Track No. 14 Like A Prayer （LIVE） #2
And so is he. 'Cause it's “Cryin'.”
No one touches Aerosmith like that.
When he didn’t think she could cut him any deeper, she turns, facin’ him, and steps under the busted streetlamp at the end, yellow light rainin’ down on her like the city’s cuein’ her up.
Right there, in the glow, she yanks “Cryin’” outta the rap-mash like a knife from the lungs, and her voice bleeds out, layin’ the song bare, stripped, all ballad and sweet misery.
And Andrew’s breath dies in his chest.
He holds still, stunned while she sings, listenin’ while her voice tears the night open and climbs up through the middle of it. He feels the rush under his skin, both pleasure and pain in the basement of him.
He doesn’t wanna take his eyes off her, but the only way to make sure what he’s feelin’ is real is to glance down at his own skin. So he does, and goosebumps are rollin’ across his arm, every hair standin’ straight.
He looks back up at her, his soul goin’ up in flames. Fuckin’ hell.
Above him, the brunette spits her panties out, smackin’ wet against the side of his face. “What the fuck,” she snaps.
Andrew hardly hears it, barely feels it.
His entire attention’s on the girl at the end of the alley.
He sits back on his heel, breathin’ heavy. The song’s sinkin’, and his broken heart’s right behind it. He knows the end’s comin’. He can’t resist.
“Yo—” His fucked grin heats his face. “You singin’ to me right now?”
His whole body’s roarin, deafenin’—breath, heartbeat, all of it crashin’ as she stands there. All he can do is hope she don’t take off, hope she says somethin’ back. Fuckin’-A—anything.
Then she’s cuppin’ her mouth. “Better than all the moanin’ I wasn’t hearin’,” she bites back. “Baby girl, life’s too short to fake it. Just say the universal girl code, and I’ll walk my ass over there and finish the job.”
Shit, right. He’s got a Mouth Breather waitin’ on him.
And for the first time, Andrew Harding’s got no fuckin’ idea what to do.
All he knows is he wants to keep Aerosmith girl here, keep talkin’ to her.
“Yeah? You wanna tag in, sweetheart?” he asks, ‘cause it’s the only goddamn move he’s got. The fuck’s left to do? “You and me—we can do it together. She won’t mind.”
“That your way of callin’ for backup? Need my help?”
That fuck-you in her head tilt?
That devilry in her smirk?
She’s fuckin’ killin’ him.
Everyone breaks into a laugh.
Except Andrew.
“Nah, but you keep openin’ that mouth, I’m gonna make it useful.”
Real smooth, Andrew…
You dumb motherfucker. Insult the one girl who’s got your pulse racin’. Maybe next you ask her to suck your dick. Women love that.
Thank fuck, she snaps back, “I don’t share my food, sweetheart. But some advice? If she’s grabbing your hair, that’s direction, not applause.”
His laugh rolls out, helpless. “That’s a lotta talk for someone still standin’ all the way over there.”
There’s no plan. None. There’s a wet cunt inches from his face, cum in his mouth, probably kneelin’ in back-alley piss with a rat somewhere nearby. And now this one girl—this one fuckin’ girl—thirty feet away has got his body doin’ some weird shit. Reactin’. And he can’t take his eyes off her.
Her hair’s everywhere, dark, wild, blowin’ across her face, whippin’ around her stomach.
He can’t make out her face, but his gut’s screamin’, brown eyes.
Gotta be. The burn-you-alive, killing kind.
He don’t know how he knows, and he’d do anything—dead fuckin’ serious—to look into those eyes just once.
“Just sayin’, you look lost, bro,” she calls out. “If your heart’s not into it, walk away now. Before it gets embarrassing.”
Shit. He feels the goodbye comin’ before it happens.
He feels her fade as if it’s already done.
He feels himself feelin’, and it’s already hollowin’ him out.
She ain’t even gone yet, but it’s already all over his skin. The loss of it. Her leavin’ already cuts him up and brings him to his feet, as if standin’ might keep her longer. “Why don’t you c’mere, huh? Let me see that smart mouth of yours.”
She scoffs. “Please. I’d make you cry.”
Her friend grabs her arm, leans in close, mouth to ear. That telltale whisper that means let’s go.
His heart’s lodged in his throat, feet cemented to a piss-wet puddle.
“Wait—yo. Where the hell you goin’? That’s it?” He steps forward, then stops when the streetlight spears across her face.
For a split second, her eyes catch his.
One beat, that’s all it takes, when their eyes meet. Then he’s standing, flying, dropped down on his knees. All at the exact same time.
“Maybe next time,” she says, disappearin’ behind the buildin’.
“You just walkin’ away? For real?” He’s frozen in it, mouth open, heart jackhammerin’, tryin’ to decide whether to chase her through the city with pussy on his face or punch brick.
Oh, God, he thinks. Don’t do this to me.
Put that girl in front of him then take her away, like—here, asshole. Meet your girl. This’s the one I made for you, but you fucked shit up. Now watch her walk away.
He can’t move.
His pulse feels outside of him.
“Uh, hello? Clit’s gettin’ cold.”
It hits him, like wakin’ up from a dream, that strange, messed-up second where you snap your eyes open and the fog’s still fadin’.
Ludlow Street rushes back in, neon bright, noise of the crowd, the cold September wind smackin’ him in the face to remind him he’s still standin’ in a puddle, trapped and hatin’ himself.
He’s never felt more twelve-years-old and pathetic.
He turns, chest heavin’, seein’ the brunette still glued to the brick.
All the shame rises up fast and nasty, the smell and taste hittin’ him hard—pussy, saliva, sweat, his own breath fogged with it.
It makes him sick.
Makes him disgusted with himself.
And all he can think is: what the hell am I doin’?
Then he’s on the move, walkin’ away and tearin’ off his jacket as he goes.
When he blows past Peter, he pitches the jacket into his chest.
Peter catches it, thrown off. “Where the hell you goin’?”
But Andrew looks right, spots the girl, and he takes off, disappearing into the crowded mess of Ludlow.
He reaches behind his neck and grabs his collar, yankin’ his shirt off next.
Pushin’ through the crowd, he drags it over his face, collectin’ all the sweat, the fake fantasy, everything he’s over and done with, tryin' to keep eyes on her.
The shirt hits the ground.
“Hey!” he shouts, joggin’ bare-chested now, dodgin’ side-eyes from the crowds spillin’ out of the bars, watchin’ the wind catch her hair as she moves further down the block. “Yo, Aerosmith! Hold up!”
But some girl grabs his wrist as he tries to pass, fingers tight, snatchin’ him back. “Andrew? Andrew, wait!” he hears behind him.
As panic pushes him forward, he rips his arm free, and his elbow flies back, catching someone hard in the face.
A sickening crack echoes above the chaos.
He spins around, stomach sinkin’ when he sees a girl doubled over, clutchin’ her nose and mouth as blood pours through her fingers.
His hands reach for her on instinct, horrified. “Fuck—I didn’t—”
The world explodes, then.
People scream at him. People shove.
And before he turns his head, before he takes his next breath, two cops drop him, slammin’ him sideways into the wall, crushin’ the side of his face against the cold brick. His cheek scrapes raw as they pin his arms back. They’re shoutin’ into his ear, their spit flyin’ against his face and neck.
But he hears nothin’ as his eyes desperately cling to the girl. The second she vanishes around the brick corner, Andrew closes his eyes.