39. Every Rose Has Its Thorn
MILEY CYRUS
The blacked-out Mercedes is too quiet on the way to the penthouse.
It pulled up minutes after the VantaCARd app confirmed—I think.
I don’t remember booking it.
Felt like magic. Or memory loss.
One second, I’m outside with Andrew, snow in my lashes, hands trembling, mouth empty after the confession about Brandon.
Next second, I’m in the car, dark as night, heat blasting, leather cradling my legs.
My face is pounding.
Andrew’s on the other side of the cabin.
Neither of us has said a word.
As we ride, the city’s smearing neon and sleet across the windows.
Andrew’s slouched deep into the backseat, facing the window, head thrown back into the leather, thighs spread, one knee bouncing and cocked my way, aimed at me like a stupid, broken compass that hasn’t figured out I’m the wrong direction.
One elbow’s braced on the door, and his hat’s yanked low as if it can hide his thoughts.
My blood’s dried across the chest and shoulders of his crewneck, crimson and crusting now.
Red looks good on him. Tragic, even.
He should be gone by now,
Jersey-bound with a busted heart.
Instead, he’s next to me.
Maybe blood turns him on. Maybe it’s out of pity ‘cause I took a punch for him. Maybe he’s got a thing for girls who fuck other guys. Maybe he’s making sure this night doesn’t stain his conscience.
Probably thinking it this second, like—Got her in the car, makin’ sure she gets home safe. Look Ma, I’m a good gentleman.
‘Cause I feel the distance, the goodbye, the two of us counting down until the end.
Now he gets to walk away
before it gets messy.
And good for him. He deserves it.
Because let’s be honest: I didn’t throw myself in front of that fist to be romantic.
I did it ‘cause I wanted to hurt.
‘Cause maybe if I bled,
the guilt would seep out with it.
Everything I did tonight—defending him, sliding him cash, taking a punch—was all because I went and got fucked twice.
Not ‘cause I’m a good person.
Nah. I’m a terrible person.
And then I can’t even take a punch right, failed at fucking myself up.
No broken bones.
No stitches needed.
All I got to show for it’s a nosebleed,
a split lip,
and a swollen cheekbone.
I can’t even suffer properly.
The most disappointing performance of my goddamn life.
I keep waiting for him to sigh that sigh.
The I-can’t-do-this sigh.
The this-was-a-mistake sigh.
The fuck-this-I’m-out under his breath.
But when I look over, he’s already watching me, mouth tucked behind his fingers, as if he’s holding back words he shouldn’t say.
Or worse, words he should.
Then his hand moves, one inch at a time, creeping across the leather seat between us.
And stops—
halfway in no-man’s land.
I look down at his hand.
Then into his eyes again.
One brow lifts under his hat like—
you still with me, Sonny?
My hand drifts over,
stopping short of touching him.
An inch away.
I tap the leather once.
The corner of his mouth tugs up,
reluctant, uneven, mad I still get to him.
He’s pissed and hurt,
but he’s still drowning in me.
It’s the kind of smile you give to the one who broke you, but the one you still crave, the one who still makes your heart ache.
His fingers crawl to mine,
closing the gap,
finding my knuckles.
The pads skim over them soft.
One by one.
Pulling heat from the bone.
I can’t look away from his stare,
half-lidded and glazed.
Mercy in one eye.
Madness in the other.
My hand turns over in his.
Then his finger trails provocatively
along the inside of my palm,
dark eyes chained to mine.
In this car,
it’s two naked hands,
one gaze,
and zero self-control.
New York turns mute,
all noise falling away.
I step into the depths of his eyes
and get lost in the navy.
His eyes still hold that two-doors-flung-wide-open look, still waiting, still wanting me to come home to it, some fool part of him still thinking I belong there.
His thumb glides up the seam of my palm.
One stroke, so slow—
a touch that’s saying shit he won’t.
God. Why you doin’ this to us, angel?
As if in some other timeline,
we’re naked, unafraid, and whole,
in some warm bed on some better night,
and it’s kind of perfect.
Then his middle drags down the center of my hand before all five fingertips rake back up—tracing,
pressing poetry into my skin.
My palm lifts, sliding heavy across his,
warmth swelling in the center,
an ache that spreads wide
and sinks into the wrist.
He feels it too.
A shiver breaks inside him.
He drops his eyes, turns his head fast,
pretending to admire Midtown,
his free hand sweeping over his mouth
as if that’s going to stop the feeling.
When he looks over at me again,
his thumb hooks under his chin, like—
fuck it, no point in trying to hide it.
So he continues,
his fingers slide between each of mine,
grazing the edges,
filling the spaces between.
My head falls back against the leather seat, and I exhale, like I’ve been holding my breath.
He inhales, like he can’t catch his.
Then palm to palm,
flesh meets flesh,
we press together, holding,
locking us in place.
Sink. Sigh. Stay.
I squeeze.
He squeezes back,
then lifts his fingers off his lips,
mouthing slow—I’m not leavin’.
With those helpless, Sonnysick eyes.
But it doesn’t feel reassuring.
It feels threatening as fuck.
Does he mean the ride? The night?
Is he saying he’d rather burn alive in this mess than climb out of it without me?
And I’m too scared to ask.
So I pretend the thing in my chest is just another beating heart and not a ticking clock.
I keep my hand in his.
Until the car stops.
Until the seatbelt clicks off.
Mickey’s inside behind his desk,
talking to a visitor.
Andrew swings the door open, gets out,
then stops.
He turns to me. “Lemme walk in with you and talk to Mick real quick.” He glances back at Mickey through the glass doors, then to me again. “He’s gonna flip if you walk in lookin’ like that. I can’t have him thinkin’ shit—”
A winter gust shoves at me,
my split lip pulsing.
I turn away from the wind, hold my hair back, then notice someone in the shadows in the garden, a cherry from a cigarette burning red in the dark.
I feel their eyes brush across me, painting me in paranoia. All I want is a wall between me and the night.
I head inside the building,
Andrew behind me.
The lobby’s warm when we enter.
Andrew’s got one hand over his heart as we approach. “Bar fight. Giants game. Happened so fast—”
Mickey’s brows hit his hairline when he sees me. “Jesus Christ, Miss Taylor.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m real tough shit.” My smile jumps, and pain licks my lip, making me wince.
The guy Mickey’s talking to turns.
It’s Eli Stone—
black vest, jeans torn to threads.
He’s staring at me, horrified,
a bouquet of roses strangled in his fist.
“Oh my God, Allie. Your face.
“What the hell happened?”
Eli’s closing in, brown hair falling messy over his forehead, chain clinking against denim at his hip, scanning me, horrified.
Beside me, Andrew’s at a standstill.
His brows hitch high, then slam low,
stare sliding between Eli and me.
An awkward laugh pushes out of me, one that stings my lip. “I’m fine, really. Don’t make it a thing.” I wave him off, face tilting away. “What’re you even doin’ here?”
Eli looks to Andrew, Mickey,
then back to me, clearing his throat.
He adjusts his grip on the bouquet.
“I know I should’ve called first—”
“No. It’s fine,”I say. “You can swing by whenever. You know that.”
Andrew’s eyes fall to the ground as he leans against Mickey’s desk.
I step in to shred the tension.
“Eli, this is Andrew. Andrew—Eli.”
“Hey, man.” Eli sticks out his hand.
“Good to meet you.”
Andrew’s head tilts as he takes Eli’s hand. “Eli… Stone?” He huffs a breath. “Trash Romance?”
Eli laughs.
“Yeah. Don’t hold it against me.”
Andrew clocks the roses as he pulls back. “Whatchu doin’, man? Droppin’ roses at her door?”
Eli gives another small laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh—yeah, can’t go wrong with flowers. Universal rule.” Then he glances at me, seriousness raining down his expression now. “Actually, Allie, I was hopin’ I could grab a word with you, alone, ‘bout somethin’ important.”
“Yeah, of course.”
And we peel away a few steps.
To my left, Andrew’s bent over Mickey’s desk, talking to him, eyes following me, thumb drumming quick against his thigh.
I turn to Eli, and his shoulders pull tight.
“What the hell, Allie?” he says low, brown eyes wide. He lifts the roses, like he’s pointing somewhere off. “Why my accountant callin’ me sayin’ this transfer came from your personal account?” He sinks back on his hip, head cocked sideways. “Tell me you didn’t patch this bullshit outta pocket.”
My lungs deflate. “Eli—”
“Nah, girl—” he cuts back in. “I’m pissed as hell, I’m grateful, and I don’t know if I oughta thank you or cuss you out.” His scoff comes out as a rough laugh. “Damn. It’s not supposed to run this way.”
I glance off, a lump in my throat. “I know.” I’ve got no answer that sounds logical. “It’s complicated right now…” I manage, and it sounds pathetic even to me.
Eli doesn’t push, but the worry’s carved deep in his face. “Seventy-five K?” he mutters, groan spilling out behind it. “Hell, my accountant’s gonna blow up your phone, askin’ a shit ton of questions.”
I shrug it off. “It’s fine. Falls on me. I pay my dad’s artists.”
“Your artists,” Eli argues as we drift back toward Mickey’s desk.
“Corey’s gone, Allie. Only reason I’m still here is ‘cause of you.” He glances at Andrew, then back at me, shoulders sinking as he hands me the roses.
“For real, thank you,” he lifts his fist, knowing I don’t like hugs.
“One more year. Don’t let them assholes slide,” Eli says as my fist crashes into his.
He shakes Mickey’s hand, then Andrew’s. “I’ll get outta here.” He walks backward, finger pointing at me. “Couple days, and we’ll be standin’ in LA. Gonna be good times.”
I feel the stop in Andrew next to me.
Then his hand slips off the desk,
his spine steeling.
His eyes trail past me
and lock on Eli’s back as he walks out.