Chapter 13 Wild Horses #4
fingers squeezing into a fist next,
trying to hold his reaction together,
but it's slipping away.
“Three hundred? Sonny, that’s...”
He knows the hurt's fresh,
even if I won't admit I'm hurting at all.
So he just sits in it with me,
looking out into the skyline,
then almost smiles.
Then he does.
I knock his shoe with my heel. “What?”
He rolls a shoulder. “Still really fuckin’ cool your music’s out there. People leanin’ on it, not even knowin’ it’s you.”
He says this, having no idea he’s wearing my words under his heart.
And I’m watching him smile, thinking—
I’d lose my song a thousand times more,
if it means the song finding him a thousand times again.
Even if he's the only one who ever lets it in.
I’ll never tell him that, though.
“Will you ever play for me?” he asks.
“Maybe.” A lie that doesn’t taste like one yet.
“I usually only play in the studio or at home.”
He doesn’t push,
but his eyes are everywhere—
my chest, collarbone, eyes, mouth—
deciding on his favorite place to settle.
“You should know,” he says, back to my eyes...
“I’m so wrapped up in you.
“Just wanna keep listening.
“Wanna know everything.
“Do shit with you.
“Be where you are.
“Crawl into you and just… stay.”
It falls quiet,
the wind blowing between us, taking my hair.
“You don’t.”
I'm too locked up from his words to move,
my hair slapping my face.
“There’s a lot of darkness in there.”
He leans over,
pulling strands from my mouth.
“I’ll bring a light to find my way around.”
He grins, tucking it all behind my ear—
“It comes with the territory, right?”
My eyes jump between his.
“What does?”
“Music... Creating. Playing.
“Guess we do it so we don’t drown in everything we can’t say. Gotta turn it into somethin’—sound, lyrics, noise. Somethin’ that can leave us, somewhere else to put it, so we don’t stay stuck with it.”
One word flashes bright.
“You said we.” I grin. “Knew it. You’re not just Mr. Bellhop-Bartender.”
He sits back as I study him.
“Guitar?”
“Yeah.” He eyes me suspiciously. “How the hell’d you guess that?”
“Your hands,” I say.
He looks at them.
“What—the calluses?”
I smirk, cocking my head.
“Was thinkin’ more about finger-skills, but sure.”
He laughs, eyes shining.
“Glad to know I’m hittin’ the right notes.”
I bite down on my smile.
“Now you gotta prove it.
“I wanna hear you play.”
“Okay,” he says. “Anytime you want.”
I lift a brow. “Originals?”
“Nah, I try.
“Been tryin’ for years.
“Can’t finish one for shit.”
He looks away, embarrassed.
“Got notes full'a half-songs, riffs goin’ nowhere. It’s like— I get halfway there and—" He stops, not having an answer for why it falls apart. “Somethin’s missin’, and I don’t got whatever it is.”
I meet his eyes.
“I can tell you what’s missing.”
“Yeah? Miss Songwriter’s got me all figured out, huh?”
“Got an idea.”
I could be wrong, but I doubt it.
“If the song’s off, it’s not because you’re missing something. It’s because the music’s missing you.”
His brows snap together.
I lean in.
“You’re either scared to say what you really wanna say… or you’re sayin’ it for someone else. Music feels the bullshit every time. It doesn't care how good you are or how hard you try. Art wants blood. You fake it? You give it only half of you? It’ll spit you right back out.”
His mouth tugs at the corner,
like he wants to smile but forgot how.
I tip my chin at him.
“Sounds like you give everyone all you got…
“and forget to keep some for yourself.
“That won’t work with music.
“You gotta write for you.
“Play for you.
“You have to let it be yours.
“What do you need.
“What do you want.
“How do you feel.”
His eyes flick across my face,
and my voice drops lower.
“Be selfish for once, Drew.
“Fuck perfection. Just be honest.”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Only the sound of surrender
tangled in a laugh.
“You always do that,” he breathes out.
“Do what?”
“I try to play it safe, and you—”
He throws his hand up at me.
“Shake me up. Every fuckin’ time.”
He looks away,
then back.
“Yeah, aight. You right.”
A raspy sigh seeps from him.
“Damn. No one’s ever called me out… and made me wanna do better in the same breath.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up,
all play and pull.
“So you gonna help me?”
His question sits there. Mine, if I want it.
I should take it all back. But I don’t.
I want to keep him. But I can’t.
I sip the champagne,
keeping myself from saying shit I’ll regret.
Like stay.
Touch me.
Kiss me.
Don’t leave me.
Instead, I go with:
“… Tony’s back.”
Andrew cocks his head. “Tony?”
I nudge my head past his shoulder. “He’s been standing behind you for like five minutes.”
Andrew's shoulders tense. “Wait—behind me, behind me?”
“Didn’t wanna alarm you,” I mutter into my drink.
He turns slowly,
seeing Two-winged Tony,
who's one foot away, unblinking.
Then he jolts, elbow knocking into the champagne glass. It tips, spins, bounces, rolls off the blanket, and champagne spills.
I cover my mouth to hold my laugh in.
He whips around.
“Yo, why didn’t you say somethin’?!”
I can’t breathe, I’m laughing too hard.
His eyes go wide.
“He was behind me the whole time?”
I suck in a breath—“Five minutes. Minimum.
"Puffin’ up. Givin’ you the death glare.”
His face cracks with betrayal. “I’m sittin’ here spillin’ my guts... and you got Tony postin’ up behind me like the hit’s goin’ down this second?”
“Honestly? You’re on very thin ice, pal.”
A smile breaks across his face. “For what?!”
I drop into my best mob voice:
“You got some nerve…
“bringin’ her here…
“on my turf… ”
Andrew’s brows bunch,
confused but full-on grinning.
I press on, flicking my fingers at him:
“…This stunad, all huggin’ her then vanishin’ for twenty-four hours. Some wannabe Casanova with more fruit than follow-through, eh?”
Andrew's smile won't let up.
“Nah, you scary good at that—stop.”
I don't—
“…You think you can just waltz back into her life with tunes…
“warm champagne, blueberries.
“In my city. On my rooftop?
“Disrespectin’ the family?
“…Fuggedaboutit.”
A laugh bubbles out of him,
fist over his mouth.
“… A real wiseguy, this one …
“No sufferin’. No cannoli. No apology."
Then he’s doubled over,
laughing and stunned and gone.
I lean in, breathless:
“She cried. 8:30.
“Washington Square.
“I held her thigh.
“With my foot…”
We lean in, laughing—
same time—
A crash collision.
Our foreheads smack so hard
it echoes off the skyline.
We both clutch our heads,
losing it completely,
the no-sound,
stomach-aching,
breath-gone laughter.
I fall back onto the blanket, wheezing. “Who needs Tony when we take each other out?”
Andrew groans through his laugh.
“Nah. You said no cannoli—”
“Shoulda packed the cannolis, homie,”
I jab from the ground.
Tony's glaring down, judging us.
“I’m gonna get whacked,” Andrew pants. “Tell your ex to stand down.”
I wipe my eyes.
“I don’t control him. He answers to no one.”
Our laughter fades into shaky aftershocks.
Those stupid, breathy,
I can’t-believe-we-just-laughed-that-hard laughs.
Then Andrew leans in,
still smiling.
“Hey,” he says, softer now,
thumb brushing my forehead.
“You good? Did I break your skull?”
I grin, breathless. “I’m good. Just seeing stars.”
But I don’t move. Neither does he.
Somewhere behind us,
Tony puffs his chest a little higher.
// 4:57 AM //
I always keep one hand on the exit.
But with him I’m not thinking about leaving.
The music shifted to Bell Bottom Blues.
We're laying on our sides,
facing each other.
His fingers brush the edge of my tattoo, featherlight.
I should be cold, but I don’t feel it.
Not with him this close...
or with the champagne in my blood...
or with his fingertips trailing my skin.
“What does this mean?” he asks,
brushing my hair off my shoulder,
his fingertips grazing over the ink.
His eyes fall heavy
as they follow the curve of it.
“It’s a soundwave…
“My dad was a musician too. Guitar.
“It’s his voice.”
Andrew touches it gentle,
'cause it's a piece of me.
Then his hand slides warm across my bare back.
It lingers at the base of my spine
before dragging me closer
until I’m pressed up against him,
our foreheads nearly touching.
The heat of him floods all the way through me,
combating the the next icy breeze.
Our chests rise and fall together
as his fingers drift slower now.
He finds the exposed cut of my dress down my side, pausing before touching the second tattoo.
His thumb hovers over it,
barely grazing the skin of my ribs.
He’s not looking at the ink.
He’s looking at my mouth.
At the way I inhale too jagged.
He doesn’t move
until I exhale.
And the second I do,
he traces the tattoo under the curve of my breast.
My skin catches fire,
his touch pooling between my thighs.
“And this?” he asks, more breath than sound.
“A keyhole.”
He brushes over it,
then his thumb inches to my breast.
He traces the pad of it along the curve,
and the warmth follows.
My next exhale leaves shaky.
His eyes stay on me,
keeping up with my every reaction.
“Why a keyhole?” he asks in a whisper,
his palm dragging up my skin,
spilling summer through my veins.
I suck in a breath, fight the smile.
“To remind myself I have the power,” I say,
words barely making it out.
“No one can manipulate me,
“or use me,
“or break me,
“unless I give them the key.”
I lift my gaze to his.
“I’m in charge of my life, and how I feel.”
It comes out strong, 'cause I need it to be.
'Cause saying it out loud might make it true.
Two navy eyes find me in the dark
as his palm slides down my side... to my hip.
He pulls me closer, pinning my pelvis to his.
I feel the shape of his cock press against me.
It makes my lungs forget how to function.
And when I rake my nails across his scalp,
his next breath stumbles,
his eyes fluttering, half-lidded.
He sinks into it,
his mouth parting against mine.
Not kissing, just breath and lips grazing.
His eyes flick down.
To my mouth.
To my throat.
Back to my mouth,
then he brushes his lips across mine again.
“You let me kiss you right now?
“If I do it—
“I mean really fuckin’ kiss you?
“That’s it. I’m gone.”
My breathing deepens,
all the words I want to say
clogging in my throat.
And I want him to kiss me.
God—I want him to fucking kiss me.
But right before I melt into his lips, I tense up.
'Cause I can’t let him.
It wouldn’t be fair to him.
'Cause I fucking care about him.
He notices the hesitation, the way I go rigid.
And then he lets go of me.
Not all at once, but slowly
backing away from the edge of the cliff,
even if all of him wanted to jump.
He swallows.
“It’s almost five. City’s wakin’ up.
“We should dip
“before someone catches us up here.”
His smile is strained, held together by hope.
I nod because I don’t know what else to do.
Everything in me is still buzzing from his touch.
He stands first and holds out his hand.
And the second I take it,
the second I get to my feet,
the night stops breathing.
Because he doesn't let my hand go.
Because we can’t look away.
Because his thumb brushes across my mine.
I know this moment.
I’ve heard it before.
In the silence between a bridge and a chorus.
The part when you hold your breath.
Right before everything explodes.
“Andrew—” I rasp.
But we move at the same time.
He breathes it—
“I can’t fuckin’ let go—”
“Then don’t.”