65. Beautiful #2
“You coming, or what?”
His mouth parts, and he falls forward,
lips locking around my pussy.
He starts sucking.
“More.”
He grunts, gripping my ass,
pulling me further into his open mouth,
his stubble scraping my thigh,
tongue working tight, slow circles.
My head falls back.
This is good. This is so good.
I picture it, then, as he’s eating me.
How I’ll finish. How I’ll leave. How I’ll walk out of here with my legs shaking, my lips swollen, my pulse steady and satisfied.
But then I see Andrew’s face on him.
Consuming me.
Taking me—
“Miss?”
I blink.
Andrew’s gone. The stockroom is gone.
No shelves, no guy on his knees.
I’m still at the counter,
my hand still on the whiskey bottle.
I haven’t moved,
my fingers gripping the glass neck tight.
The guy behind the counter is staring at me, waiting. “You good?”
My heart's slamming pissed, the only hot thing happening under my skin.
It wasn’t real. None of it was real.
“Yeah,” I breathe, my chest heaving.
He repeats the total, having no clue that I just rode his face in my head.
I pay, swipe the bottle and smokes off the counter, walk out without looking back.
// 10:47 PM //
By the time the bottle’s half gone,
my blood’s flowing happy.
I’m slouched in the stiff chair, legs kicked up on the table, taking another swig of gasoline straight from the bottle. The motel window is cracked open, letting the smoke escape into the cold.
It swirls lazy as it slips up into the sky, never knowing what it’s like to feel trapped.
With my eyes on the moon,
I lift the cig to my lips—
the third one tasting better than the first.
People get so romantic about the moon.
Steal moonlight kisses.
Stupidly whisper moonlit
I-think-I-love-yous.
Write songs and poems about it.
Cry under it.
Pray under it.
Fuck under it.
But the moon’s just a rock,
cold, white, dead,
a corpse floating in a graveyard sky,
not giving a fuck about anyone.
I reach for my phone.
Just to hold it, I swear.
Not to check it or anything.
But soon as the phone lands in my palm,
and the screen lights up,
it’s his name I see.
It’s been six days in this motel,
and he’s still calling, still texting.
The heartache sneaks out from the corners, making my chest shake. It's the only ache that I feel inside my body now. I try to hold my breath, wait for the hurt to pass ‘cause what used to make it go away doesn’t work anymore. The urge to touch myself isn’t even there. It’s gone.
There’s no more Little Death.
There’s no heat between my thighs.
Now there’s only a fist in my throat,
and a hot pull behind my eyes.
“You don’t need to come,
“you need to cry…”
No, Andrew. I need you.
I want to hear you.
Your voice.
Only once.
My thumb hovers the first voicemail.
I breathe out, then tap it.
// ANDREW (VOICEMAIL) 01/01/25
12:19 AM
Allison.
Baby, pick up.
[pause]
Fuck. Where the fuck did you go?
No, don’t—shit. Don’t take that like I’m mad.
I’m not mad. Okay? I’m not. I’m scared.
You turn one fuckin’ corner and disappear. An’ I’ve been goin’ up and down this block lookin’ for you. And I need to know where you are.
[pause, breathing]
Allison, I fucked that up. I know I did. And listen—I know you’re upset. I know I’m the last person you wanna talk to. But you took off and it’s New Year’s, there’s drunk assholes everywhere, so I need you to call me back.
Just—just tell me you’re safe.
You don’t gotta talk to me. You don’t.
You don’t gotta say anything about what happened.
I’m not doin’ that over a voicemail.
Just call me.
Or text me.
[pause]
Please.
// ANDREW (VOICEMAIL) 01/01/25
01:32 AM
Hey.
It’s me.
Again.
I’m tryin’ not to keep callin’ like a fuckin’ psycho.
Not doin’ great.
[pause]
I’m at the penthouse. You’re not here.
Your car’s gone, so… you made it back.
Good. That’s good.
[pause]
Now I’m standin’ in the middle of your kitchen, talkin’ to your voicemail, tryin’ not to think about what’s goin’ through your head right now.
What I put in your head.
[pause]
Please don’t disappear on me like this, Allison.
Not like this.
// ANDREW (VOICEMAIL) 01/02/25
03:46 AM
Allison.
Hey. I just got off at Clover.
[pause]
Don’t even know why I’m callin’. You’re not pickin’ up.
I went by the penthouse.
I needed to see if you were there.
You’re not.
[pause]
And now I’m sittin’ in my car like a dumbass, ‘cause I don’t know where to go—I mean me. I don’t know where I go now. I don’t know how I’m supposed to go to work, come home, sleep, wake up, do it again, take care of every goddamn person like this is normal.
It’s not normal. Nothin’s normal.
I’m sick of bein’ everybody’s something.
I only wanted to be everything to you.
All I fuckin’ want. Shoulda told you that.
I don’t know, maybe not.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been enough.
[exhales]
And then now my house feels wrong.
Your place feels wrong.
I got no-fuckin’-where to land.
[pause]
I’m not askin’ you to fix that. Ain’t your fault. I’m not tryna make you feel guilty for nothin’. I’m not askin’ you to come back ‘cause I can’t handle my shit. I just needed to say all this somewhere.
[pause]