Chapter 1
GARY CLARK JR.
“I’m so good at being alone, it’s sickening,”
Celie says through a mouthful of ice.
“Like, I’m so good at doin’ me,
“I forgot how to spell ‘us.’”
The bar soaks her up.
Oxblood walls. Velvet black shadows.
Bluesy rock that's grabbing you by the hips.
Light pours down from globe pendants,
blurring everyone beautiful.
Celie glows under it—
tight dress, big hair, loud laugh.
She's in phase one: I Don’t Need No Man.
The part where she swears off love,
but it’s never love she’s over.
‘Cause no matter how many times she says she’s free, her smile and laughter's still dragging chains behind it.
One of the bartenders slides us two Dirty Martinis,
eyes locked on Celie the whole time.
Bronzed skin.
Honey-glazed eyes.
A minor god.
Hands big enough to grab the night
and bend it over.
Celie lifts her glass to toast her freedom,
then gulps half.
“Drake ain’t even all that,” she snorts.
“His eyes are too close together.
“You know who else has eyes that close?
“Ted. Fucking. Bundy.”
She wipes her mouth,
slaps the bar.
“I don’t need no man.
“What I need is a silk pillowcase, yoga,
“and hourly affirmation.”
She leans over the bar—
wild, radiant, drunk—
and points to the bartender.
“Ayo. Tell me I’m fine as fuck.”
He doesn’t argue—“You’re fine as fuck.”
“Damn right I am,” she hums.
“I’m a fuckin’ model. I get paid for it.”
She drops her empty glass down on the bar,
leans closer to me,
and whispers,
“Dare me to kiss the bartender.”
Stage two: The Bartender Rebound
1:43 AM
“Celie, he’s working,” I groan.
“So am I—on myself. Now dare me.”
She’s got that ‘I’m about to make out with him without you’ look.
Just as a guy slides up to the bar.
Right next to me.
I grab my martini and bring it to my lips.
Not to sip, but to shield.
I don’t drink alcohol in public.
But I hold it as if it’ll hold the men back,
meant to block the Can-I-buy-you-a-drink? bullshit.
Except this guy’s doing the lean back,
the elbows on the bar,
the drink swirling in hand.
The ‘I’m not hitting on you,
I’m just chillin’ in your direct line of vision’ act.
Black fitted button-down.
Hair screaming Wall Street after hours.
Head bobbing to Bright Lights
like he isn’t here for ass.
I've seen it all before. He’s setting up the bit,
fake-scanning the room, when in two seconds,
his eyes will accidentally find me,
and then—
“Wait—don’t I know you?”
He doesn’t know me.
I don’t look at him.
“Swear I’ve seen you. Rooftop, maybe?
“You were wearing this same leather jacket.”
It’s a manipulation. A con.
Make her drop her guard. Familiarize her.
Slip past the boundary without her noticing.
Skip the part where she decides if she likes me.
Make her think she already has once before.
“Yeah. You had that mysterious thing goin’ on… intimidating, y’know? I remember thinkin’, damn, should’ve asked for her number.”
This is why I don’t go out.
Not only because I hate people,
but because I hate who I have to become.
People are here to flirt,
to fuck,
to feel something.
Ain’t knocking it.
But just because you’re alone
doesn’t mean you’re available.
And just because they want something
doesn’t mean you owe it to them.
I’ve learned it doesn’t matter how you reject them,
‘no’ turns women into monsters.
‘Not tonight’, swift exits, silence, blunt, rude—
you’re still a bitch.
The bar erupts—
a cheer cutting through the noise.
Someone whistles.
I turn to Celie,
who's halfway across the bar,
tongue-deep in the bartender’s mouth.
He’s not fighting it.
Her black curls spill everywhere.
Half of her ass is out.
Morals are off the clock.
To my right—
the bouncer’s moving through the crowd,
heading our way.
A laugh punches out of me, equal parts murder and mercy. I’ve got her by the hip, wrestling her away from the bartender while covering her ass at the same time.
It’s multitasking. It’s friendship. It’s hell.
She laughs into his mouth after I break the seal.
“I’ll come back for you,” she breathes, dreamy, glossy-eyed.
“Celie. We gotta go.
“Before we’re banned from another bar.”
I grunt, hauling her toward the door,
dress riding up, heart halfway gone.
She turns back to him,
eyes martini-soaked and glowing—
“Think about me when you’re wiping down the bar tonight, boo,”
she calls out, pointing at him.
He stares back at her,
speechless, mouth hung open,
same as the last bartender.
We burst out of the bar onto Bowery,
the subway an electric hum under our heels.
Gusts of warm air cough up from the vent grate,
the night slaps the sweat off me,
Celie's lipstick’s smudged,
when some girl calls out:
“Damn, that was thirsty.”
She’s leaning against the wall,
smirking behind a cigarette.
Pretty. Bitter.
Celie slows.
I cock a brow.
“Hold up—what’d you say?”
Girl flicks her ash—
“Just sayin’. Whole bar saw it.”
My steps come to a standstill,
dead center on the sidewalk.
I glance at Celie,
then back at the girl,
and step forward.
“Yo—what’s the matter with your life?”
Celie’s beside me now,
spitting the next line in the song,
None Of Your Business—
mock-serious, all dangerous.
Then I drop back in,
third verse, full fury,
two extra members Salt-N-Pepa never had,
rage in sync.
Hoodrat-N-Hooligan.
Girl can’t stand it and rolls her eyes,
grabs her friend and vanishes inside.
We continue down the sidewalk,
laughter laced in our rappin',
Salt-N-Pepa in our strut,
the beat in our steps,
attitude in our hands,
all don’t-start-with-me and bet-you-won’t.
We stop at the mouth of the alley,
where there’s a brick wall, a puddle,
some busted neon flickering.
Steam fogs the street from a manhole.
Celie’s still rapping with me,
high off it all—
the bartender kiss, the cheers, the drama.
Every guy walking by gets a verse to their ego.
Every girl leans into it,
hyping, hollering,
throwing up hands, preaching.
And before we end the song,
another one slips out of me.
The beat of None Of Your Business hitting,
but under it, another song aches.
I open my mouth and let it bleed through.
“There was a time…”
I drop Aerosmith right into the beat.
Celie turns, hooked.
She doesn’t stop me. She knows the rules.
Third verse of Cryin’ snaps into the bars.
Now it's spilling, and there's no stopping it.
Salt-N-Pepa on the outside,
Aerosmith on the bone,
every word bending to the beat,
reshaped to fit the bite.
I’m rapping Cryin’ now, and Celie’s glowing.
“Only you, Allison Taylor. Genre smashin’.”
I wink, not stopping.
It’s both a problem and a rule:
can’t quit if it’s pouring out of you.
Then Celie bumps my arm—“Yo.”
She’s pointing down the alley, grinning.
I turn, the rap flowing, slower now.
There’s a girl posted up against the brick,
one leg hitched over the shoulder of some guy.
He’s on his knees,
face buried between her thighs.
She’s got her hands tangled in his hair,
guiding like a leash.
Celie throws her palm up at the scene,
laughing in disbelief.
“Ain’t even mad, but—damn.
“Welcome to New York.”
I step deeper into the mouth of the alley.
Then flip Cryin’ back to its roots—
full fucking heartbreak.
Steam snakes around my boots,
streetlight dripping gold down my skin.
My voice climbs, and it’s feral now.
Raised in the hush hush,
caged behind NDAs,
buried under lies.
It hits the air as if it doesn’t belong there.
A trespasser.
A voice leaving a vessel and not a girl.
Because Raymond owns it all:
my voice, my songs, my name.
He wiped Allison Taylor off every chorus,
every bridge.
Sold the songs. Stole the rights.
Called it business.
He turned me into nothing but a pen—a ghost.
But when I sing out here,
in the middle of traffic and trash and taxis,
I remember who I am.
In the middle of the city,
I exist because someone hears me.
So I sing louder while I have the chance,
as if I’ve got a knife to my throat.
The guy on his knees stops.
His arm drops to his knee,
his whole dumb head lifts, spell broken.
Like a vampire caught mid-feed.
I can’t see him, he’s all silhouette and shadow,
but I can see the cut-out of him gripping the back of her knee.
“What the fuck?” the victim mutters.
But he doesn’t finish,
slinking back on his heels, wiping his mouth.
Celie’s doubled over,
laughing so hard she might piss herself.
(And I do mean actual piss.
She’s got a record.)
People passing by whistle and laugh.
One girl screams “Sing it, Bitch!”
And I do, with my purse as an air guitar.
For the abandoned pussy in the alley.
For Celie’s broken heart.
For the guy in the shadows, hanging his head.
For me.
And for all of New York City.
Because if I can’t have my name,
they can choke on the sound.
“Yo—” guy calls out, breathless,
laughing. “You singin’ to me right now?”
“Better than all the moanin’ I wasn’t hearin’,” I call out, then turn my voice to the girl, “Baby girl, life’s too short to fake it. Say the universal girl code, and I’ll walk my ass over there and finish the job.”
Celie wheezes, slapping my shoulder.
“What’s the code?”
“C’mon. Pineapple. Don’t play dumb.
“Every girl knows that.”
“Yeah?” he calls out from the shadows, hand slipping from her leg as he turns, fully facing me now. “You wanna tag in, sweetheart? You and me, we can do it together. She won’t mind.”
Fun. A cunnilingus collab.
I tilt my head.
“That your way of callin’ for backup?
“Need my help?”
Both the girl against the brick and Celie laugh.
He doesn’t.
“Nah—but you keep openin’ that mouth,
“I’m gonna make it useful.”
I step forward, heel scuffing the sidewalk.
“I don’t share my food, sweetheart.
“But some advice? If she’s grabbing your hair?
“That’s direction, not applause.”
He laughs.
“That’s a lotta talk for someone still standin’ all the way over there.”
Boy forgot he had pussy in his mouth
the second I opened mine.
I gesture to the poor girl waiting.
“Just sayin’—you look lost, bro.
“If your heart’s not into it, walk away now.
“Before it gets embarrassing.”