Chapter 11 Right For Me #2
Andrew leans in,
saying something I can't hear.
The door swings open,
I slide in,
and he follows, shutting it behind him.
I glance over at him.
“Seriously? Whispering to the cab guy?”
The driver catches me in the rearview.
“It’s a surprise.”
Andrew leans back with his elbow posted on the door. “See? Even Eddie gets it.”
I squint at the dash.
License reads: EDUARDO.
“You know him?”
“Yeah. Me and Ed?
“We go way back. Like… ten seconds.”
His eyes crash into mine and don’t leave.
There’s a mix of heat and relief in them, like they're saying—
you showed up, and it’s already wrecking me.
“What?” I ask, fighting a smile. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
His next words murmur raspy
with a postorgasmic look in his eyes.
“You look stupid beautiful, it’s killin’ me.”
It doesn’t leave him sweet.
It fucks, then spreads warm.
“Practiced that one while waitin’ for me?”
He laughs under his breath.
“Didn’t practice it,” he says.
“Just thought it. Couldn’t stop it in time.”
He rubs his hand over his mouth,
his smile caught behind it.
“Sounded better once I saw what it did to your face.” His knee taps mine. “No regrets.”
My face is melting. Burning. Betraying me.
He leans in with a warm smile
and a deep stare.
“Truth?” he says low. “Soon as you turned around out there? I straight up blacked out. Saw your face, and boom—mind blank. Brain just bailed. Only thing left was—don’t fuck up, get to her before she leaves.”
I forget how to breathe,
forget how my fucking lungs work.
From the front seat—
“You two are a good looking couple.”
Eddie tosses it out, invested now.
Andrew’s gaze holds mine.
“Damn right we are.”
“Make beautiful babies,” Eddie adds.
Andrew nods, serious.
“His tip just went up twenty percent.”
It’s been what—four minutes? Five tops.
My cheeks hurt. I don’t smile like this
unless I’m hiding behind it.
But this? This is different.
I’m in a cab, fully dressed, fully sober,
next to a guy who hasn’t even touched me.
And I’m already fraying at the seams.
His hand drifts across the seat,
the space between us suffocating him.
But just before the backs of his fingers brush my thigh,
he stops,
leaving it close.
An offer. If I want it.
He waits with his eyes on me.
Then my fingertips skim down the insides of his fingers.
He exhales, long, slow, relieved.
So do I.
We both sink into the back seat,
finally breathing.
His warm palm is open under mine,
calloused in places carrying stories I want to hear but can’t ask for.
I trace him, thoughtless, speechless.
Touching’s all I’ve got left.
He watches, eyes full of me.
“Lemme ask you somethin’,” he leans in, “What do I gotta do to make sure I don't leave that pretty head of yours after tonight?” He nudges his chin. “I wanna haunt you a little. Drive you mad."
My throat goes dry.
“That’s a cop-out.
“You wanna haunt me, earn it.
“Figure it out on your own.”
He shakes his head. “Rather look dumb askin’ than be wrong assumin’.”
The bookstore crashes back in. The way we didn’t blink before falling into each other. The way the world fell away.
“So after the basement…
“what I did… with you,” I start to ask,
“not one tiny assumption about me?”
“Not even close.”
He says it without hesitating.
“That night didn’t say shit about you or me.”
His thumb grazes the shape of mine.
“It said everything about us.”
Those words burn between us.
“Like Crazy,” I say.
The two words slip out,
but they’re everything.
A confession. A fuse.
A whole damn earthquake.
His gaze hits me full force.
He knows exactly what I mean.
One of those rare moments where everything just clicks—an effortless rush.
A heated, knowing smile breaks across his face. He hides it behind his hand. And as if his hand is not enough, he turns his face to the window, to the street.
One second. Two.
Then his eyes are back on me, surrendering.
An I'm-fucked laugh slips out of him—
quiet and a little broken.
“Shit, Sonny…
“You’re gonna break my fuckin’ heart.”
He says it with a grin,
but the rest of him isn't laughing.
His hand is still open under mine,
and my fingers keep tracing it—
the lines, the shape—
adoring every imperfection.
I don’t know why I’m doing it,
but I don’t want to stop.
It’s too easy—
touching him,
breathing beside him,
forgetting about everything outside of this.
When the cab slows, I glance out the window.
The Astor Clockhouse.
A hotel.
Wait. No.
My stomach drops so fast
it almost takes my heart down with it.
There’s no bar or jazz club at the Astor.
They don't have a rooftop café
with string lights and cocktails.
It’s a building. Where people stay.
For the night. Or hour.
Some to fuck, clean up,
go back to their busy schedules.
My heart flips upside down and starts strangling itself.
I shoot him a double-edged look.
One razor-sharp to cut, but full of fear.
He’s busy sliding out his wallet from his pocket.
He brought me here to fuck me,
to undress me,
to take something I don’t give
unless I’m punishing myself.
His eyes find mine,
and the second he sees the look on my face,
it’s as if I slapped him.
His whole expression cracks,
as if I ripped the good out of his hands
before he had a chance to give it.
He passes folded bills to Eddie,
pockets his wallet,
and opens the door,
cold November air whipping across my cheeks.
I should run.
I should drop brutal words to put him back in his place.
He reaches for my hand.
I give it to him, mindless.
We step out,
and I’m staring up at the hotel
as if it’s laughing at me, like—
You fucked up.
Jerked him off in a basement,
and now he thinks you’re easy.
Thinks you’ll give him anything.
God, you should see your pathetic, gullible face.
Bet he’s in some group chat right now,
dropping his boys a play-by-play.
Bet they’re all laughing at you right now.
And then I blink,
breaking the thought in half.
Nah.
If he thinks that?
I’ll snap off his dick, autograph it,
and FedEx it to his nonna.
Andrew stays close, his hand warm in mine as we walk through the lobby.
He knows where he’s going,
nods at the greeter,
smiles at the woman behind the desk
as if they know him,
like this is normal and we’ve done this before.
Maybe this is where he takes all the girls,
and this is just another Thursday night.
We stop at the elevator.
He presses the top floor.
I look into our warped reflections in the steel doors.
“Where we goin’?” I say,
hardly above a whisper.
His head dips, his breath tickling my hairline.
“This is the part in the movie where I hold out my hand and say, ‘You trust me?’, prayin’ you don’t laugh in my face.”
The elevator dings.
The doors open.
Elevator’s empty.
We step inside.
I take the back wall,
clutching the railing.
Andrew stands beside me,
watching me through the mirror.
We rise higher and higher,
the floors lighting up, one after another.
There’re knots in my stomach—
a lot of them
bouncing everywhere.
My heart’s rolling with this date,
but the rest of me is mocking me
for being this fucking stupid.
Andrew exhales, unable to stand it any longer.
“Yo—hold up a sec,” he says,
turning to face me, stepping closer.
“Something’s happenin’ in you right now.
“I feel you freezin’ up—
“let’s not skip past this."
He wets his bottom lip and lifts his chin.
“That look on your face?
“You think I brought you here to fuck you?”
His gaze drifts across my face.
Then he rocks back half a step,
gripping his hair,
the realization spearing into him.
“Shit…” His palm drags over his jaw. “Nah, I get it. Makes sense why you’d think that.” He takes half a step closer again. “After what we did. Then those questions you hit me with in the cab. And now I bring you to a fuckin’ hotel?”
A laugh slips out, broken in half.
“Jesus. I can’t imagine what must be goin’ through your head.”
His eyes close for half a second,
and when they open again,
guilt colors his irises.
“But if you think this was about gettin’ laid—
“Sonny…”
He breathes out,
trying to get the words right
before he fucks it all up.
“Of course I do. Jesus, I do—
“so bad it kills me.”
He swallows.
“But I’m after all of it, Sonny.”
I lean back against the gold bar, eyeing him.
“If I really thought you were that guy?” I say,
both my voice and gaze threatening.
“You wouldn’t be standin’ right now.”
“I believe you,” he says,
eyes jumping between mine.
“But you never gotta worry about that with me. Ever. Aight?”
I can taste the honesty in his words.
I can feel the genuine in his stare.
He means it.
Every fucking word.
And I hate him for it.
‘I’m after all of it, Sonny?’
Oh, fuck you, Andrew.
Fuck you for being such a good guy.
Fuck you for looking at me
like this could be something.
Like I’m not a wildfire heading right for you.
You notice everything else,
so why the fuck can’t you see the lie in my eyes?
Why can’t you see it so I don’t have to say it?
You’re only making this harder for me,
only breaking me slow.
I don’t want to want this.
I don’t want to want you.
And I hate you for makin’ me wish I could.
But I don’t say any of it.
Instead, I stand here,
trying to breathe through it,
and give him the only truth
that'll come out of my mouth—
“Last-minute panic confession.”
He exhales,
as if I loosened the rope around his neck.
“I’m afraid once you find out the truth about me… Your all of it turns into some of it.
“To less of it.
“To none of it at all.”
His brows pinch.
The elevator dings.
Neither of us moves at first.
The doors slide open,
cutting the moment in half.
I step out first.