49. Dirty Diana
MICHAEL JACKSON
HELL WEEK: WEDNESDAY, DAY THREE
The only thing worth getting out of bed for is the memory of Andrew’s cold stare from last night, and what I’m about to turn it into.
I skip my morning shower.
The goal today is to repel,
to be one of the guys.
I pull a hoodie over a crewneck, slip on Ben’s sweatpants, and bury my hair in a beanie. After a little dark eyeshadow along my jawline for a five-o’clock shadow, I shove a sock into my pants for my pretend dick.
When people hear method songwriter,
I’m sure they think of
candles, playlists, tapping into a muse.
But what it really means is to become the feeling, and this method bleeds into every aspect of my life.
If the track needs pain, I’m grieving.
If it needs chaos, I’m DJ apocalypse.
If I need to turn off three heterosexual males, I become one. It’s only appropriate for the guests that’ll be arriving soon.
When I walk out of my bedroom, New York looks dead on the other side of the terrace. The sky’s the color of a mop bucket, sprinkling white suds over the towers. It’s freezing, frost ornamenting the windows.
Andrew’s making coffee shirtless, steam wrapping around him and fogging up his glasses.
A half-dressed fantasy, with pillow-swept hair, sweatpants slung low, and dimples kissing the base of his spine. A sight that always knocks the air out of me.
“Mornin’, Baby,” Ben says, bright and sunshiny. He’s pacing shirtless, flexing his muscles into the window’s reflection.
Honor echoes from the couch, following the morning-greeting rule, with cereal in his lap as he watches the news.
He chews around a bite, head lifting, and his eyes snap wide when he sees my costume of the day.
Andrew glances over at me, scanning me from head to toe as he sips from his coffee. Then he lifts his chin like—yo.
I clutch my pen and notebook tighter—pages packed with lyrics and notes and slashes ‘cause sometimes a beat’s all I’ve got—and take my morning chair by the window,
slouching back,
crossing a foot over my knee,
as if I got a dick I need to make room for.
Andrew drops into the chair next to me.
Ben doesn’t pour me coffee ‘cause he assumes Andrew will. Andrew doesn’t pour me coffee ‘cause he’s playing some game.
Joke’s on all of them
‘cause I’m running on withdrawal
and phantom blue-balls.
Fuck coffee.
Fuck mornings.
Fuck orgasms.
Fuck Andrew’s entire smirking face watching me over that mug, as if he’s getting off on my cranky ass.
Then—
Ding.
Ben shoots me a stupid, knowing grin as the elevator doors slide open.
And they walk in giggling, their voices slithering through the hall—two friends of mine in the adult entertainment industry.
“Housekeeping,” Sasha, a blonde bombshell, purrs with a duster.
Gia, a brunette goddess, rings a bell.
“I’m here for the filth.”
The sound of a rolling cart echoes in the hall, and the guys exchange glances.
Soon as the girls turn the corner, Honor jumps from the couch, his milk sloshing over the rim and splashing his hoodie. “The fuck,” he groans, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Are… are you serious right now?”
Six-inch heels, bald coochies, perfect tits,
ribbons of hair falling down their backs.
Ben’s rubbing his palms together. “Yerrr, now we’re talkin’.” He points to Gia's chest, then Sasha's. “See, now these are tits,” he says, flashing me a white grin. “No offense, buddy.”
Huh. Bold opinion from a dick that has to stand on another dick's shoulders to reach average height.
Can't even call him a dick.
He's just a dic.
A DicDac.
Gia swipes up the remote
and clicks off the TV.
Seconds later, their stereo’s turned up, and Dirty Diana pumps out through the speakers, the tempo wearing stilettos and strutting down a blacked-out hallway.
Strobe lights flicker on with the heartbeat of a nightclub, color gaudy against the morning gray.
Andrew looks down into his coffee, contemplating how he’s gonna play this one, when Gia snatches his hand and pulls him out of the chair.
“Nah, I ain’t in the mood,” he mutters.
But Gia puts on a pouty face, walking backward with his hands in hers. “If not for me, then for Baby?” she says sweetly.
He doesn’t hesitate for long and takes the couch opposite of Honor. Ben, wearing a virgin smile, drops between the two.
An electric guitar riff snakes in distorted, a haunted-night hum following close behind.
Sasha bends down, forehead nearly to her calf, then whips her hair, the strands fanning through the air as the bass guitar slides in silky. And I imagine them in their element at the club,
red lights pulsing across their skin,
smoke crawling around their ankles,
all sweat and glitter and velvet walls.
Gia closes in on Andrew,
drops down at his side,
seduction hot between her thighs.
His eyes snap over to me,
palm moving across his jaw,
still unsure how to react,
how to play it cool,
as if he’s afraid to look at her but also doesn’t want to be too obvious and not look at her at all.
“Not exactly how I pictured my mornin’ goin’,” he says, sinking back into the couch, getting comfortable with his thighs spread, eyes falling back on Gia. “But, yeah. I ain’t complainin’.”
I clamp down on my teeth,
holding in my composure.
Ben dodges his thumb at Andrew with a laugh. “See, your boy agrees. He don't even look at you like that.” Then he knocks Honor’s bicep with his elbow. “Yo, chill out, choir boy. You lookin’ guilty for nothin’.”
Sasha gives Honor a playful smile as she slides up to him.
He looks to me for some kind of green light, one hand white-knuckling the arm of the couch, then his gaze is back on Sasha’s tits.
Shit, his eyes say as she takes his cereal bowl from his lap. “Nothin’ else happenin’ here, right?” He shifts in the cushion, eyes jumping between Sasha and Gia. “Just dancin’? Just you two dancin’, or is there more to this?”
I keep my face neutral,
eyes dead. Bored, even.
It’s harder than it looks.
Gia throws her head back with a dirty laugh. “Sure. If dancin’s all you want.” Her hips catch the bass, erotic eyes trailing across Andrew. “But I do my best work on my knees.”
“Jesus,” Andrew grits out, propping his elbow onto the arm of the couch, hanging his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
Then those dark, bruising eyes lift to me, and he rakes a hand through his mussed hair, seconds from scooping me out of this chair and throwing me off the terrace.
The snare kicks.
Heels slap marble,
stealing all of their attention.
Sasha and Gia turn and bend slow,
asses angled, cheeks clapping,
giving the boys a view of their cunts.
Andrew’s cold stare slams back into me, and then a laugh breaks behind his hand with a shake of his head.
“The fuck you doin’ this for, huh? Testin’ me?
Gettin’ off on me watchin’ her? What?” He gestures between the girls.
“You think this is supposed to make one of us walk away?” He nudges his chin with the devil in his smirk.
“Nah, ain’t goin’ nowhere with Gia’s pussy in my face. ”
Those words rip out my ribcage, leaving my heart with nothing to hold her, so she’s free-falling into my stomach.
Ben, Honor, the girls, the penthouse—all of it dissolves, fading into the background as his stare grabs me,
almost intensely,
pupils aflame.
And he keeps staring,
turning me inside out,
searching for answers,
taking notes,
studying,
poking around,
all while drinking me in.
He’s in my heartbeat,
in my lungs.
Then it’s almost like
we’re speaking through our eyes.
In this silent stare, it’s hellishly loud. Thoughts colliding—This is gettin’ to you, isn’t it, angel? Plans’re all backfirin’. Didn’t expect it to bother you like this. ‘Cause you don’t get jealous, right?
Ben reaches over and shakes Andrew’s shoulder. “Trust me, man. Baby enjoys this shit. She thinks it’s sexy.” He nudges his chin my way. “You think she hired these women for nothin’? Enjoy the attention. She’s fuckin’ into it.”
“Nah, I don’t know,” Honor mutters.
Andrew pries his gaze from me, glancing over at Honor. “No wonder Taylor’s over there lookin’ like an ass-man.”
Ben laughs into his fist.
My middle finger shakes to rise.
I flip open my notebook to distract it.
Andrew grins a busted beam at me,
when Ben leans in, elbows to his knees,
attention swinging to Andrew.
“Can’t believe you even hesitatin’ on this, bro. Your dick’ll be on lockdown for months.” He knocks Andrew’s knee with his. “Maybe even years, if you last that long. Trust me, this is Baby’s idea of romance. These girls are a gift. Take your pick. It’s the only opportunity outside’a her.”
Honor looks over at the other guys, his knee bouncing. “Hold up—she into watchin’ now? Nah, I ain’t see that clause nowhere.”
Ben’s instigating pressure.
Honor’s flustered, pink-faced.
Andrew’s… reading the room,
game pieces moving behind his eyes.
And the real test begins.
It was never about the girls, they’re just weapons in a silent tell-all battlefield. Strip the room down to pussy and testosterone, and masks start sliding off, exposing true colors and shades of lies.
That’s when the hierarchy writes itself:
who refuses to play,
who will persuade,
and who will pop.
If one of them folds now?
He’ll fold everywhere—
when shit gets hard,
when Raymond circles,
when a girl whispers in his ear one night.
He’ll betray me.
A gust of hunger blows into Andrew’s gaze as it falls over Gia.
For a moment, it flicks to Sasha,
then slides right back to Gia.
“Not gonna lie, you two makin’ it real hard to behave right now.”
His pretty face breaks into a filthy smirk.
I hardly notice Gia walking closer to him
and stepping between his thighs.
I hardly notice anything at all.
All my senses are focused on Andrew,
his fixated expression, his carnal eyes,
his glistening bottom lip
after a slow pass of his tongue.
Her raunchy gaze finds mine when she says, “Behave? Nah. Baby wants to make sure you’re taken care of.”
Wouldn't be the first time this test ended in fucking or oral.
The girls know there are no rules.
They're all adults. I don't own consent.