68. Home Tonight #2
She’s good.
Then mine sits under it from last night—
10:41 PM.
ME
Just checking in. How’s Maria?
It remains unread, unanswered.
I remind myself he’s at the hospital.
His mother just had a transplant.
He’s probably sleeping in a chair, or arguing with Paola, or harassing the doctor, asking a million follow-up questions.
If something happened,
Andrew would call me.
If Maria took a turn, he’d call me.
If he needed me, he’d call me.
He would.
Last thing I need
is to drive myself insane over it.
I set the phone face-down.
Then pick it back up again and call him.
Because I am a fucking insane.
The phone rings.
And rings.
Then his voicemail picks up.
Fuck.
“Hey, Drew.
“I’m at the office.
“Just wanted to check in.
“See how your mom’s doing.
“And you. See how you’re doing too.
“Not gonna lie, I’m getting a little worried.
I know you’re busy. I know you’ve got a lot going on.
I know I’m being—” I stop myself, dragging my finger along the hem of my skirt.
“I haven’t heard from you since Saturday morning, and I’m getting a bad feeling in my stomach.
I don’t know. I don’t like it. So text me when you can. You don’t have to call back.”
I pause, pinching the hem tight.
“Just let me know everybody’s okay.”
I swivel slow in my chair,
my voice fraying at the end.
“And that you’re okay… please.”
Soon as I end the call,
my phone buzzes again.
Then again.
Then again.
CELIE
ALLISON.
CALL ME RIGHT THE FUCK NOW.
I stare at it.
But before I can unlock the screen,
three more texts crash in.
brANDON
So everybody knows?
This why that fucker came to see me?
BEN
Lmao
My stomach’s sinking fast.
CELIE
I’m on my way right now.
DO NOT GET ON SOCIAL MEDIA.
TY HENDRIX
Don’t say anything publicly.
Call me if you need me, aight?
CALLISTA
Tell me this is fake.
Ice water floods my veins,
making me tremble as they stack fast,
one text after the other.
From producers,
from artists,
from unknown numbers:
Ms. Taylor, call me.
Is this real?
WTF? Just saw something.
How much did you pay them?
They’re saying baby contract on X?
What the fuck is baby contract?
Nasty rich bitch
Each time the phone vibrates,
it burns hotter into my palm.
What the fuck is happening?
I try to type my name into Google,
but the screen’s tilting in my vision.
I can’t breathe in this room.
My shaky thumb
keeps hitting the wrong keys,
keeps hitting backspace,
as I gasp for air that isn’t there.
The page finally loads:
LEAKED “BABY CONTRACT” EXPOSES HEIRESS’S PAID SEX ARRANGEMENTS
and another link right below it:
THE SECRET LIFE OF ALLISON TAYLOR: LEAK BLOWS COVER ON FUTURE BILLIONAIRE CEO
I read it twice,
and though nausea hits me in waves,
my brain refuses to process it.
The Baby Contract is public.
The entire thing.
Allison Taylor.
Baby.
Every clause.
Every rule.
Every humiliating line I wrote
to keep my life from eating me alive.
They see a penis cap,
no kissing,
no intercourse.
They see limits,
restrictions,
payouts,
schedules.
They see the sex, but they don’t see why.
They don’t see the death, the grief, the abuse with Raymond’s hand between my thighs.
They don’t see fear or panic, or all the nights I spent over a toilet bowl, or all the times I fell asleep on the shower floor.
The longer I sit there,
the words blurring,
the more my hands shake.
Until the phone slips from my fingers,
bouncing face-down on the desk.
My gaze darts right to the glass window.
The assistants are clustered together, staring at me, whispering as they thrust their phones into each other’s faces.
On the giant monitor behind them, my face stares back—a flashing red news banner.
FROM GHOST TO SCANDAL: UNMASKING THE FUTURE RECORD LABEL CEO
I don’t know what the fuck to do.
Mom, what do I do? What do I do?
My phone is screaming on the desk,
vibrating itself toward the edge,
but I don’t touch it. I can’t.
I’m already up,
my legs moving on terrified instinct.
I walk. I just walk. And walk,
blurring my vision so I don’t have to see the assistants staring through the glass
or the phones pointed in my direction.
I just walk,
hoping my knees don’t buckle before I reach Raymond.
I don’t think about knocking.
I fling Raymond’s door open so hard
it rattles the frame,
then slam it behind me.
He’s already rising from his chair,
face grim as he ends a call,
tossing his phone onto the desk.
“Raymond,” I choke out,
my head shaking,
my hands trembling at my sides,
praying for him to tell me
this is a fucking nightmare.
He won’t look at me, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk. “Allison, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
When he finally lifts his head,
his gaze doesn’t hit mine.
It slides right past my shoulder.
I spin around,
and my chest slams into the sight of—
“Andrew?”
Relief floods me, pouring into me fast.
And my first thought is—
Andrew. My comfort person, too.
He's here, thank God. He's here.
He’ll know how to fix this,
everything's going to be okay.
I take one step toward him,
but he doesn't move.
He's just standing there—
his dark hair wrecked by his fingers,
black fitted jeans,
bomber jacket over a gray tee,
rooted to the spot,
breathing, breaking me—
only staring right back,
And it makes me pause.
Makes me breathe faster.
I wrap my hand around my own tight throat, 'cause I need something to hold.
“Is Maria—?”
“Maria’s fine,” Raymond says to my left,
his voice sounding a million miles away.
I take one more step on instinct.
“Andrew, then—”
I shake my head,
begging him with my eyes to explain,
to move, to meet me halfway,
to do something.
But nothing.
He gives me nothing.
His hands stay buried in his pockets,
his face a terrifying void of emotion.
Every muscle in me tenses to keep from shaking. 'Cause the longer I stare at him confused, the more the horror twists into something sick,
a truth I can't stomach.
“Drew, what’s happening?”
Only silence follows.
It seems like forever as I wait,
and I wait.
Like putting a record on,
dropping the needle,
then holding your breath,
waiting to hear the crackle,
the first song finally play.
But nothing ever happens.
The silence, the stillness,
it just keeps going.
My throat tightens until it hurts.
My hand curls into a fist near my mouth—something to hide behind from the way he's looking at me.
“Why won’t you say anything?” I beg in a whisper.
Scalding tears flood my eyes
and blur his silhouette.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe.
I don't understand.
“Will someone t-tell—tell me—
“what the fuck is happening?”
I didn’t even realize Raymond had picked up the phone. “She’s in my office. Send them up.”
The first hot tear cuts as it leaves,
burning a line down my cheek.
“Andrew—please, talk to me. Please. Did you do this?” I choke out, my voice cracking, and it drops to another desperate whisper. “Tell me you didn’t work with him. Tell me you didn't do all this.”
I look back at Raymond.
He’s looking at Andrew too,
but he’s smiling.
A sick, satisfied smile.
And that confirms my worst fear.
The rest of the tears come crashing out of me, sharp and hot.
"Oh, God," I shake my head,
holding my stomach.
“Tell me you didn't do this to me—”
I gasp for a breath through my strangled throat, through the crying that cuts me from the inside out. “Tell me you didn't FUCKING DO THIS TO ME!” I cry,
my hands shaking violently
as he stares right back,
eyes still navy, yet dead and cold.
Now, I've given him everything.
My body. My I-love-you. My tears.
I've given him everything.
And he just fucking stands there,
watching me drown alone.
And the tears,
they just keep slicing down my face,
each one hurting as it leaves.
The door bursts open behind me.
Instantly, my arms are wrenched backward, my wrists pinned and squeezed in a tight grip.
The police are everywhere. “Allison Taylor, you’re under arrest for patronizing a person for prostitution—”
But the rest of the world goes silent.
Everything except for Andrew.
He tips his head toward Raymond.
“We done here?”
Raymond waves him away.
As if it was all a setup.
As if I was a fucking job.
“Is this all it ever was?” my cry cracks, tears sliding down my raw throat as I throw my body forward, trying to get closer to him. “Give me something, fuckin' anything, Drew!”
The cops yank me back,
the metal cuffs biting into my skin.
Andrew slips right past me,
his shoulder brushing mine,
not bothering a second glance.
“You're leaving me,” I choke out,
turning,
trying to catch him over my shoulder,
but he’s already halfway down the hall.
“Allison, don’t be angry with yourself,” Raymond says. “The kid’s good, this is what he does.”
He raises a smug palm.
“That’s why I picked him.”
The words hit me,
and they keep hitting me—
they don’t stop hitting me,
they don’t stop hurting.
The cops pull me out of Raymond’s office, where Soundwave’s on their feet, watching. Someone shouts at them to put their phones away.
And when I lift my head,
I look down the hallway,
and my eyes land on Andrew’s back.
Every distant step he takes stings
like a whip cracking against my spine.
The elevator doors open.
But before he steps inside,
he turns his head,
his eyes cutting over his shoulder, his dark stare freezing an agonizing path straight to me.
In those seconds,
my chest goes dark and ice-cold.
My heart slits her wrists, just lets go.
He holds my gaze for one second,
two.
Then he steps inside,
and the elevator doors close behind him.