the girls are laughin’. Elle’s feet slap the steps, trying to get to him as if she can convince him to turn around and be her boyfriend or some shit.
“Andrew, what the hell was that?”
He lets out a low chuckle, keys swingin’ between his knuckles.
“Ain’t that the million-dollar question,” he mutters, still walkin’, still not glancin’ her way.
“What. The hell. Was that? Lied to me just to get me here so you could prove somethin’.
Whole display, huh? Actin’ like you fuckin’ own me? ”
“You serious right now?” Then she’s right next to him, blonde hair in his peripheral. “You pissed about that? You just made me look stupid in front of them.”
He refuses to look at her and keeps movin’ forward, shakin’ his head.
He saw it comin’ a mile away and still walked right into it.
“Andrew. Hey—stop. Can you talk to me instead of walking away?”
She grabs his shoulder, but he shrugs her off.
“Andrew—wait—” She pulls him harder the second time, yankin’ him so fast his sneakers skid across the blacktop. Then she's kissin' him, her mouth on his before he can dodge it.
It’s messy, and he’s stuck there, hatin’ it, not kissin’ her back.
But he's not pullin’ away either. ‘Cause it’s his first kiss, and stupidly, he’s waitin’ for somethin’ to happen, like for his dick to get hard, or for the hollow to forget it’s empty and fill itself in.
And maybe—just maybe—if he kisses her back, the echo’ll turn into a heartbeat, and he’ll finally feel somethin’. Anything.
He grabs her in a panic, his grip brutal, and he steps in fast, chest hittin’ hers, tryin’ to knock the feelin’ into himself.
But nothin’s happenin’. Not a fuckin’ thing.
He opens his mouth, givin’ more, desperate to find the feelin’ and grab it himself. C’mon. Just once. I’m beggin’. I’m right fuckin’ here.
Until he can’t take it anymore.
And he lets go, chest hollow as he takes a step back.
He knows it now, real fuckin’ clear.
He’s dead inside, buried under a pile of bodies and moans and minutes that meant nothin’. He let ‘em take it all, and now there’s nothin’ left.
He slides into his Honda without saying goodbye, starts the car, and pulls off, leavin’ her standin’ there. He even stopped thinkin’ about her the second she hit the rearview.
Then he keeps drivin’. The Jersey boy who don’t give a fuck anymore, headin’ straight for the city.
Ludlow’s sweatin’ tonight.
Andrew steps in and the door swings shut behind him.
Bar smells the same as what he’s trapped in four nights a week at the Clover—tequila breath, Lysol, and gallons of cologne and perfume. Chatter crashes in from all around, ice hits glass, and early Stones is playin’, slurred and dirty.
Girls at the corner table clock him on arrival.
One sits up straighter. Another recognizes him as she passes by, snaps her gum and grabs her friend’s wrist.
“That’s Andrew Harding,” she mouths.
He keeps his head down, his hands buried deep in his pockets so no one grabs ‘em. Peter’s sittin’ pretty at the bar, southpaw grip on a whiskey glass, button-down open, baseball cap backwards, a brunette curled up under his arm, another pressed against the bar, orderin’ shots.
“Jesus Christ, Harding,” Peter calls out over the music, bourbon and Boston hangin’ off the words. “I thought you died. Get over here, Jersey.”
Andrew’s already regrettin’ this shit. Shoulda turned around, gone home, passed the fuck out, got caught up on sleep.
But he also don’t give a fuck tonight.
Nah. Tonight, he’s mournin’ an entire life he’ll never get to have.
No love.
No Sunday mornings.
No growin’ old with someone.
At least, nothin’ real.
He’s twenty-seven, standin’ at the crossroads with only three options:
Lie alone.
Lie to one girl forever.
Or lie to hundreds, one at a time.
That’s all that’s waitin’ for him.
He scrapes a hand down his face as he walks up and slaps Peter’s hand.
“Feels like I’m dead, bro. Straight up. Haven’t felt my feet in three weeks,” he says, pullin’ him in for that half-ass bro hug.
“Lookin’ to drown in my sorrows and watch you make a few mistakes tonight.
Figured you’d be surrounded by them by now. ”
Peter throws his head back with a laugh.
“Not mistakes. Memories, Jersey. I’m creatin’ memories.”
Andrew met Petey through Roger—minor league, plays third, cocky swing, don’t miss a fuckin’ thing at base. Andrew hops in on Sunday league when he can. One of those pickup games that end in ribs, beer, and somebody losin’ a bet.
Peter Cavanaugh ain’t the guy you call when you need a heart-to-heart.
He’s the one you call when the last thing you want is the fake ‘you good, bro?’ bullshit.
He doesn’t pretend to care to feel better about himself or shove alcohol in your face.
He’s that rare breed. The one who’ll sit on the curb with you ‘til sunrise, or stand outside the bar while you ghost a girl you shouldn’t’ve touched.
Zero judgment, zero lectures and motivational speeches, while you do whatever the hell you need to do so you ain’t doin’ it alone.
Andrew’s barely got his elbow on the bar, tryin’ to flag down the bartender, when he feels a hand slide over his knuckles, a sticky mouth grazin’ his neck.
“You remember me?” she purrs. “You were my bartender at the Clover. Told me you didn’t do that shit at work. Said next time I catch you on the other side of the bar, that mouth was mine.”
Peter lets out a dry laugh into his drink. “Jesus Christ, Jersey.” He shakes his head. “Can’t even get your drink order in.”
Andrew glances over his shoulder. The girl eases back to look him in the eyes, expectin’ him to recognize her. But he doesn’t. Never does. Nothin’ personal. He doesn’t even recognize himself.
She’s standin’ crooked, weight dumped on one hip, ankle twisted out. He’s bettin’ the heels are brand new and she’s already got blisters.
When he don’t say nothin’, she sinks closer, smellin' like lavender laced with old cigarette smoke. “So… you still got that magic mouth?”
That magic mouth shit gets under Andrew’s skin. Every time someone says it, he hears what it really means: You’re good for one thing, and one thing only.
Peter’s wearin’ his trademark shit-eatin’ grin as he watches from his stool.
Andrew turns back into the bar, like she ain't fuckin' nothin'. “Depends… you got a magic pussy?” he says it to be an ass, so she knows what it feels like to be reduced to a body part. “Magic mouth don’t come out for nothin’ mid, sweetheart.”
She slips her hand into his. “Why don’t you come find out?”