Chapter 1 #3
in and out, no sticking around.
Stain the sheets,
wreck the place,
then dip out.
That’s the difference between us.
She’s heart-wide-open,
bleeding for some dick that’s probably in someone else.
Me?
I’m headed to a skyline view with no tears, ribcage bolted shut, where two fine-ass men are waiting to make me come—
no questions, no feelings, only the rules.
// 3:58 AM - PENTHOUSE - UPPER EAST SIDE, NYC //
Sedan slows on Fifth,
then rolls to a stop in front of my building.
Limestone facade,
black awning,
brass handles.
Mickey’s bald head shines under the vaulted entry.
Mid-fifties, thick Jersey bones, respectful.
The only man I trust in this filthy city.
He nods. “Miss Taylor.”
“Mick. Did you save me a smile?
“I need one after tonight.”
He wipes his mouth with his palm,
collecting his smile.
Then he fist-bumps me. “There. Happy now?”
I smile. “Ecstatic.”
He taps the side of his nose with two fingers.
“Looks like you been up all night conspirin' with the devil.”
“Nah—we’re old lovers.”
The devil knows my safeword.
"Try a heartbroken girl from the Bronx."
"Ah, Christ—tell Celie I said hang in there. Girl's got more heart than sense." He swings the door wider, shaking his head. “An' you. One day you’re gonna walk through this door with somebody’s hand holdin’ yours instead of ghosts followin’ you around. Be nice, y’know? You’re too young to be lonely.”
“Over my dead fuckin’ body, Mickey.
“If someone’s got my hand, call the cops.
“Means I’ve been kidnapped. Or drugged.”
The elevator scans my face,
registers my exhaustion,
opens anyway.
I ride up to the top floor.
The entire floor. My home.
And when the elevator doors slide open again,
I’m stepping right into the grand foyer,
the hush of the penthouse washing over me.
The hallway curves, lined with framed records stacked tight—top to bottom, end to end on bone-white walls.
The only records pressed with both my name and song title.
But each one flipped so no one would know.
Only black vinyl ghosts on display.
I call it the
Museum of Shit I’ll Never Get Credit For.
A cemetery of storied pain,
empty graves that bought this place.
Skyline streams through the windows that stretch across the back, pouring platinum and gold into the penthouse.
The city doesn’t knock here. It calls it home.
Walks across these marble floors barefoot.
I scatter myself on the way to the terrace.
Heels off first. One kicked, then the other,
both thudding behind me
like dead weight by the elevator.
Purse slings off my shoulder,
a dull slap on a wingback chair.
My skirt fumbles around my hips,
then puddles behind me in the hall.
Shirt slides off next,
draped on the granite in the kitchen.
Bra unhooked,
caught on a dining chair.
Panties peeled away,
dropped right at the back door.
One push, and the terrace opens wide, the moon's reflection trembling across the water, steam rising up from the heated pool.
“Brooke?”
AI Brooke: “Yes, Miss Allison.”
“Play Cryin’ by Aerosmith on low.”
AI Brooke: “Now playing:
“Cryin’ by Aerosmith. Volume: low.”
The electric guitar ripples across the pool,
bends with the steam, pleads to the stars.
My legs carry me forward.
I keep walking.
And walking.
And when the edge of the pool comes,
I don’t stop.
I fall in—
arms out, body surrendered.
I sink with the weight of the night on my chest.
Hair fans around my face,
the cold stings,
the world quiets.
Up above, the skyline's buzzing.
Down here, I’m not being touched or watched.
I'm not anything but a girl in a pool at 4 a.m.,
with lungs full of silence,
and nothing left to strip off.
And then a shadow splits the water.
Brandon's silhouette stutters above me.
I push off the pool floor,
then break the surface,
my hair slicked back, my lungs catching up.
He’s standing barefoot at the edge,
dark hair,
green eyes shining,
gym shorts clinging to his hips,
tattoos inked across his body.
Script on his ribs. Roses down his arm.
A mural cutting across his abs.
His brow ring and lip ring reflect moonlight
as he stares down at me with his hands behind his back,
dimples carved out, grin full of sin.
“Hey, Baby.”
Baby.
My identity’s a cracked mirror:
Allison. Allie. Sonny.
Baby…
I once hated her most,
couldn’t look her in the eye,
couldn’t stomach the shape of her shadow.
But then I took the name back.
Now Baby is the rule.
The contract.
The boundary.
It's also a weapon. A shield.
A mask. A wall.
Without Baby? I’m just Allison.
Exposed. Open. Vulnerable.
And I don’t do vulnerable.
I blink the water from my lashes
and rest my chin on the ledge.
“You just gonna stand there?”
He smirks, then steps in,
bending down to haul me out of the pool,
his grip brutal.
Water slides down my body,
soaking his chest as he carries me,
his arms locked under my ass.
Aerosmith's still Cryin' when he lowers me onto a lounger, towel laid out and waiting with a chilled bottle of wine.
Obsession’s splashed across his face like—
I’ll do whatever you want, just tell me how.
He’s six-two, lean, sculpted,
a walking Staten Island sin
with a three-point-nine inch dick—
just the way I like them.
If I have sex, I want it to feel like a decision,
not an autopsy.
“You waitin’ up for me, B?”
I reach for my smokes,
thumb the box open,
and slide the cigarette between my lips.
He sits on the edge of the lounger,
turns at the waist,
and lights the tip for me.
“Y’know I don’t sleep when you’re out.
“Can’t. I start picturin’ shit.”
He sets the lighter back on the side table and leans in to me, fingertips floating up to my face—
then stop.
I lift my chin, a silent go-ahead,
and his thumb brushes across my cheekbone,
smearing mascara.
The Boys weren’t built for attachment.
They were built to feed the orgasm addiction and stay out of my bed.
To soothe the ache I call Little Death.
But sometimes,
when the night’s too long and lonely,
I think if I had to keep one, it’d be Brandon.
I don't love him or care about him,
but I can stand him.
He doesn’t make my skin crawl.
Which is the closest I’ve ever been to comfort.
“Shit, Baby—
“this must be what it looks like when you cry.”
He says it with a grin,
but it’s the one worn at funerals.
“Eyes all red, makeup runnin’.
“Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”
And men wonder why
I never let them see me cry.
Not in bars,
or beds,
or bathrooms,
or the backseat of a black sedan.
You cry in front of a man,
he romanticizes your ruin,
starts thinking he’s special for witnessing your tears.
Thinks he matters to you.
And if he matters to you,
he has some sort of power over you.
Fuck. That.
“Only you make pain sound pretty,” I say.
“Trust me—I don’t cry.
“I combust, then collapse.
“And it’s not hot.”
I flick ash.
“It’s horrifying.”
My cigarette crackles as I pull in another drag.
The nicotine burns in my lungs,
stings the back of my throat.
I hold it here while holding his stare,
both burning and seeping into spaces I don’t want to feel.
Then I blow out into the cold September air and watch smoke disappear.
I shouldn’t be smoking,
but lately I want to burn holes into things.
In myself. My lungs. In the silence.
In the nights I spend pretending I don’t want more than this.
His green eyes beam through the smoke,
something in them cracking.
Then he leans in slow,
mouth hovering near mine.
I shake my head—“Brandon,” I warn.
But his mouth catches mine anyway.
I don’t stop it,
his lips warm, shaking, dragging.
He exhales through his nose,
and it trembles across my cheek.
Then he sinks deeper into the kiss.
My eyes fall shut as it passes through me.
I count to three.
And when he pulls back, he avoids my eyes.
He broke a rule,
and now he can’t face the aftermath.
But instead, I’m sitting there,
disappointed, discouraged,
unsure of what stings more:
being weak enough to let it happen,
or him reminding me I been gone a long time.
He leans forward,
elbows to his knees,
head low.
I sip and say nothing.
Wine over words.
He hasn't moved—
the posture of a man bracing for a fallout.
So I slip my cold toes under his thigh instead.
He glances over his shoulder.
“We good, Baby?”
I drag from the cigarette,
then blow smoke toward the skyline.
“Mm. Haven’t decided yet.
“Might need convincing.”
His grin speaks devotion.
“Yeah?
“You gonna let me put my hands on you?”
“No.”
He licks his bottom lip—
“Can I eat your pussy?”
Always.
But I like when he begs.
So I don’t answer right away.
He watches me, burning from the inside out.
“Been thinkin’ about you all night, y’know.”
Then a slow Staten smile that says—
this mouth belongs between your thighs.
“C’mon, Baby, lemme eat your pussy.
“You know I don’t sleep good ‘til I get my fix of you.”
My shoulders fall,
and I lean back in the lounger—
pretending the kiss never happened—
and drop my thighs open slow.
He watches, eyes crawling down to my pussy,
lip ring caught between his teeth,
breath falling heavier.
Then his gaze climbs back up, catches mine.
And he holds it as he sinks.
All
the
way
down.
Until his cheek’s against my thigh,
his hot breath grazing my clit.
This is why he’s my favorite.
Twice a day, tongue deep,
and not once does he make me feel like the desperate one.
As if he’s the one who needs it more than me.
Brandon leans closer,
tongue flat and following the line of my slit,
eyes glassy green and attached to mine.
It’s past 4 a.m., 58 degrees and dropping,
East River wind slicing through the terrace.
I’m shivering,
soaking,
smoking,
legs open to September,
and I’m fine.
Because his mouth’s burning between my thighs,
tongue easing in hot,
dragging filth into me.
I moan, then take a swig of wine—
warmth spreading in my chest,
warmth flooding up my pussy.
The heat’s fucking both ends of me.
His jaw stays slack,
tasting my drip on his tongue,
and then he groans.
I sink further into the chair,
the terrace breeze biting,
ass damp,
legs spread,
pussy getting licked while a cigarette burns slow between my two fingers,
thinking: you can either say exactly what you want,
or spend forever aching for what you never asked for.
I picked option one,
taught Brandon how to use his mouth.
A Boy can’t break me if he never learns how I want to come apart.
But not all men can be trained.
Some have more ego than brain,
too busy trying to prove they’re the man
before listening to a woman.
Brandon’s licking deep and circling slow.
One long drag up the middle,
then breathing my clit into his mouth.
He sucks slow,
slides down,
same path,
dirtier each time.
His green eyes lift to mine—
ruined, glazed, drowned in devoutness.
The warm crawl of his tongue is cruel,
a sweet, slow rake across every nerve.
A thousand tiny tremors dance beneath my skin, begging to break open.
Another long, hungry lick, and
my breath shudders on a broken moan.
My eyes close, my head falling to the side.
And when I open my eyes again,
they land on Ben,
standing at his window,
chest bare, sweatpants hanging low.
Every muscle's stiff—
caught in a freeze-frame—
as he watches from the other side of the glass.
All Brooklyn-stare and bite without brain.
I drag from my cigarette, eyes cuffed to his
as the smoke bleeds out from between my lips.
Brandon’s the six-month softie.
Ben’s the three-year ticking time bomb.
He’s got kinks with no limits.
By now he’s memorized the rules,
but resents following them.
He’s possessive. Not of me, but of the setup.
The lifestyle. The money. The security.
It’s been fifteen months since I let him fuck me to shut him up.
And boys like Ben?
You neglect their needs too long, they snap.
Turn cruel. Break rules. Make threats.
Walk out the door.
Even the diehards hit their limit and realize money isn't enough. Not when they start craving what I'll never hand over. Then, when they do walk, it’s never me they’re leaving. It’s the system.
One Boy goes,
another takes his place.
No feelings, no fallout.
You can’t be abandoned
when you never gave them a piece of you.
If it stays transactional,
no one cries over a broken contract.
I give Ben a lazy wave.
He doesn't wave back,
still watching, eyes burning.
I glance down at Brandon.
His chin’s soaked,
mouth’s swollen,
head moving side to side.
Then his lips close around me,
and he sucks gentle,
sliding his tongue so soft across my clit,
heat floods my blood
“Right there,” I sigh,
wine at my lips for another sip,
smoke in my lungs after another drag.
My gaze drifting between emerald eyes and the Manhattan skyline,
the Empire State shining bright behind him.
Then I exhale with a smile.
His next words are spoken right into my pussy.
“All yours, Baby.”