64. Crazy
AEROSMITH
I wake in half-hallucinated flashes:
Andrew’s bed and scent cocooning me, his pillows cradling my head and shoulders, his warmth fading away, cold spilling over the skin he abandons.
His hand finding my thigh,
dragging it open.
Every inch of me spent and sore.
“I need a shower,” I mumble, I think.
His nose parting my sticky lips.
“Mm-mm… don’t wash me off you,”
he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.
My fingers curling into the sheets.
“Drew...”
But sleep keeps trying to pull me under.
“Shh, baby…” His hands massage the insides of my thighs as they lie open, limp, my pussy raw, and he licks soft through my slit, open-mouthed, lazy…
His soft, thick hair between my fingers.
He kisses me there after.
Then the dream dips in and out again—
the silhouette of him dressing in the dark, his shoulders cutting through shadows, his damp hair from the shower, his tight stomach before he tucks his shirt, the click of his watch.
He leaves the room…
Leaves.
He’s left me.
Then the mattress dips.
He’s come back.
Crawls over me.
His soft kiss lays on my temple,
lingers right there as he murmurs,
“Takin’ your heart with me today.
“Keepin’ it safe. Just in case.”
In case of what? I should ask.
But I hum and say “Okay.”
I sink back into sleep with his kiss haunting my temple, his voice ghosting through my hair, the cold curling up where his body used to be.
Just in case.
Just in case.
Then I’m dreaming of him.
// DEC 31, 9:22 PM - THE ROOFTOP AT EROS HALL - DUMBO, brOOKLYN //
A matte-black Escalade purrs to a stop outside a nameless, brick industrial building.
Outside the truck’s windows, the neighborhood of DUMBO is alive, high-end crowds heading to midnight countdowns.
It’s three hours until midnight, New Year’s Eve. And right now, my life is close to being obnoxiously perfect.
Which means something horrible is about to happen tonight.
Paranoia’s clawing at my bones. That giant glass ball shivering on its track in Times Square, waiting to plummet? Yeah, the same thing’s going on in my stomach—a sickening wave of dread.
Andrew steps out of the truck first, then reaches back to grab my hand, helping me slide off the leather seat. His eyes drag up my body—
my black knee-high leather boots,
my black velvet micro dress,
my exposed collarbone,
a slash of wine-red lipstick,
my dark hair falling around my face
in thick, messy waves.
Andrew laughs, tipping his head back, staring up into the sky. “Madonn’, you seein’ this, or what? This why your boy’s been fightin’ people lately. It’s all her.” Then he mutters, “è lei il motivo per cui ho la fedina penale.”
I slide my wool coat out of the Escalade, blushing, and for two seconds, the bad feeling has a pillow over its face.
A massive security guard stands by a velvet rope. “Name?” he asks as he cross-references his glowing phone screen.
Once we get through heavy double doors, we step inside an empty, half-renovated shell:
exposed brick,
bare concrete floors,
steel scaffolding covered
in draped plastic sheeting.
Andrew threads his fingers with mine, glancing around at the cluster of LED candles along the raw timber beams. “Where the fuck did you take me?” he asks, head tipping back, eyes sweeping the ceiling.
I keep walking, following the candles,
dragging him behind me.
“Allison.” His fingers tighten through mine.
“Just tell me now. Scale of one to Brownsville, how bad’s this gonna get?
This one’a those places where I gotta fight somebody for you, or are we walkin’ like normal people?
” I turn, leveling my eyes at him. He raises his palm, then points down at his Chelsea boots.
“Baby, I’m only askin’ ‘cause I wore the wrong shoes to fight in.”
Do not give the night bad ideas.
My anxiety’s pre-gaming enough as is.
“Relax, Jersey.” I turn, tugging his hand.
“We gotta find a way up to the roof.”
I spot the vintage, iron-gated freight elevator. Andrew yanks the accordion gate open, and we step onto the wide, unpolished floor.
After sliding the heavy thing shut, he pushes the brass button, and the old thing jolts under our feet before we’re lifted, rising through the dark brick column of the building.
As we climb to the top, the air gets colder, the taste of frost and metal coming from the East River.
My heart’s banging in my ears.
Planets are orbiting inside my stomach.
I face Andrew. “Something bad’s gonna happen. I don’t know what. I just got the feeling. Like a premonition, but, like, it’s mostly nausea.”
He studies me for half a second, the humor leaving his face. “Hey. You’re with me.” His thumb smooths over my knuckles. “Whatever the fuck’s comin’, it’s gotta come through me first.”
Then with one final jolt, the lift locks into place at the roof level, and the Manhattan skyline floods into the dark cage.
Andrew slides the gate back,
and the view steals my breath.
Across the dark water,
early midnight flares in the winter sky.
“Oh, and real quick,” I say, stopping him from taking a step. “Don’t bring up the song.”
Andrew’s head snaps to me.
“What song?”
“Going Going Gone. He hates when people talk about it. Hates the Grammy. Hates being congratulated for it. Don’t ask about it or say it’s brilliant. Don’t say anything. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“Allison.” His brows pull together.
“Linc Hendrix is here?”
“And his brother, Ty. It’s their party.”
“What the fuck—”
I pat his chest. “Great. You’re briefed.”
He follows me off the lift, and right into a galaxy of low-hanging Edison bulbs. They cast a golden glow over a long concrete bar, where fur coats and rock stars laugh over the music.
Everywhere you look, beautiful people—supermodels, artists, and designers—huddle under towering patio heaters or draped across crushed velvet lounge chairs around the DJ rig.
Past the main crowd at the far edge of the room, a deck juts out over the roofline, suspended over the cobblestone below.
“Holy shit. Okay, that’s scary,” I mutter, staring at the private VIP spot—black leather couches, a glass-enclosed fire pit, an elite 180-degree view of the Manhattan Bridge.
As I walk up to it, my gaze drops to the narrow metal catwalk leading up to the deck.
I stop in front of the security guard, and not so surprisingly, it looks worse up close.
I wave my hand.
“Okay. Nah… I think I’m good.”
On the other side, Kate sees me freeze.
Then throws her head back with a laugh. “Allison Taylor!” she shouts from the couch, champagne in hand, all blonde hair and emerald slip dress. “Come on!”
Linc leans over the railing, grinning in a black leather jacket. “Look down, Allie. It’s not that bad. It’s kinda sick!”
I look down.
My eyes widen.
I take a step back. “Nope. A fully erected fuck no. See?” I turn back to Andrew. “This is it. This is the Final Destination. Don’t tell me I don’t know foreshadowing when I fuckin’ feel it.”
Andrew’s hand settles at my lower back. “C’mon. You fall, I’m right fuckin’ behind you. We’ll haunt Brooklyn together.”
I glance over my shoulder at him, then smack his thigh. “You said that, and my stomach went bloop.”
The wind blows, whipping up my hair,
taking me a little off balance.
I glance back up as Ty stands.
He’s the most dressed-up I’ve ever seen him—black button-up, black slacks, hair pushed back, diamonds in his ears sparkling from here.
He’s dragging Kate away from the rail as she yells, “Get your ass over here right now. Just run across!”
“Kate, no,” Ty calls, laughing. “Do not run across. Allie, ignore her. She’s drunk.”
“Okay,” Kate claps,
“walk across at a normal pace.”
Ty laughs, head tipping back.
I wave at her.
“Okay.
“Happy birthday to your boyfriend.
“Happy birthday to his twin.
“But I’m gonna stay over on this side.
“Away from the Deck of Death.
“With the cool people.
“Bye-bye, now.”
I turn fast, Andrew stops me,
then they’re all on their feet—
Ty and Linc cupping their mouths.
“Don’t! Be! Scared!” Ty shouts.
“Be! A little! Scurred!” Linc barks back.
Kate’s patting her knees, whistling.
“Come to Kate! Come to Kate!”
Andrew steps onto the catwalk first, then turns back to me, smiling. “Alright. C’mere.”
I’m not smiling. “No thanks.”
Andrew pulls me into his side, then shoves my face into his chest, one hand spread over the back of my head. My cheek hits his shirt, his cologne, his heartbeat.
“Look at me!” I hear Kate yell.
“Nah,” Andrew calls back, mouth in my hair. “She’s busy.” Then he’s walking, dragging me along. “Don’t peek,” he murmurs.
Yes, Andrew.
I’m literally fighting the temptation.
I shove my face harder into his chest.
Then when he stops walking,
he squeezes me once.
The Deck of Death is way too quiet.
I lift my head from his chest.
Surrounding me, every single asshole breaks into cheers. “I hate all you guys.”
Kate throws her arms around me, eyes sliding straight to Andrew. “And you brought a boy.”
I glance up. “This is Andrew.”
Ty steps in, chain catching firelight. “Ty.” He offers his hand, tipping his chin to Kate. “Her boyfriend.
“Birthday boy.
“The one you need to know.”
Andrew takes it.
“Happy birthday, man.”
Linc’s leaning against the fire pit glass, leather jacket open, hair falling in his eyes as he laughs into his drink.
Ty nudges his hand behind him.
“Linc. My brother. The one you don’t.”
Linc lifts two fingers. “Sup, man.”
Andrew drags his palm up his forehead, through his hair. “You, too. Happy birthday.”
His nerves are showing.
I did sort of ambush him.
Hey, Mr. Bartender, meet Ty Hendrix—
Seventeen Grammys,
nine AMAs, seven BMAs.
One of the biggest rappers alive.
Also, his twin Linc—
Guitar god. Solo rock ghost.
I grab his hand behind me,
give it a squeeze,
while scanning the roof,
then the VIP section.
Feels like two different time zones.
Over here, the energy is molasses.
People are melted into the deep leather couches, boots kicked up, enjoying the view, each other—the calm before the midnight rush.
“So what the hell is this place?” I ask.
Ty pulls Kate in by the hip. “It’s hers.”
Kate elbows him. “Technically yours.”