Track No. 12 Desperado #2
He can’t stomach how it feels. As if she’s takin’ somethin’ that ain’t hers.
“Let me wake you up,” she says against his skin. “I’ll give you that burst of energy you’re lookin’ for.”
Shit. She ain’t gonna back off.
She don’t see the guy runnin’ on fumes.
She don’t wanna know that guy or care about him. That man’s invisible.
All she sees is the guitar slung low. The stage. The guy singin’, ‘he’s so fuckin’ drunk on you.’ And right now? She’s the you. Same as every girl in the crowd. Only she’s reachin’ for her turn. She wants her slice of the magic. And now she’s sittin’ on him, starin’ up at him, hungry for it.
“Couldn’t stop starin’ at you on stage,” she says. “Swear I tried.”
“Guess we—”
Tongue and teeth attack him at once, and he pulls back fast.
“Easy,” he warns, needin’ control before it spins out. “What’s goin’ through that head, huh? You come back here wantin’ somethin’ from me? Or just wanted to hang out?”
Her hips move first, grinding into his lap, makin’ it clear—nah, she ain’t here for him or his company. She’s here to come. “I dunno…” She bites her lip. “Yeah. But I just… want you wantin’ me, too.”
An exhale slips long from his chest.
“If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now.”
It’s bullshit, but it’ll help ‘em both sleep at night.
He calls it mercy, not dishonesty.
‘Cause lies don’t count if they don’t hurt the one on the other end.
All he wants is to give her the piece she’s after to get it over with.
He won’t send her off empty or thinkin’ she ain’t wanted, even if he ain’t feelin’ it at all. ‘Cause he never feels anything in the moment anyway.
Then, soon as her clothes come off, that’s the curtain risin’, the top of the cue. When Andrew stops bein’ Andrew and becomes whoever she came here lookin’ for.
It’s her night, her story, and he’s just the guy who helps make it happen.
He blacks out for most of it, and once it’s over, he quickly wipes his fingers off on her shirt without her noticin’ before handin’ it back to her. Like he’s clocking out of one job and headin’ back to another.
“That do it for you, sweetheart?”
He pretends not to notice that she’s cryin’.
He knows she ain’t sad or mad.
Those tears come from feelin’ too much, too fast. It still hits him, proud to’ve given her somethin’ real enough to ache, and foolish for givin’ her more of himself than he’ll ever get back. So it guts him too, ‘cause he don’t ever get it for himself.
Makes him wonder what the fuck it’d be like to feel like that with someone.
// TRACK CHANGE //
Seconds later he’s in the bathroom, starin’ at his hands like they don’t belong to him. The water’s runnin’ and the soap’s foamin’ as he scrubs her off his skin, refusin’ to look himself in the mirror.
She ain’t here no more, but her shadow won’t fuckin’ leave.
When he swings the bathroom door open to leave, two girls shove him right back in, door slammin’ behind ‘em, lights flickerin’ above. One of ‘em locks the door, neither’ll take no for an answer.
They’re opportunists in tiny dresses—hems ridin’ high, asses spillin’ out each time they bend over an inch.
They don’t need the fantasy or the show.
He ain’t stupid. All they want is to walk out sayin’ they had his mouth.
So he gives it to ‘em.
Tile sticks under his sneakers as he drops onto the toilet lid, spreadin’ his knees wide. He turns ‘em both, makin’ ‘em face the other way. He don’t waste time and tests them both quick—sniff, look, taste.
In seconds, moans crash over each other, both of ‘em cryin’ into the piss-stink tile.
He warned ’em—gotta be fast, gotta get back on stage.
But he still gives ‘em filthy, slidin’ from one to the other, switchin’ between holes as if he can’t get enough.
But he can’t taste nothin’. Everything moves without him—his mouth, his fingers, he ain’t even there. His body knows what to do.
Then the door opens, and they’re stumblin’ out with their legs still shakin’.
He’s up, chin soaked, knuckles wet, and he’s back at the sink scrubbin’ off and shovin’ paper towels in his mouth, draggin’ ‘em over his tongue. Then he twists the cap off the mouthwash from his pocket.
First swig he spits. Second he swallows.
By the time his sneakers hit the hallway, his body gives, reachin’ its limit—shoulder screamin’, eyes burnin’, knees weak.
Heart and head poundin’ like he’s about to collapse.
For one second, dizzy slams into him, that weakness warnin’ him. The next, he fears he’ll collapse.
The hours.
The hollow.
The hunger.
The hurting.
He hangs back and looks for somethin’ to hold him up or lean on.
But there’s nothin’.
All he’s got is himself.
So he breathes once.
Swallows it down twice.
Shakes it off three times and pretends he’s not dying inside.
When his Nikes hit the stage, the lights hit his eyes, his hand finds the strings. And he’s on again.
“Matt’s gone,” Jay says. “Wyatt’s out lookin’ for him.”
Andrew oughta be pissed Matt dipped, but he ain’t. He’s too fuckin’ tired, too drained, too busy worryin’ if Matt’s even breathin’ and didn’t OD somewhere. Out front, Miss Mini Skirt’s still at the front, same stare, like she ain’t blinked since he walked off.
He grips the mic and sings lead, his pitch dead-on, fingers tight on the frets. He could outplay half the city and not break a sweat. But this ain’t his dream. It’s Matt’s.
Tours, gigs, motel floors, livin’ on the road, chasin’ applause?
That ain’t freedom. It’s another shift—longer hours, higher stakes, bigger crowds screamin’ for his time and name, and a whole lot more people to please.
The bigger the stage, the faker the smiles.
And if he’s already losin’ himself in bathrooms and back rooms, no fuckin’ way he’s signin’ up for arenas.
Music was his once.
Still is in the dark, in the times he’s alone and nobody’s listenin’, when the lights go out, and he steals back a piece to remind himself he's still in the music somewhere. But now it’s another thing he gives away.
He never wanted the spotlight. But he never learned how to say no when somebody hands him the mic.
What he wants is silence. A sandwich.
A night where his body doesn’t hurt from carryin’ everyone else.
When the last chorus hits, the sound system lags half a beat late, like it’s drunk on the 2 a.m. PATH back from Newark. He’s offstage before the clappin’ starts. With his guitar crammed in the case, he’s down the stairs before the next favor finds him.
He knows how this goes: linger too long and someone corners you.
So he cuts right, not left, dodgin’ the hall, palms slammin’ the emergency EXIT bar and shovin’ the door open. Cold air socks him in the lungs. It burns goin’ down—first real thing he’s felt all night.
When he reaches the garage, it reeks of weed and a dead body.
Same as every shitty garage after midnight.
He finds his car, pops the trunk, and drops the case inside.
“Hey, Andrew, right?”
Fuckin’ hell…
// TRACK SKIPS - NEEDLE CAUGHT IN A GROOVE //
A female voice pierces through the quiet garage.
Andrew turns, one hand holdin’ the trunk lid.
Miss Mini Skirt’s standin’ three feet out—blonde pink curls sprayed stiff, rings in her nose and brow, leather jacket hangin' off her shoulder, blue eyes lined Sharpie-black, and a starved stare barin’ fangs for him.
Yeah… shoulda taken the fuckin’ bus.
“Talia,” she tells him, sure he’ll remember.
His gaze narrows on her. “You followin’ me?”
He ain’t flattered. He’s fucked.
She laughs through her nose. “Quit playin’.” She steps in, lashes doin’ work. “Thought you were gonna wait for me.” She waves a hand mid-lie, buildin’ the story as she talks. “But then I saw you leave and figured we just missed each other.”
Eye contact was a mistake.
That shit’s deadly. Gives girls bad ideas.
He shuts the trunk, the sound echoing in the parking garage. “Nah. I dip out quick. Don’t wait on people.”
“I know,” she shrugs. “That’s how I knew you’d end up here.”
The fuck. That’s stalker talk.
Now he’s stuck in neutral, ain’t makin’ a move ‘til he knows where she’s goin’ with this. This is the exact setup that could bury a guy without ever layin’ a hand on anyone.
“Alright…” He drags it out. “Guess I’m caught.”
She laughs, tuckin’ a curl behind her ear. “Knew it,” she says. “You were thinkin’ about me.”
Lady, all I been thinkin’ about all night’s ricotta cheese. That’s it. Whole night, just ricotta.
He hangs a thumb behind him. “Nah, an’ sorry to cut this short, but yo—I got lasagna at home waitin’ for me.”
She steps closer, empty laughter rollin’ off her tongue. “Please. Everyone knows who you are, what you do. That look you threw me? On stage, right at the end? You were beggin’ for me.”
He wants to laugh at that, but don’t wanna piss her off.
‘Cause, beggin’? Christ. If she only knew the truth.
“Was just singin’ a fuckin’ song, sweetheart,” he mutters.
Her mouth hangs dumb. “You’re so slick, you know that? Had me out there feelin’ like the only one in the room. Made me think you actually wanted me.” Her smile sticks, but the temperature behind it drops. “Now you’re standin’ here makin’ me feel like I’m nuts for readin’ it wrong?”
He’s the one who pegged her wrong.
Thought she was just another lingerer.
But nah—she’s the kind who turns eye contact into destiny.
“I wasn’t tryin’ to do that.”
“Then say what you were tryna do, Andrew. Tell me what you want.”
She spits his name as if it’s been in her mouth every night for years.
What the fuck does Andrew want?
Sleep. Salami. Silence. It’s that simple.
Her turnin’ her ass back around? That’d be a fuckin’ miracle.
But he knows that ain’t what she’s really askin’. And him? He’s so busy givin’ everybody else what they want, he don’t even know what it feels like to want somethin’ for himself.
Nah, he don’t got wants.
Only obligations.
“It’s one of two things,” she starts, which, in Psycho, means: there’s only one answer. “Either you’re into me… or you’re full of shit and get off on bein’ a tease. So which is it?”
He stares. That’s it.