39. Every Rose Has Its Thorn #2
I know the story he’s writing in his head. First I tell him I fucked another man. Now I’m booked for Cali with roses in my hand. Wouldn’t shock me if he thinks it was Eli.
“Now go get frozen peas on that cheek,” Mickey insists. “Peas, not ice. Molds better. Trust me.”
My head tilts to the side.
“Yeah, yeah. Got it, doc.”
Mickey folds his arms across his chest, dad-mode. “No aspirin, you’ll bleed more. Tylenol only.” He squints at me. “And quit touchin’ the lip. “You’ll keep bustin’ it open. Let the lip crust... Use Vaseline, kid. Straight Vaseline.”
“Mick…” I shove the roses into his hands. “Here. Keep these. Stick ‘em in a vase.” He hunches, eyes slitted, so I rest my gaze on him. “C’mon. You know I don’t do flowers. I get attached, they die, then I’m throwin’ a funeral in my kitchen, bawlin’ my eyes out.”
He takes the flowers and shoots Andrew a look. “He ridin’ up with you?”
Andrew backs off. “Nah, I’m—”
“You don’t want to?” the words leave me too fast, born from my chest and not my head.
Andrew looks at me,
caught and confused. “What?”
I mean, his reaction makes sense.
Fucking another guy doesn’t necessarily scream ‘sex with you meant everything.’
I did it to give us both an exit.
And now here I am,
asking him not to use it. Again.
I shrug.
“You wanna go back to Jersey tonight?”
He rocks back on his heel, studying me, unsure if the invitation means we’re breaking or building something. “No, Allison,” he says—half-laugh, half-ache. “No. I don’t wanna go back to Jersey.”
Mickey grins all-knowing, gestures toward the elevator. “Alright, get goin’. The two’a you have a good night.”
I feel Andrew’s eyes on me as we walk through the lobby, my spine steeling, knowing I just made everything worse.
The marble throws my footsteps back at me, shallow and quick and whispering, you fucked Brandon, for what again?
‘Cause now he’s following me to my elevator. That leads up to my penthouse.
Where he might even sleep tonight.
In my room.
In my bed.
Next to me.
Where I can’t slip out before sunrise.
Where I can’t run if shit hits the fan.
Not when I live here.
I’ll be stuck.
Ah, fuck.
Brilliant move, really. How does one ghost from their own address?
Jump off the fucking terrace?
Technically… that’d work.
I could become an actual ghost…
And what is he even doing,
following me up after I what I did?
This kid is stupid.
Seriously. Full-blown dumbass.
Hot, heart-eyed, got-no-brain kinda stupid. Who hears “I fucked someone else” and responds with, “Sure, take me to your penthouse, milady.”
Andrew Harding, the fool.
Which is horrifying, honestly.
If that didn’t push him away…
how far do I have to go?
How many guys will I have to fuck?
There’s only one option.
Murder.
Manslaughter, if I’m lucky.
He won’t go on his own,
so it’s either kill him, marry him, or die.
And stabbing him is the safest option.
I don’t even want him.
Except I do.
But only if I never have to watch him leave me.
So yeah. This all makes perfect sense.
The elevator’s up ahead.
Left foot. Right foot.
If I don’t keep walking, I’ll chicken out, yell see ya sucker and make a run for it, slide into the elevator Risky-Business style and pound the close button, barricading the elevator doors like I’m hiding from the fucking feds.
The elevator dings,
waking me from my plan.
The doors slide open.
Andrew follows me in.
I press myself into the corner,
spine hitting the back wall.
He stands close,
his chest rising faster than mine.
He’s not touching me, but I still feel him everywhere, as if he slipped a song under my skin on the very first night, and now the beat replays whenever he’s near.
His dark eyes fall to my mouth,
where my lip cracked back open.
He lifts his hand to my face, catching the blood sliding warm down my chin,
wipes it up with his thumb,
brings it to his mouth,
and sucks it off the pad,
keeping a piece of me inside him.
Then his hand moves to my throat, and he cradles it gentle as he pulls me closer, until his nose is brushing mine.
His hot breath hits my broken lip, making it sting. “Was it him?”
I shake my head.
He shifts, shoulder falling against the wall, taking me with him. “Then who?” he asks softer.
He hates himself for even asking.
I can tell by the way he’s looking down at me, eyes heavy, half-lidded, and slow-burning.
I grip the railing tight and tilt my chin.
“This jealousy talkin’?”
His eyes narrow.
“You fuckin’ serious?”
A bitter half-laugh tumbles out of him, no humor behind it. “Jealous?” he repeats. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
His hand slips behind my neck,
thumb under my ear, hot, possessive.
“You don’t fuck, Allison. You don’t fuck.
“The second it feels like we’re gettin’ somewhere—” His jaw snaps shut as his eyes flick between mine. “You slipped right outta my arms that morning, then go and erase me. And now this mystery motherfucker was the last one inside you—Jesus.”
His teeth grit.
“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ jealous.
“I’m hurt.
“I’m pissed.
“I’m outta my fuckin’ head.
“Christ—I either need to know everything or pretend none of it happened.
“So tell me,
“do I even got the right to ask?”
His words land heavy,
leaving silence behind.
His eyes dig through mine,
searching for the truth.
Then—
Ding.
The elevator slides open.
But he doesn’t move right away.
Neither do I.
We stand there, eyes locked,
not knowing how to move forward.
Then something hits him,
as if the penthouse whispered my name.
He slowly turns his head
and pushes off his shoulder.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs, eyes landing everywhere as he steps out of the elevator, and right into the skyline view.
Along the back wall, melted gold pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city living here too.
He pauses in the foyer, where every light’s on a dimmer, and it smells faintly of my vanilla perfume. The elevator doors whisper shut behind us.
He looks back at me,
then in front of him again,
not expecting to walk straight into the damn thing.
Nothing’s out of place.
Nothing has a soul, either.
Only a view that’s beautiful in the way cliffs are beautiful.
You could fall in love here.
Or just fall.
He pauses in the grand hall—bone-white walls smothered in framed records. Each one flipped to hide the truth. A resting place for every song I never got to claim.
I stand behind him and watch his eyes trail the turned records, the black wax like shut mouths.
His hand sinks into his pocket—my Jersey boy, standing in my vinyl graveyard, surrounded by my silent screams.
“You wrote all’a these, didn’t you?” He walks the hall slow, looking at each one. “All of 'em. Every fuckin’ one. Turned ‘em over so no one would know. Can’t even take credit in your own place.” He says it, as if it breaks his heart.
When we step into the kitchen, Ben’s in the living room, one arm hooked over the back of the couch, blanket across his lap, tub of Rocky Road cradled like he’s on his period.
I glance back at Andrew, checking the rearview before the crash. With his mouth clamped shut, his gaze hits mine.
Ben freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing when he sees who’s behind me.
Andrew offers a nod,
half-friendly, half don’t-fuckin’-play.
Ben drops the spoon into the tub.
It hits the bottom with a thud.
And when his stare cuts past Andrew,
and lands on me,
his face hardens like a clenched fist.
The TV continues to play,
filling in the silence.
“Say it.
“Out loud.”
A beat.
“Say it.”
Another.
“Vampire.”
Ben’s eyes go dark.
Two supermassive black holes.
There’s no time to react.
He sees the destruction on my face,
the busted lip, the cut brow,
the swollen cheekbone,
then he sets the tub down and rises to his feet, a boxer squaring up. “The fuck happened to your face?” His stare swings to Andrew, and he points at him as he rounds the coffee table. “That from him?”
Andrew has his hands wrapped tight around the edge of the counter to hold himself back. One wrong word, one wrong move, he’s in it.
I roll my eyes and turn toward the drink fridge. “Don’t insult me,” I mutter, yanking two bottled waters. I toss one to Andrew. “You really think I’d be standin’ next to the guy who did this? Invite him to my floor? Really?” I scoff. “I might be dumb, but I’m not stupid.”
I pause, hearing it back, regretting it.
Ben doesn’t even catch it.
Fucking idiot.
“Keep goin’ with this shit,” Ben warns.
“What shit?” I snap.
He throws a finger between us. “The two’a you. It’s already blowin’ up in your face. You think Jersey’s gonna sign up for celibacy? Wait ‘til he finds out his dick ain’t gettin’ wet. Let’s see how long that fairy tale lasts.”
I go to speak—
“Nah,” Andrew cuts in, eyes narrowed on Ben. “Don’t explain shit to him.”
My mouth snaps shut, corking whatever I was gonna say. (Which is a mystery to me, so it’s probably for the best.)
Ben lets out a short, ugly laugh. “Damn.” His chin juts toward Andrew. “Jersey here got you on a fuckin’ leash?” His fingers flick toward the fridge. “You ask him for permission before addin’ another to the roster?”
Andrew glances back at the fridge, where headshots from the interviews are taped up.
Shit.
I slap the counter, the sound cracking the air, and the sting climbs fast up my arm, pain joining the throb already pulsing across my face. “You’re done, Ben. Go take a fuckin’ walk. Hit up your boxin’ joint. Go punch a bag or some shit. I don’t care where you go. Just get outta my face.”
Ben sets one elbow on the opposite side of the counter.
“What—didn’t wanna clue him in, huh?” He’s still throwing words like cigarette butts, lit and flicked, aiming for skin.
“Tellin' you right now, if this kid fucks everything? Don’t come crawlin’ back to me, Baby.
Once you close that door, it’s shut for good. ”
I’m all locked up, throat full of splinters.
Ben grins, stepping back, arms up like he just knocked somebody out. “You’re burnin’ it all down for him, Baby.” He lifts a finger, spins it slow in the air. “Take a good look around so you know what you’re losin’. ‘Cause this is the part where it all turns to shit.”