Chapter 2
AEROSMITH
Monday morning.
I wake up moody and frustrated.
Little Death’s knocking on my clit like—
morning, Baby. It’s me, your favorite habit.
Handle me, and I won’t fuck up your whole day.
The heat of it throbs
right on fucking time.
Brandon makes the 10 a.m. climax.
Ben makes the coffee.
Coffee, clit, cum—they know the drill.
I give the Boys everything:
a home, a car, an allowance.
In return they follow my rules:
stay loyal, call me Baby, make me come.
If they cross a line
I cut them off. Simple as that.
It’s the only way that’s worked for me.
Because I’m addicted.
To orgasms.
Mine, specifically.
And living with this addiction
and the trauma?
Fucking torture.
But I’m not naive.
I can’t float in this fantasy world forever.
All things end eventually.
(People just name it change so it doesn’t hurt as bad.)
And eventually, the Baby Contract will too.
“Hey, Baby,” Ben says,
throwing a smirk over his shoulder.
As if nothing’s wrong.
Which means everything is.
I smelled the fake before he ever opened his mouth.
He’s slouched against the counter,
sipping some Muscle Milk bullshit,
coffee gurgling behind him.
And when I meet his normally cold, glacier-light eyes, they’re too blue, too bright, too knowing of something I don’t yet.
I stop under the archway.
He’s geared up, joggers on and laced for cardio,
blond hair freshly damp from the gym,
tank clinging to his chest,
sweat outlining every ab.
BrooklynBros—the real bitch he wakes up for.
He’s a great boxer,
disciplined, focused, hungry,
and the second the owner is ready to sell,
it’s his.
“What’s with the smug smile? Hit a milestone in your lil’ castle game while shittin’ this morning or somethin’? Why the fuck you all chipper this early?”
His stupid smirk kicks up—
“Dunno. Sun’s out. Abs lookin’ fire.
“You’re walkin’ around with no pants on.”
He sips his shake. “Life’s good.”
I sink into my usual seat at the breakfast table,
hugging my knee to my chest,
facing the window.
Three empty chairs surround me,
seats always cold.
On the other side of the glass,
the city stretches out.
Skyscrapers. Streets. Always endless.
Ben sets coffee in front of me.
I lift my mug.
“You seen B yet or he still knocked out?”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“All I know is, wouldn’t bank on gettin’ your usual mornin’ lickety-lick.”
I freeze halfway through a sip,
mug hovering near my mouth.
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
He taps his shaker bottle against the sink.
“Means he ain’t here.”
Stillness stretches around me.
The one silent second before a pick hits guitar strings,
hand held halfway there.
“He’s here. Don’t play with me this early.”
But Ben’s not smirking.
“He’s gone, Baby.”
He lifts a shoulder,
drying his hands on a dish towel,
as if he didn’t just split the floor beneath me.
And his eyes are stone-cold, saying—
I ain’t fuckin’ playin’.
I set the mug down slow.
The clink clatters through the silence.
Then I’m moving
across the penthouse
and into the Boys’ hallway,
cold marble icing my bare feet.
With every step, the emptiness amplifies, my panic playing through the Marshall plugged into my chest, the nerves humming in my bones.
Then I’m crashing through Brandon’s door.
The room’s empty.
But it still smells like him—
faint tobacco,
a hint of his cologne dried into the walls.
There’s a note folded neat.
in the center of the bed.
Baby.
One word, printed in black ink.
My mind’s running,
spinning,
circling.
I hate my hand for trembling when I pick it up.
I hate my pulse for banging.
I stare at it for too long,
unsure if I should read the note
or burn it.
Next thing I know, I’m in my room,
dragging on a pair of jeans,
the note clenched between my teeth.
I shove it into my back pocket
and snatch the Benz keys off the counter.
Ben’s watching as I’m pacing the penthouse.
“Where you goin’, Baby?”
he asks, trying to keep up.
“For a fuckin’ drive,” I mutter.
“What about your fix?”
“I’ll finger-fuck myself, thanks.”
I growl at the idea of my own hand.
Of only having Ben’s mouth now.
“FUCK!”
I punch the down button repeatedly.
Then the elevator takes its sweet time,
whole penthouse silent.
So I open the coat closet just to—
SLAM—
door against frame.
It’s pointless
and satisfying,
for only half a second.
Then the elevator dings like it’s scared of me.
// OCT 05, 9:11 AM — SOUNDWAVE RECORDS — MIDTOWN, NYC //
Baby—
Don’t go screaming at Ben, I’m alright. Just needed to leave before I did something stupid.
Fuck, Baby. I don’t want to go. But it’s killing me to stay this close to you and not be allowed to touch you how I want.
Or hold you. Or sleep next to you. Or tell you what you really are to me.
But I been coming apart, wanting things I ain’t allowed to want.
Shit I know you’ll never give. And truth is? I want all of you.
But you don’t want none of that. You want your rules. Your Boys. Not a man who wakes up loving you and hates himself for it. So I’m leaving before I break the rules worse than this letter already does.
I fucking love you, Allison.
Yeah. I said it.
And if you ever feel anything close to that for me,
you know where to find me.
—Brandon
I fold it for the hundredth time
and slide it back into my purse.
One week later,
and I still can’t fucking let it go.
On the main level at Soundwave,
the elevator doors start to close.
Tenner Killjoy slides in without glancing at me, deciding I’m either a nobody. Or worse, a fan.
The problem with artists like Killjoy?
Viral on TikTok, viral in their own heads.
Light mustache. Razor-sharp jawline.
Eyebrows too perfect for a guy who doesn't care about eyebrows.
Raymond signed him last year after a few of his songs blew up.
Now he’s the bass bumping in cars for boys
and wet dreams for girls.
Somewhere between floor two and three,
his eyes finally clock me.
“Ayy, Allie.” He pulls me in for a one-arm hug,
touching me as if I’m part of the package deal.
I’m already steering away before the hug lands.
I do it so well, they never notice.
He doesn’t know his touch makes my skin crawl. And I don’t know how to tell him without putting it in a fucking contract.
I don’t wanna seem cold…
or like—I’ll bite your hand off.
Even if I will.
He’s still a Soundwave artist.
“Damn, didn’t see you.
“Lil’ thing slid in all quiet.”
The corner of his mouth jumps.
“You out here lookin’ good.”
He leans against the back rail,
eyeing me head to toe.
“You been ghostin’ the studio or what?…
“We gotta get together soon.
“Vibe a little.
“Lay somethin’ down.”
He adjusts his chain,
then points at me as he says it—
“Location?
“Straight fire, Allie. You a beast with it.”
Got Your Location (but not your loyalty),
a dumb song thrown together in one session.
Then he pulls the humble-but-not-really card:
“We the dream team.
“You know your pen good with me on the mic, right?”
Translation:
You’re welcome for letting me rap your pain.
The elevator dings. Perfect timing.
But when the doors peel back,
they reveal Raymond—
dark hair, greying at the temples,
tailored jacket, fitted jeans,
limited-edition Nikes.
A man in his forties
hanging onto youth by the fucking shoelaces.
Killjoy and Raymond shake hands,
exchanging a few empty words.
Then Killjoy leans closer,
lays a hand at the back of my arm,
making every muscle inside me tense up.
He smells of Creed and weed.
“Serious about that collab, Allie.”
Raymond scratches his nose—a nervous tic.
“Let’s put somethin’ on the books, yeah?”
He smiles a practiced CEO smile.
“See what we can pull off.”
Killjoy kicks up his chin before disappearing.
Then it’s only me and him.
Raymond leads me down the hall to his office.
I pass the frames lining the wall,
pictures of Dad gone.
All that’s left are awards, records, autographs.
Each passing day,
more and more of him is fading away.
As if Raymond's erasing him.
I step into his office,
the door clicks shut,
and instantly, it’s suffocating.
Before I get the chance to sit—
“Whole fuckin’ week I been callin’.”
He shakes his head and the mouse at the same time, bringing his computer to life.
“Ben’s dodgin’ my calls.
“Brandon’s MIA.
“You train ‘em to ignore me?”
I wish.
“Brandon checked out,” I tell him.
He leans back and rubs his jaw.
“Shit... That explains it.
“But c’mon, baby. You disappear like that,
“I start thinkin’ you’re in a ditch.”
I give him nothing more than a stare—
a silent fuck-off, I’m done.
Then my stare glazes over,
drifting off as we wait for Ronnie.
The whole city lives on the other side of the glass.
Steel stacked to the sky,
Manhattan flexing its muscles,
using his window for a mirror.
Photos of me clutter the shelves.
Black frames.
Dustless.
Sickeningly proud.
Me at graduation,
him in a suit beside me.
Me at a piano,
him standing behind me, head bowed.
Me on the steps of our Colorado cabin,
him keeping me still with a hand at my side.
I hate that he keeps pictures of me displayed.
Probably jerks off to them between meetings on his lunch break.
There’re no photos of him and Mom.
None of him and Dad.
Only one of him and his brother,
the CEO of Hopefield Medical Hospital—
the guy he’s always trying to measure up to.
And to my right, one with Tenner Killjoy.
Below them, a multi-platinum award for Got Your Location—
no longer mine, credit stripped.
Next to it’s a platinum award for Behind Closed Ribs,
my first song. My favorite.
My blood on a piano—
no longer mine, credit stripped.
None of them belong to me anymore.
Maybe they never did.
I stare at the awards anyway
and pretend it’s funny,
and that I don't want to tear them off the fucking wall and throw them through the window.
Maybe I’m not a songwriter.
I’m the thing songs crawl through to reach the ears they were meant for.
A portal.
A body the music uses to make their way out.
Before someone else gives them a name,