45. Kiss Your Past Good-bye
AEROSMITH
// CLAUSES THIRTEEN & FOURTEEN //
With no more solids left on the table, Andrew misses the eight.
Had to have been on purpose…
nobody shanks that shot sober.
I squint at him.
“You tryin’ to lose, Jersey?”
He shrugs unbothered,
grabbing his glass from the table.
I drag the cue back, watch my last two stripes sink back-to-back.
The eight’s begging for it, sitting wide open. “Corner pocket,” I call, tapping the cue against the edge.
Andrew watches, arms crossed,
fingers tracing his bottom lip.
I lean in and go for the kill shot,
cue cutting hard into the eight.
It rolls,
then rims out,
clinging to the table’s edge.
A miss, victory flipping me off, but I still got two more clauses in my name.
I stand and walk around him, close enough for my shoulder to brush his shadow. “Clause,” I say. “Prohibited—any act where my body’s used for your pleasure.”
Coke and lime trace his breath as he looks down at me, his fingers wrapping tighter around the cue.
“This includes no oral on you,” I say for only him to hear. “No hands during oral on me, always behind your back.
“No touching yourself in front of me.
“No kissing.
“And no intercourse.”
I stop myself too late.
Did I just say no touching yourself in front of me? Dumbest fucking shit that’s ever come out of my mouth.
And now I’m imagining it all over again: his hand fisting that pretty cock, the groan he tries to bury in his throat but leaks out anyway.
Then there’s me—
the idiot who made it illegal.
My gaze tiptoes down his body,
casual, casual, subtle,
stopping on his zipper,
and my hand twitches,
craving the weight of him.
And holy hell, I’m sick.
Maybe with the flu.
‘Cause I’m picturing myself pulling up a chair, fingers folded nicely in my lap like Sunday service, asking him real polite: Sir, would you please stroke that cock for me? And if I could be of any assistance…
Pathetic. Rabid. Me.
(And I don’t even know how many seconds were wasted thinking about his hand on his cock. So I’d like to publicly apologize to my innocent bystander organs for having to overhear that porno.)
Meanwhile, Andrew’s standing there—pants zipped, cue clutched, feelings hurt.
He scratches the back of his neck,
an awkward silence passing between us.
My eyes snap up to his.
“Actually, I need to make a change—”
“Oh, thank fuckin’ Christ,” he exhales, breath finally unchained.
“—When I say no intercourse, that goes for anal, too.” I hold up a finger. “Holes are not interchangeable.”
His brows leap as a laugh stumbles out. “What—Allison. Nah. Big fuck no. Veto.” He pulls closer, pinning me with a gaze.
“Listen, you keep talkin’ like I’m one’a your Boys.
I’m not. I actually give a fuck about you.
” He jerks his chin, catching my eyes before I can slip away.
“Ain’t in it for pussy. Ain’t in it for a paycheck.
I’m in it for you, alright?” His hand slashes the air.
“You say no, I stop. Always. Every time. You know that.”
He scoffs like I’m insulting him.
“So don’t go takin’ this off the table.
“Not with me.”
Is he seriously pulling the I’m-not-like-other-Boys speech? My clit’s laughing, my heart’s pulling some emo shit.
“So you sayin’ you’re usin’ your veto?”
He drags a hand down his face with a groan. “Allison, c’mon. Yeah, I’m usin’ my veto. Gimme a break.”
He lifts his palm, like—
consider it fuckin’ cashed.
What a sucker.
“Aight.” I nod.
“So I’mma use mine to veto your veto.”
“Veto my veto?”
He stares at me for two seconds,
then barks a laugh, head dropping back.
“You can’t veto a veto. Get the fuck outta here.” He shakes his head. “That’s not how the game works. You try that shit here in Jersey, you get slapped with the fuckin’ pool cue.”
“Uh, yeah. You said one veto. Singular.” I give him a sweet lawyer-smile. “Didn’t say how it could be used. Didn’t say it couldn’t be used on yours. That’s still a valid veto.” I lift my drink, muttering into it, “Sorry your veto game’s weaker than your pool game.”
Andrew stands with his arms crossed.
All he does is stare.
Blink.
And stare again.
I sip my drink slow.
Set the glass down.
Look up.
Silence wraps the air like barbed wire.
He lifts his fingers off his lips.
“You hate me or somethin’?”
I bite into my lip. “No.”
He nods.
Shrugs one shoulder.
“…Just not into fuckin’ me?”
I laugh under my breath.
He squints at me, hand out, serious. “Nah, be straight with me. Was the sex bad or somethin'? ‘Cause I gave you full control that night. I was holdin’ back for you. If it was bad, that’s all on you.”
My brow lifts.
“Holdin’ back? For what, ten seconds?”
He steps in fast, jaw flexing.
“Say it again, I swear. I’ll show you exactly what I was holdin’ back.”
The corner of my mouth climbs,
patient and poisonous.
“Chill, Drew. I enjoyed myself very much, thanks for askin’.”
He leans back half an inch. “Then… what the fuck?” He shifts to his hip, his thigh hitting the edge of the table.
“Yo, look—no jerkin’ off in front’a you?
Don’t gotta. Head? Pssh. Went ten years without it, I’ll live.
” He crowds closer, his words serious but heated.
“No kissing? No intercourse? Sonny, no. That’s not extra. It’s the fuckin’ core.”
His eyes tell me this isn’t even about sex.
Ain’t even about kissing…
It’s about keeping what makes him feel closer than anyone else, sharing the two things neither of us are willing to hand out.
He keeps going,
“And no hands durin’ oral? C’mon. You ever seen me eat a slice with no hands?”
Another chuckle slips off my lips.
He squints. “Exactly.
“I need ‘em on you.
“You need ‘em on you.
“Where they belong.”
His hands lift between us.
“These hands? They’re fuckin’ yours.
“You tell ‘em what to do, they listen.
“Don’t do this to us.
“Don’t take this from us.
“Don’t push me out.”
Oh, he’s laying it on thick.
That breathy voice. Those soft eyes.
That Jersey drawl turned devotional, sweet-talkin’ his way into the possibility of penetration.
He throws up a palm. “Then you hit me with a veto on top of a veto? Get the fuck outta here. That’s like tryna call shotgun for a seat after someone already called it. That’s like callin’ Uno on a Draw Four. Don’t work that way, baby.”
But the truth is... I can’t stand the thought of him seeing me puke again.
And I can’t let him think he’s got me,
can’t let him have that power over me.
If it happens,
it’s ‘cause I say so, ‘cause I want it.
“I’m not backin’ down, Drew.
“Clause stands, so save the speech.”
He’s looking at me as if I emptied us of meaning. As if everything he’s been fighting for just collapsed.
I draw closer. “I’m not slammin’ the door on it for good. But for now… it needs to be in writing.”
His glasses come off, and he uses his shirt to wipe at the lenses, eyes narrowing at me through his lashes.
“Aight. Fuck.” He shoves them back on. Slides onto the stool in front of the laptop. “You got two stripes in,” he says over his shoulder. “What’s the other clause?”
I pick up my drink. “No aftercare.”
He swings a glance back at me,
one palm heavy on his thigh.
Our gazes hold,
each saying something different.
His: you really expect me to eat and leave?
Me: just in case I need to puke in peace.
Lately, it doesn’t seem to matter the sexual act, fucking or oral, it’s the oversaturated emotions warring in me.
I could admit that it's something that happens, that Thanksgiving night wasn’t a puke-fluke.
But then he’d go hero-mode on me.
First he’ll tread gentle, with caution,
like I’m breakable.
Try to outsmart it, even,
doing whatever he can to fix it.
Eventually,
that will turn into disappointment,
disappointment will turn into hesitation.
Then one night he’ll think twice.
Then he’ll stop touching me.
Then he’ll stop wanting me.
Then I’ll watch him walk.
“Okay, Allison. Adding no aftercare.”
// THE FINAL SHOT (& FINAL CLAUSE) //
“Two balls left on the felt,” I tell him, circling the table. “Cue and eight. Endgame.” They’re practically spooning on the felt, his for the taking. “Winner writes the last clause. No veto—not like you got one to use.”
I prop myself on the rail.
“So what’re you gunnin’ for?”
He grinds his tongue into his cheek. “If I take this game? You, Ben, and Honor—all three’a you are signin’ an amendment I got drawn up. No questions, no fuckin’ stalling. I want ‘em all signed this week.”
My face falls.
“Paperwork? Real romantic, Drew.”
What the hell could be in this pre-planned amendment that’s so important he’s betting his last clause on it?
Feels sketchy.
Feels… off.
A thing that could come back to bite me.
“So tell me, counselor—what’s this amendment amending exactly?”
The silence sits,
making me even more nervous.
His chest caves when he says,
“The Baby Contract.”
Cautious, dark,
the voice of a movie trailer line.
And I stand there, stuck, stuck, stuck.
When, finally, a laugh sighs out of me.
“So just to clarify for the fuckin’ jury. You don’t just wanna build a new contract for us ‘cause it didn’t fit what we are or where we’re headed. Nah. You wanna rewrite the ones that got nothin’ to do with you.” My brow arches. “You tryna throw away my entire system?”
His hands come up. “Hey, hey, listen, you’re twistin’ it.
This ain’t a power move.” He lays a hand on his chest. “This is me sayin’ I give a fuck about you enough that I don’t want your name chained to another man’s.
” He raises both palms. “Call it dramatic, call it jealous, I don’t give a shit.
I want it in black-and-white that those fuckers fully understand they got no right to touch you. ”
Sincerity’s written all over him,
telling me I can trust him.
“Allison, I’m here ‘cause I’m in this with you. And if I’m in it? I ain’t sharin’ you. Not even on paper.”
He sees the hesitation on my face.
“I can pull it up right now if you wanna read it. It’s straight talk. Cut-and-dry.” His eyes swing between mine. “But, Sonny, baby, you gotta start trustin’ me.”