41. P.I.M.P.
Washington Square’s loud as fuck.
A guy with a sax is playing the same three notes over and over. Tourists are getting hustled at chess. Some kid’s drumming a bucket for money.
I’m waiting for Celie on our bench, the one with our initials scratched in—a broke-ass lovers’ monument—checking my phone, then shoving it back in my pocket every five minutes.
I haven’t heard from Andrew since he dipped two nights ago, drunk and broke at midnight in Manhattan.
Mickey swore he got home safe—“Made sure he got in a cab. Paid up front, gave him my number. Didn’t seem like the type to ask for help, so I didn’t make a thing of it.”
Not like I’m losing sleep over it.
(I am.)
If I gave a shit, I’d’ve gone to Jersey and checked on him. Instead I’m left with the memory of him in my bedroom, looking at me as if I murdered him, and my body was the knife.
All I did was fuck somebody else.
And now somehow, I’m the monster.
Somehow, Saint Andrew made me feel dirty for playing the same game I’ve always played.
I should’ve burned Brandon’s letter.
Only reason it survived was because it said: I fucking love you, Allison.
And no matter how much I hate those five words, it was proof on paper that someone once thought I was worth the breath wasted to write them down, even if it came from the wrong heart.
Truth is, the words felt human.
Made me think maybe I was, too.
But I’m not.
I’m a cold-hearted bitch on a bench, hat brim low enough to throw shade across my face, sunglasses swallowing my cheekbones, collar up on my trench coat, The New York Times opened wide in front of my face.
Every so often, I flip a page, mostly to hide my busted mouth.
Celie’s excitement shakes pigeons out of a tree as she walks up. “Caaaliii, tomorrow babyyy! Woo, we gone!”
A wide grin’s plastered across her face,
arm pumping in the air.
I can’t grin back.
Smiling literally hurts.
And I’m too fucked up over Andrew.
She strolls over and stands in front of me, casting a tall shadow. “What happened now?” Her face falls dead. “Don’t even start. If Sunset Decay pulled out, I’m still goin’ to Cali. Period.”
I lower the newspaper,
fold it,
and lay it in my lap.
“Take a seat.”
Her eyes roll, but she drops down beside me, smelling like her perfume. That Carolina Herrera Good Girl shit she always wears.
I keep my gaze on the fountain, the pigeons, anywhere that’s not at her. “Did you get what I asked for?”
“Yeah. One hot model on reserve for tonight, and one full-coverage kit—the good shit.” She hands over the color-correcting palette. “And a side’a you actin’ mad sketchy. What’s your deal? What’s this about?”
I breathe in, tasting the fountain spray in the air, and turn to face her, sliding off the large shades. I tilt my face so the sun lays its rays across the split lip, the bruise blooming under my cheekbone.
She jerks back, hand against her chest.
“Ohhh, nah, nah. Girl, what the fuck is that?” Then she leans back in, examining it. “This got somethin’ to do with Six-Point-Five? You finally give head or somethin’? What—the dick fight back?”
I pull the brim of my hat lower and slide my glasses back on. “Sunday night. Giants game. Draft Room got wild. I’m not discussin’ it.”
Sitting taller, I straighten the collar around my neck. “You’re here ‘cause there’s a matter that needs your attention.”
Her brow pops. “Ohhh, this hood business now?” She slings one arm over the bench. “We talkin’ Hoodlum Shit, or we goin’ Bronx on someone's ass? Tell me we runnin’ up on this motherfucker who did this to your face.”
If I tell her the real reason for this meeting right now, she’s going to unload a pile of assumptions, teasing, tell me how completely stupid I am for this man.
I push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose with one finger. “You and the model. Midnight tonight. At this location.”
I slide the note into her palm.
“Don’t open it ‘til I’m gone.”
Before I’ve finished the last word,
she tears it open.
“The Clover?”
The question knifes the air, the pigeons flapping from a tree behind her.
Then her mouth creeps up as she turns to face me, and she gives me that all-knowing conspiratorial smile.
“Mmhm… nah, there’s only one reason you need a model at the Clover.
” She nods. “We runnin’ a Hoodlum Shit Sting Op on your boy Six-Point-Five, huh?
” Her tongue sticks out, shoulders jumping as if her theme song’s playing. “Trust or Bust, baby. Trust or bust.”
// 11:56 PM - THE CLOVER - WEST VILLAGE, NYC //
Engine’s dead.
Lights killed.
The Clover’s eighty feet away.
I’m parked out of range of suspicion, but still close to catch his mouth through the binoculars. He still hasn’t texted or called, so I deleted his contact in my phone again to stop seeing his name.
His silence is deafening.
He’s gotta be thinking about me.
Has to be. No way he’s not.
Unless he’s not.
Unless I’m the only one replaying everything.
Either way, if he’s waiting on me to crack first—text him, call him, crawl to Jersey—he’s got life fucked.
He’ll be waiting forever.
‘Cause he walked. Again. That’s on him.
I don’t want to be here outside his work.
I’m not a stalker. I’m not obsessed.
But I refuse to spend my Cali trip with guilt gnawing at me ‘cause of stupid Brandon. I refuse to be haunted by the sad look on Andrew’s face.
I’m here for balance. For justice.
For proof he’s no better than me.
Proof we’re both fuck-ups.
And this is the window.
He’s still sore from finding that letter.
After what I pulled? He’s got every reason to fuck it off with someone else. And in minutes, the perfect reason to prove I’m replaceable is walking into the bar.
Tonight, pussy-drunk Drew is tripping and falling into va-JY-nuh.
And when he does, I won’t be the only villain holding the knife. I’ll be the hero of my heart—the girl who was right about the guy who swore he was different now.
Celie’s behind me in the backseat, wearing all black. “Operation Trust or Bust,” she mutters serious, rubbing her palms together. “Watch—I already know, we gon’ miss that five a.m. flight ‘cause’a this shit.”
I scoff. “No, we’re not. We’ll make it.”
Celie delivers a dry, deadpan stare.
“Airport don’t wait for dick, ho.”
We used to do this for fun—
pick some girl,
usually one of Celie’s model friends,
and send them in as bait to test the man’s loyalty.
Now we’re older, wiser,
and much more adult about it.
And no, we don’t need therapy.
Therapy’s for people who want to fix things.
We’re just three women in a parked car at midnight, dressed for a heist, about to blow up my Andrew-and-Allison-thing for research purposes.
“Yo, you know why I picked Jasmine, right?” Celie says it while running her fingers through Jasmine’s hair, fluffing it up as if she were a prop, not a friend.
Jasmine doesn’t move. She’s a statue.
Models are good at pretending they’re not human.
I roll my eyes. “Because she’s exactly Andrew’s type? Brunette and ridiculously hot. That Bruno-Mars-would’ve-written-a-whole-damn-album-about-her kind of hot.”
Celie grins devious. “Exactly.”
I sink back in the seat and fix my earpiece. The setup’s in place. My nerves are sparking—part adrenaline, part absurdity.
“Testing, one-two-three,” I say into the mic. “Jasmine, can you hear me?”
“Is good, I hear you, boss,” she fires back.
Then we’re three lunatics in the car, shrieking and kicking our feet, as if we just robbed a bank and got away with it.
“Alrighty. Moving on to phase two.” I turn to the backseat. “Hoodrat, get Jasmine in position. Spray the perfume, stat. She’s gotta smell like Paris, not like she got turned around on the way to the bathroom.”
Celie reaches for the Chanel Coco Mademoiselle, bought for tonight. 'Cause Google claims it’s statistically the one scent men can’t keep it in their pants for.
“Mmm, girl,” Celie hums, “Six-Point-Five’s gon’ be on his knees, watch.”
My smile slips off.
Fuck, I’m sick.
My stomach’s a fist.
Andrew kneeling for another girl...
touching...
tasting...
No. No, that doesn’t exist.
I suck in a breath. “Now she’s gotta walk in like she don’t give a fuck. Uninterested with that I-eat-fuckboys'-hearts-for-breakfast stride,” I say, clapping my hands, trying to ignore my gut that’s twisting. “Phase three, people.”
Celie laughs. “Instructions to walk? She’s a model. She’s been paid to walk since she was thirteen.”
“I’m right here, yes?” Jasmine says, annoyed.
I snap my fingers at her. “Sit at the bar like you belong there. Look beyond bored. Gorgeous and uninterested. You been stood up by some idiot. Let him see the loneliness. He’s a sucker for that shit, apparently.”
I don’t add: he’s mine. Not yours.
Touch him, and I'll kill you.
Celie swings the car door open.
Some guy’s selling roses out of a milk crate by the curb, shouting “Two for ten, don’t be cheap!” at couples walking past.
Celie gives Jasmine a push out of the car. “Go get ‘em, babe. If he don’t trip over himself, he’s either blind or dead.”
Jasmine climbs out, then hits her stride—hips forward, chin up, long tanned legs straddling the city street.
Jesus, she’s hot.
A cab double-parks behind us
and leans on the horn.
I groan, crack the window halfway, and hang out. “Yeah, yeah, everybody’s got somewhere to be! Take a fuckin’ number!” I yell, then scramble for my binoculars, grumbling, “Fuckin’ New York—don’t know tonight’s for testin’ loyalty, not patience.”
Jasmine pauses in the middle of the crosswalk, spins to face us, and raises her hands. “Eh, where is my hype, hm? You must flatter me. How else I keep going?” I see that sultry arched brow from halfway down the block. “I cannot work like this.”
I roll my eyes.
“Okay, Jazzy, you’re fuckin’ hot.
“A damn queen.
“Now own it, girl.
“You got the look,
“the attitude.
“Strut in there like you own the place.”
She starts her strut again,
swinging the door open to the Clover.
I keep up the hype, throwing compliments like camera clicks. “Yaaas, slay mama. Gimme that I-hate-this-country-but-I-look-good-here face.”
Celie folds into a laugh behind me, then grabs my shoulders from behind. “Yo, this is so fucked up… I love it.”