Chapter 13 Wild Horses
THE ROLLING STONES
We’re on our sides, facing each other.
All of our shit is scattered around us—his glasses next to the champagne bottle, the champagne bottle somewhere near my head, fruit between us, The Rolling Stones’ Wild Horses playing from Andrew’s phone.
And this guy’s tossing blueberries at my mouth as if I’m going to catch one of them.
Because he ‘has faith in me.’
I’ve missed all five.
But he still sets up the next shot,
pulls back,
then stops.
He narrows his eyes,
holding back his smile.
“You’re flinching like I’m throwin’ knives.
“They’re blueberries, Sonny.”
Knives, I can handle.
His tendency to ruin me? Not so much.
“You’re lucky I’m even doing this.
“I don’t open my mouth for just anyone.”
He laughs,
hand dragging down his blushing face.
When he’s back on his elbow,
a smile lingers,
all charm and trouble.
His arm starts to raise,
blueberry in the chamber.
“Wait—you sure you don’t need your glasses, old man?”
He bites his lip,
teeth releasing a fuck-you smile.
“Listen here, smartass. I’m nearsighted, aight?
I can see about five feet out. Lucky for you, you’re sittin’ real pretty in the sweet spot.
” He flicks the berry between his fingers.
“Past that? Blur city. So if we’re out and I forget my glasses?
Stay close. Hold my hand, make sure I don't walk into traffic.”
The picture of that slaps a smile across my lips. Over hand holding.
Jesus… I'm so fucking weak…
He lifts his arm, lining up the shot.
“Say ahh,” he says, brows lifted, cocky as hell.
I raise my middle finger.
He tosses it, and it bounces off my nose.
I blink slow, face falling deadpan.
He fights back a laugh—“Nah, nah, one more.” He grabs it from the pile between us and pushes up his sleeve. “You keep missing ‘cause you’re too busy eye-fuckin’ me.” He lifts his chin, eyes on me. “Try not to fall in love mid-toss this time, aight?”
I take a breath.
But my next words slip with it—
“If you make it,
“I’ll let you sleep next to me tonight.”
I hear it halt the space between so fast
even the wind stops.
Andrew freezes.
The crease between his eyes deepens.
Then his arm slowly lowers.
“Not sex,” I quickly add.
“Real sleep. In a bed.
“Breathing next to each other.
“Then waking up… next to each other.”
I drop my head to the side,
like it’s not a big deal.
Even though it’s a night I’ve never given to any guy.
“It doesn’t sound like much, but I never done it before. So if you want it, it’s there. On the table. If you make it.”
He's staring at me, stunned.
“Yeah,” he finally says,
then clears his throat. “Yeah, I want that.”
A rough laugh slips out, and he tries to shake it off, glancing down at the blueberry crushed between his fingers—skin split, juice bleeding.
“Fuck, Sonny… you tryin’ to kill me?” His smirk stays as he sucks the juice off his thumb. “You say shit that fucks me up, you know that? That was the last thing I expected outta you. And now?” He blows out through his cheeks as he reaches for another blueberry.
“Now there’s a lot ridin’ on this throw.”
His eyes lift to mine.
“Aight. We’re a team, yeah?”
He gestures between us.
“We both want it.”
I lift a shoulder, fighting my smile.
His gaze falls back to my mouth as he rolls the berry between his fingers, serious now. “So eye on the berry, angel. Breathe. And quit smilin’,” he says, fighting his own grin. “Just trust me on this one. I got a real good feelin’.”
His chin and hand lifts at the same time.
His grin fades.
Then it’s in the air,
arching,
coming back down.
My head tips back.
My mouth parts.
And it hits the center of my tongue.
Blueberry bursts between my teeth sweet.
Andrew’s eyes go wide.
Then soften.
Then melt.
He hangs his head, grin breaking hard,
and when he raises it again he’s all boyish—
beaming, gaze heated, heart spilling out.
“That’s my girl.”
And my face cracks open,
fucking smile and all.
He grabs another blueberry,
tossing it into the air
and catching it in his mouth,
and points at me mid-chew—
“Looks like I’m all yours tonight.”
I freeze.
Hold up.
Shit. That was stupid.
What the hell was I thinking?
Penthouse is a no-go.
Ben’s there. He’d blow it all up.
What then? A hotel room?
Jesus. Why does this feel backwards?
I got the side-piece waiting at home, and I’m sneakin’ around with the real thing out here.
Too late to bail?
But I don’t wanna bail.
I reach for a blueberry—“My turn.”
He watches me.
“You sure? ‘Cause I’m ‘bout to—”
I launch it.
He barely moves,
tipping his chin and catching it—effortless.
I blink.
He grins, chewing slow. “Impressed?”
“No,” I lie, my hand falling to the blanket.
I glare at him, licking the juice from my lip.
“You realize what you’ve done, right?”
A laugh leaves him as he pops another berry into his mouth. “Can’t say I do, but I’m real fuckin’ curious now.”
I sit up taller on my knees, my blood hot—
“Competitive rage activated.”
He laughs, big and loud.
I don’t laugh.
“Give me thirty days,” I tell him.
“Mouth-eye coordination training,
“Rocky soundtrack—full shebang.
“Blueberries won’t be bouncing,
“they’ll be bowing.
“And your wrist? Gonna ache worse than your longest lonely night.”
Andrew’s grin explodes into another laugh.
“Thirty days, huh? That how long it takes you to plan revenge?”
“Hey,” I say. “Neuroplasticity’s real.”
His brow slants, grin survives. “Neuro-what?”
“You can break a habit or build one in 30 days.
“Takes repetition. Neuroplasticity.”
He’s half-dazed and confused.
“Okay, I don’t doomscroll,” I explain.
“I Google shit...
“How long it takes to master something.
“If orgasms can kill.
“Lifespan of squirrels.
“Y’know, the norm.”
His grin slides off his face fast.
“Wait—don’t fuckin’ play.”
He leans in,
all the joking ripped from his voice—
“Orgasms can kill you?
“Dead serious right now?
“Like… actually fatal?”
“Apparently,” I say.
“But the odds are minuscule.”
“Okay, but like—” he lifts a hand, “how many people we talkin’ died of coming? ‘Cause, shit, honestly? The best fuckin’ way to go out.”
I snatch up another berry.
“Iconic, right? The ultimate climax.
“‘Cause if my soul’s exiting my body for anything, better be for a fuckin’ orgasm.”
He leans back on his elbows, awestruck.
“You know most people just scroll TikTok all day, right?” His smile melts into adoration. “You’re weird, Sonny.” His eyes linger, that grin too. “But I’m so fuckin’ into it.”
I snag a strawberry next,
teeth sinking in before the smile does,
my eyes anywhere but on his
to keep the butterflies caged in my stomach.
He tops off my glass, and my gaze drops to his hand to watch the way his thumb presses under the collar, holding it steady while the rest of his fingers drag, stroke, claim.
And all I can think is:
those fingers. Jesus fuck, those fingers.
“Keepin’ my glass full?
“You tryin’ to seduce me now?”
His eyes fall to my mouth
“I don’t need champagne for that.”
I choke on the strawberry.
He smirks into his glass.
I face the city.
Anything to distract me
from the heat pooling between my thighs.
“What’s the deal with this place?
“You bring all your dates here?”
“Only you,” it slips out of him fast, no room for debate. “Most of ‘em don’t make it past the jerkin’ off at Type.”
My eyes cut back to him, mouth falling open.
I pitch the nearest blueberry at him.
“Kiddin’,” he says, blocking it. “I’ve never—”
“Hooked up in the basement at Type before?” I finish.
He points at me. “Exactly. That was new.”
“Felt vintage,” I say.
“Box-set worthy,” he replies.
Our smiles chase each other.
I lift the glass, hiding the grin, when—
“Sonny, we got company. Behind you.”
I pause, glass halfway up. “What?”
He jerks his chin past my shoulder.
I turn.
It’s him.
Same beady, judgmental glare. Same pigeon,
now perched on the ledge
like he’s about to deliver the hit.
“Oh, I know him.”
Andrew raises a brow,
eyes bouncing between me and the pigeon.
“You… know that pigeon?”
“Yeah,” I tip my champagne at the bird. “Showed up when it took you a full twenty-four hours to text me. Sat on my bench in Washington Square, talons on my thigh like—‘you good, sweetheart?’ and... I dunno—I might’ve thrown out somethin’ vague like, ‘take care of it.’”
My gaze swings to him.
“Swear, thought I was venting.
“Guess I greenlit a hit.”
Andrew’s eyes narrow at the pigeon. “Take care of it? Yeah, sounds real vague, Sonny.” He tips his head, giving the pigeon a once-over. “Bird’s over there twitchin' to float my body down the East River.”
The bird blinks, watching.
Andrew leans in, side-eyeing the pigeon.
“Guy got a name, or what?”
I lift my glass. “Who, Two-winged Tony?”
Andrew stares at me, eyes blank.
“Two-winged Tony,” he mutters. “Course it fuckin’ is.” He looks back over at the bird. “Nah—look at the way he’s eyein’ me. Thinks he’s got it like that. Like he knows your middle name and where you sleep."
Andrew raises his glass,
exhaling like he’s seen enough.
“Yeah. He’s gotta go.”
My laugh cracks free without a fight.
His gaze lingers, grin full of heat.
Then his chin ticks up.
“So, what’s your middle name?”
“Mmm. Ask Tony. He’s the only man who’s earned it.” I smirk into my glass. “Try puttin’ a claw on my thigh next time I’m cryin’ and call me pretty. Maybe you’ll get it too.”
He holds my eyes, smirk cutting—
“Yeah? And what do I get if I make you moan instead?”
I drop my head to the side, the wind pulling my hair. “Make me moan all you want, but the only name comin’ out of my mouth? Won’t be mine, Andrew. It’ll be yours.”
His smile stumbles,
falls halfway off his face,
eyes dragging to my lips.
“You don’t even know,” he whispers,
groan laced in.
“The way you say my name?
“Fuck me, Sonny...”
I scoop my hair up off my neck,
catching strays the wind keeps stealing.
“Don’t melt on me now.”