Chapter 13 Wild Horses #2
The moment suspends, all sexual craving in my clit. I squeeze my thighs together to shove the urge back, glancing past him. “Tony’s judging you, by the way.”
Andrew turns—“What, him?”
He grabs a blueberry and chucks it at Tony.
“Move it along, buddy. She’s mine tonight.”
Tony doesn’t budge.
He stares, unblinking. A statue. A sociopigeon.
Andrew stares back at him.
“Yo, why ain’t he movin’?
“Startin’ to freak me out.”
I shoo him with my hand.
“Aight, Tony. Show’s over.
“Beat it before Jersey wets himself.”
Tony tilts his head,
gives one last cold pigeon glare,
then takes flight, wings cutting the air.
Andrew's eyes go wide,
and he drags a hand down his face,
laughing under his breath.
“You just Dr. Dolittle’d a pigeon.”
His laugh lingers, low in his chest,
and he takes another long sip.
I stretch out on the blanket,
spine hitting the stone,
hair spilling around me.
“So lemme get this straight,” I draw it out. “You work four double shifts a week—bellhop by day, bartender by night. Get maybe four hours of sleep if you’re lucky, with only Sundays off?”
I drop my head to the side, facing him.
“What’re you tryin’ to do, die before thirty?”
He throws an arm over a bent knee.
“Ain’t got much of a choice.”
He’s stupid and beautiful, and a worn-down idiot, and all I can think is: He deserves more than working himself into a grave just to keep breathing.
“So what’s the dream, Drew?
“What future are you working towards?
“And don’t say carry bags or pour drinks.
“I’ll judge the hell outta you.”
He goes quiet, the question shaking his guard.
“Can’t think that far ahead most days.”
He grips the back of his neck,
as if the words are stuck there.
“All I know?
“I wanna build somethin’ that fuckin’ lasts.”
His voice fades,
embarrassed by the simplicity of it.
“A life, a place… whatever.
“Somethin’ stayin' and all mine.
“Everything’s always felt like it had an expiration date.”
He tries for a smile, but it slips right off.
He’s not walking alone.
There're ghosts on his shoulders,
shadows on his heels,
scars under his skin.
But I don’t dig.
Wounds belong to the person who's bleeding,
not the one watching.
His finger taps the edge of the glass
as he looks out into the city.
“Eventually, you get sick an' tired of shit blowin' up in your face, y’know?”
The shrug he gives is half a heartbeat late,
and the memory of the look on his face from that night flashes up— when I left him standing there in the basement without a goodbye, an explanation, an apology.
It’s still hovering between us, heavy as fuck.
We keep dancing around it
like if we don’t touch it, it can’t cut us open.
“Dream right now’s just makin’ mortgage next month. Keep the lights on. Try not to punch a wall when the next hospital bill shows up.”
He laughs,
hating that he said it, hating how it sounds.
“Yeah. Real empire-builder shit, right?”
He says it as a joke, but it’s then I know these wounds aren’t scabbed over. They’re still bleeding all over the goddamn floor.
“Hospital bills?” I ask it, one foot in.
“Yeah—liver disease.”
But the words don't fall as they leave him.
They collapse, said fast ‘cause slowing down would cut deeper.
“I cover the bills, groceries, shifts, just holdin’ it down.” He brushes it aside with a shrug. “Still at my moms’. Grew up there. Tryna keep the house ours.”
His thumb scrapes along the rim of his glass.
“Momma takes care of Ma. Keeps her in line with eatin’, pills, doctor runs.”
He says it offhand,
but I catch the heaviness hiding in his eyes.
“How long’s it been like this?”
“I was… eighteen, nineteen?” His head tips, counting the years.
“Yeah. That’s when they first said it—Cirrhosis.
So… what? Eight years now?” His jaw clamps down on whatever’s shaking inside him.
“Been playin’ catch-up ever since. You learn to live inside it, you know?
Routines. A system. Keep movin’ to forget you're standin' on borrowed ground.”
A system, he said.
His is holding someone’s hand through liver failure. Mine’s holding men in place until I finish coming.
We both call it a system.
Only one of us is bullshitting.
“Momma and Ma—both your parents?”
“Yeah. Two moms. Married. Maria and Paola.”
A smile lifts with their names.
“One still pissed she had to carry me for ten months. Both raised me. Both blame me for their gray hair.” He pauses as if his next words might break if he sets them down wrong.
“Maria’s the one who carried me. She’s the one sick.
Stage four. Doctors stopped sayin’ ‘terminal.’ Like it'll keep 'em alive longer.”
A hollow laugh slips out.
“But they’re my family, y’know? So I do what I can. Sometimes that means haulin’ bags, makin’ drinks, and shuttin’ up the part of me that wanted somethin’ more.”
My eyes slide between his.
“Do you still want more?”
Fuck. I shouldn’t’ve asked.
But the question’s already out,
begging him to answer.
The silence smothers as it waits.
Then, finally, he breathes it—
“Yeah.”
The smile following doesn’t fill in.
It floats, useless.
He shakes his head, already regretting it,
wanting to take it all back,
disappointed in himself.
“But life keeps kickin’ it outta me,
“so I stopped lettin' myself go there.”
He goes quiet,
knowing he's already said too much.
“Shit,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
“Didn’t mean to put all that on you…
“I don’t usually run my mouth like this.”
His small smile's a little shaken and honest.
“You keep lookin' at me like you give a damn. Makes me forget I’m supposed to keep shit locked.”
Because I think I do...
“What about your dad?”
You don’t ask about fathers, dumbass.
But nothing I can do about it now.
“Ah yes—the donor.”
He pops a blueberry.
“Tequila and a shit decision is what Ma calls it.
“Name’s a mystery, like the fuckin’ Zodiac.
“Who knows? Might even be him.”
He laughs at the idea, until it melts into a sigh.
“Paola and Maria… they showed up.
“That was enough.”
“Two moms,” I say,
trying not to sound jealous.
“Damn, leave some love for the rest of us.”
I throw back the rest of my glass,
courage for what I'm about to say next—
“My mom died of breast cancer when I was thirteen.”
Because that’s what people do, right?
When someone cracks,
you hand them a piece of you.
I don’t know. I’m not good at this part.
“Shit,” he says, jaw tight, my confession hitting deep. “That’s… yeah. I’m really sorry, Sonny.” His eyes look full of shit he'll never say. A whole story he’s swallowing back. “And here I was about to bitch about bein’ forced into twelve-hour Hallmark marathons every Christmas.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So if you ever get sick of one of your moms,
“I’ll take her off your hands…
“let me borrow the affection for a minute.”
Long enough to remember what it feels like.
His brows jump with a grin right behind.
“You? Walk into my house?
“Swear to God, my moms would lose their shit—first girl ever through the door” he says,
the thought of it dancing in his eyes,
then he leans closer, hand raised between us.
“Yo, you ever need it… you got me, aight?
“Say the word.
“I’ll hug and kiss the shit outta you.”
Yeah.
My heart just smiled.
But my brain slapped it off.
Affection’s easy.
It’s keeping it that fucks you.
Borrowing’s safer.
At least you already know it’s not yours.
“You really never brought anyone home before?” I ask.
“I’m real old-school. Italian moms, y’know how it is.” He grins. “Sunday dinner at the table. No flings at the house. No girls in the bed. After awhile, became my rules too.”
No one’s made it to his bed. And it makes me want to lie next to him even more.
He holds his glass, barely drinking from it, foot nudging mine.“Aight. Your turn. What do you do?”
“For work?” I squint. “Totally classified.”
His head falls back.
“Ah. So I’m not cleared yet. Damn.”
“Locked up with my middle name.”
“Aight, so what about nights and weekends… What’s your off-the-clock look like? Y’know, when you ain’t spyin’ on people, Googlin’ shit, and obsessin’ over Aerosmith?”
I lay a hand on my chest. “Listen—obsession is the only way to keep Aerosmith alive. If I wasn’t actively obsessin’ over them, I’d never hear them.”
He shoots me a what-are-you-talkin’-about face,
complete with a crooked brow.
I nudge my chin toward the city. “You ever walk down a Manhattan block and hear Steven Tyler playin’ through someone’s speakers?” His head tilts, thinking. I keep going— “Or in the produce aisle between Swift and Styles? In a cab? A store? A bar? Or a fuckin’ elevator?”
He can't think of a time.
“Didn’t think so. ‘Cause you don’t accidentally bump into Aerosmith. It never crashes through your speakers by mistake.” I shake my head, the fact pissing me off all over again. “Aerosmith doesn’t show up in your life unless you want it to.”
His expression falls,
world turned upside down.
“Wait—nah. Nah, you’re right.
“You’re so right.”
His laugh leaves shocked.
“You’re deadass right.
“I ain’t ever heard it by accident. Not once.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You gotta choose Aerosmith. Or it disappears. You gotta crave it bad enough to scroll, search, click, play the damn song yourself. It doesn’t come to you. It makes you come to it.”
His face is frozen in heartbreak.
“Yo, why would you say that?”
He leans back, personally attacked.
“Now I’m just… sad. For Aerosmith.
“For all of us, honestly.”
He pauses.
“Hold up—
“what the hell were we even talkin’ about?”
I chuckle. “You asked how I spend my nights and weekends. That was your first mistake.”
He nods, fighting a grin.
“Right. Right. I ask one basic-ass question,
“and you still find a way to fuck me up.”
“Had to throw you off,” I say. “Didn’t wanna ruin the mystery with the part where I’m actually boring as hell.”
He scoffs.
“You? Boring? Not a fuckin’ chance.”