Track No. 13 Simple #3
She’s laughin’ hard—half-shocked, half-jealous.
“Wait—wait—oh God what the fuck—” Jules’s legs shake, hands scramble for something to grip, when she laughs mid-groan as another wave hits her. Andrew grinds his fingers deeper. “Harding—I—I didn’t know I could—”
Riley’s dying laughin’.
Jules’s moans fade.
“You’re a squirter, sweetheart.” His words drag through her swollen cunt. “Bet your ex never fuckin’ knew.” He pulls back, mouth slick, and he bets all the lights are out in his eyes.
His chest heaves when he says, “That do it for you?”
Both girls nod, their bodies twitchin’.
“Holy shit, I squirted,” Jules exhales. The two of them laugh.
He wipes his forearm across his mouth. “I’m gonna go… towel off.”
But he doesn’t stand right away.
Instead, he waits. Doesn’t know why, when this whole time he couldn’t wait to slip out the door. Still, he waits. Only for a second, just in case either of them says somethin’. Like maybe a thank you, but even that thought feels real fuckin’ stupid.
It doesn’t matter ‘cause they don’t. They ain’t payin’ him no mind.
They’re floatin’ on cloud nine, gigglin’ and crackin’ jokes.
He shakes his head, stands, and finds the bathroom.
As soon as the door closes behind him, his hands start shakin’ over the blow dryer, hair products, lotions, a million things scattered across the counter as he reaches for the faucet.
He’s disgusted with himself, can’t take a solid breath, can’t quiet the ringin’ in his ears, can’t look at himself in the mirror. He splashes water over his face, his neck, down his arms. Then he’s searchin’ the drawers.
After a squirt of toothpaste across his finger, he brushes his gums, his tongue, then takes a swig of Listerine. Spits it out. Another. Swallows. Wantin' it to burn a layer off the linin’ of his throat.
He grabs a towel—any towel—and scrubs at his face, neck, arms, chest.
Then he’s sittin’ on the closed toilet lid, his head in his hands, elbows to his knees, fingers grippin’ his hair tight. His knees won’t stop bouncin’, his body won’t stop shakin’. He can hear ‘em laughin’ through the door, like he ain’t in here losin’ it.
You’re good, man. You’re fuckin’ good.
Nothin’s wrong, he tells himself.
You did good. Made ‘em feel good. Gave ‘em somethin’ they always wanted. They trusted you, and you left ‘em smilin’, happy. Nothin’s wrong.
When he finally stops shakin’, he leaves the bathroom, hearin’ their lowered voices spillin’ in before he turns the corner: “So, like, how do we make him leave without bein’ bitches about it? Think he’ll hang around, expectin’ more?”
He freezes mid-step.
He can’t see ‘em. There’s a wall between, blockin’ the view.
But he can tell they’re in the kitchen. And he can’t fuckin’ move.
“No, but I’ll take one for the team and offer to go down on him. I’ll even ask him straight up, all awkward like, ‘So. Want me to suck your dick or somethin’?’” She laughs. “Don’t worry, he’ll pass.”
“Ew. And if he don’t? Make sure to wrap that thing with Saran wrap so your tongue don’t fall off.”
“He won’t, he’ll say no,”Riley whispers. “But that way it doesn’t look like we totally just used him.”
“Uh, Ry? We definitely just used him,” Jules says.
“I know, I know—” The two burst into laughter.
“Stop, you’re makin’ me laugh. I do feel kinda bad…
” she says, right before she drops into another laughin’ fit anyway, Jules joinin’ right behind her.
“But like… he was into it. That’s every guy’s dream, right?
He literally heard two pussies then dropped to his knees. ”
“You wouldn’t have seriously been down to do that with a rando at a bar, right?”
“Do I look stupid to you?”
“He’s gorgeous, though. Like, fuck.”
Andrew’s clenchin’ his jaw so tight to keep himself from falling apart right there in the hall.
He said yes ‘cause he felt like sayin’ no would hurt ‘em. He didn’t walk out on ‘em ‘cause he didn’t want someone else takin’ advantage. He took care of ‘em, made sure they got their fantasy.
His jacket and shirt are on the backrest of the couch. He leaves them behind and slips out the front door fast.
He doesn’t wait for the elevator.
He can’t.
His legs won’t stop movin’.
His stomach’s in his throat.
He takes the stairs two at a time, his feet hittin’ each landin’ harder than the last, knowin’ that if he stands still, he’ll vomit.
One hand skims down the rail, the other clenches and unclenches. ‘Cause, fuck—he can still smell ‘em. He’s got their taste soaked into his face and their laughter ringin’ in his ears, and it makes his whole body churn inside out.
He thought she was his friend. He’d become someone she could trust.
But he never thought for one second he shouldn’t trust her.
He bites back the bile buildin’ in his throat, the sting in his eyes.
When he hits the lobby, it’s empty.
He shoves the door open and rain slaps him across the face, soakin’ his hair, slidin’ down his bare shoulders, his spine. He lets it beat down on him as he walks to the car, his throat tightenin’, bile risin’ up fast.
And just before he reaches the driver’s side door, he doubles over and vomits into the grass. His palms drop to his knees, and he retches until there’s nothin’ left.
He stays like that for a second, bare back heaving, hair drippin’, rainwater and vomit poolin’ at his feet. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth and straightens his spine, head rollin’ back ‘til he’s lookin’ up at the sky.
Rain hits his face, and he closes his eyes.
Just hit me already, he thinks. He don’t want to die. But in that moment? The sky could crack open, lightnin’ could strike, and he wouldn’t mind.
It doesn’t, so he gets into the car. He turns the engine over, turns up the heat.
Then he sits there, knees still bouncin’ while the radio plays low.
He takes out his phone to block her number.
There’s a missed call. A voicemail.
“Ciao, figlio mio… it’s your ma. Don’t worry, okay? I wanted to tell you that the appointment I had this morning, for the results? Eh. The liver… not doing so good again.
I messed up, Andrew. I slipped. I tried to stop but I didn’t ask for help soon enough.
Anyway, I’m fine. Don’t panic, okay?
I know what you’re thinking. Ma, after everything? I know. I know. Believe me, I don't stop feeling bad about it. So don’t be mad. I’m already mad enough at myself for the both of us, okay?
After what you did for me, after everything you’ve done, and I go mess it up? Che vergogna. I didn’t want to see your face when I say it. That would be worse. If I had to see your eyes? I cry and then you go into your shell and then we both be mad at me.
I don’t have the energy for that right now.
We’ll figure it out, okay?
Ti voglio bene. Sempre.”
Andrew stares at the phone in his hand long after the voice stops.
Then his thumb slips from the screen.
He doesn’t replay it or call her back. All he can do is sit there, skin shiverin’ in a soaked bucket seat as rain slices across the windshield.
And he exhales, shallow, shaky. It hurts to breathe.
He gave his ma part of himself, and she didn’t even have the courage to tell him this to his face. Now he sits worthless after goin’ down on two girls who didn’t give a fuck about him. After giving his mom a second chance at life, only for her to hand it right back.
Andrew wasn’t a man.
Not even a person.
He was just a body. That’s all he was.
A mouth. Hands. And a fucking liver.
Just pieces.
His head tips back against the seat, one tear spilling down his temple.
Another follows it, his chest heavin’, skin damp, cold, and shakin’.
Another tear slides down after, his shoulders shakin’, wishin’ he’d never left the house at all. Maybe if he sits here long enough… the lightning’ll finally take pity, strike once, clean through the windshield, and right through his chest.
The next song fades in low through the radio.
At first, he doesn’t pay attention to it.
Until the lyrics hit gentle, achin’, not pullin’ him up, but stayin’ with him, wrappin’ an arm around him. As if his own heart climbed out of his chest to sit beside him, takin’ his hand.
I’m right here. I see you. I got you.
You’re not alone. I swear to God, you’re not.
His teeth grind, and he wipes the next tear with the heel of his palm.
And still, the song keeps goin’. Not askin’ for nothin’, just stayin’ with him.
Until, eventually, his breath evens out. Until his hands stop shakin’.
Behind Closed Ribs flickers neon green across the dash.
He reaches for the dial.
And he turns it up.