Chapter 6 #2
A stretch of silence passed before Andrew stepped in, his hand liftin’ like he was breakin' bad news gently. “I don’t fuck in beds, sweetheart. I fuck standin’ up.” He tipped his Coke bottle at me. “You ain’t got what it takes to lay me down.”
Chaotic laughter broke out, drinks flew up, sneakers scuffing pavement.
The guys sounded locker-room-rowdy, no coach around.
“Yo, your five minutes is up, mama!” Maria shouted from across the lot, hands cupped around her mouth. “And I don’t see nobody beggin'.”
Josalyn nearly doubled over while Carlos pounded the hood of his car, both losin’ their shit.
I turned—hips swingin’, chin up, whole body sayin’ that was the plan all along. They were watchin’ my ass bounce as I walked away, and I knew Andrew was already flexin’, playin’ the game: Yeah, she fine as fuck. Don’t mean I’m gonna make it easy.
I stepped into the glow of the headlights, slidin’ back into my circle. Carlos was tryin’ to hold in his grin, keepin’ his eyes on the ground. Josalyn cocked her head, one brow up. “Tried to tell ya.”
After an hour, the lot thinned out, engines turnin’, car doors slammin’.
One by one, the night peeled away in tail lights.
I spent the full hour leaned against Carlos’s car, lightin’ cigarette after cigarette, checkin’ my reflection in every window that rolled by, collectin' compliments while Andrew across the lot stood there like nothin’ but the night was allowed to touch him.
As if I were nothin’ but a leaf that once blew past, gone and forgotten.
I convinced myself he either didn't like women or his dick had issues.
Carlos swung his keys, metal janglin’ like he had better shit to do. “You ready to head out? We’re hittin’ a party in Edgewater. Some rooftop spot, DJ from Brooklyn who thinks he invented techno. I’ll drop you at your car.”
I was only half-listenin’, still tastin’ the bitter and cheap rejection from this game he was tryin' to run. His words kept echoing in my head: ‘I’m not your guy.’
The fuck he wasn't. I'd spent the last five years eatin', squatin', sweatin', chasin' a body no man had ever looked away from. Curves I carved out my damn self. I had DJs beggin’ on their knees, married men still blowin’ up my phone. But rejected by some guy who fucked busted-face Vic?
That guy? Tellin’ me no in front of his boys? Not fuckin’ happenin’.
Maria brought up a wreck on 495, but I was already walkin’, fire in my heels and vengeance in my veins. I cut through the group, stoppin’ square in front of Andrew, who was still posted up against the hood, feet spread.
“You gonna walk me to my car or what?” I said.
Andrew barely looked at me, grippin’ a water now instead of Coke, hand droppin’ onto Frankie’s shoulder. “Yo, you good to walk her?”
He was still actin' like he'd rather fuck a guitar, still playin' Mr. Hard-to-Get, while I was standin' right there, seein' through every second of it. I scoffed, shakin’ my head and hand at the same time.
“Nah. I didn’t ask him,” I said. “I asked you.”
Then his eyes hit me hard, face holding a no. I could see the word sittin' in his mouth, the rejection waitin' to drop. But he stalled, studyin' me like he wanted a reason not to say it, a reason to drop the saint act and give in.
If he said no again, I'd've made it a joke, blamed the heat, the full moon, admit I was just messin'. It wasn't that serious—I was only playin' hard to see how close I could get before he cracked just to prove he'd fuck me if he got the chance.
Then—actin' all reluctant as hell—he sighed, kickin’ off the bumper. “Let’s go.”
I led the way, heels hittin' pavement. Behind me, his water bottle crunched in his grip. Boy couldn't keep his cool, followed like a good little puppy.
We left the view of the skyline, the boys’ laughter fadin’ into the hum of the Hudson behind us. Bass shook my heels each time a car flew by, and under every step, the sidewalk was still steamin’ from the day’s heat, our path littered with cigarette butts, bottle caps, and old MetroCards.
The streetlamp flickered once overhead, catchin’ me in gold, stretchin’ my shadow long and hungry, chasin’ his down the sidewalk. And from a third-floor window, Renegade by Styx coughed out from some speaker.
When we turned down a narrower side street, the song faded.
Half the streetlights were out, and cars were wedged up on driveways and curbs. One had a shattered taillight. Another had a baby shoe hanging from the rearview. At the end of the block, my Dodge Charger waited, tucked under another buzzing streetlamp.
I finally slowed, then stopped, then turned.
“This is me,” I said, standin’ near the hood, actin' like I was searchin’ for my fob, waitin' for him to stop me. Sweat was slidin’ down my spine, teasin’ the waistband of my too-short shorts.
I didn't know if the sweat was comin’ from the summer heat or anticipation of what was about to happen: him bendin’ me over the hood, his off-limits cock inside me, my hips bruisin’ the black paint job, my name in every bitch's mouth.
But he was just standin’ under the streetlamp, five feet away—half-lit, half-shadowed, half-gone and full of shit. Swear, he was still runnin' the same cat-and-mouse game as me, thinkin' I was gonna beg.
His empty water bottle hit the trashcan, and he slid off his glasses, exhaling hard, draggin’ a hand through his hair. He sank his other hand into his pocket as he peered down the empty street, back from where we came, as if he was ready to dip out.
I unlocked the Charger with a beep and slowly walked to the driver’s side, waitin’ for him to stop me. Each step was a threat, that if I made it to my door before he spoke up, he wasn't gettin' shit. But he didn't make a move, didn't say anything.
I stepped up to the door.
Nothin’.
Then, I yanked it open.
On cue, Andrew lifted two fingers.
“Aight, Rox.”
He didn't glance back.
My hair whipped in my face, and I didn't bother movin’ it.
“Wait—seriously?”
He stopped, turnin' halfway, wettin' his bottom lip as he held up a palm. “The fuck you expect?”
He watched me, brow cocked, waitin' for me to say somethin'.
For a second, I'd gone brittle again. All the armor I built—strong thighs, brutal rejections, don’t-give-a-fuck grins—felt paper thin.
For a second, I was eighteen again on the Shore, ninety pounds, knees like knuckles knockin' together, fragile, flat, swimmin' in a T-shirt, breathin' in salt and stares from people writin' one of three stories on my bones: self-starvin', parent-starvin', or sick-girl tragedy.
The words echoed—stick, ghost, a thing that disappears when turnin’. A time when I was fightin’ bra gaps, loose jeans, and men swearin’ I was a twelve-year-old boy.
Except at that moment? It was worse. 'Cause at that moment I knew how it felt to be lusted after—looked at with desire, not a goddamn diagnosis.
And for a fuckin' second, I thought he really wanted nothin’ to do with me.
I thought I lost, felt it in my throat as I stood there lookin' stupid while a temper raged in my head.
I saw myself flippin' the game board, pieces scatterin', me already blamin' the rules.
But after that second passed, I realized—nah, he was still lookin' right at me. The game wasn't fuckin' over. A frustrated breath left me, and I raked back my hair. “You really wanna walk away?”
There was an all-knowing look in his gaze, as if he wasn't surprised how this night turned out. “You thought if you got me alone I’d change my mind?” He paused, a drop of sweat drippin' down the vein in his neck. “I don’t fall for that kinda bullshit.”
I slammed the car door with a hollow clunk echoing down the dead-end street. I scanned him slowly, from the flex in his jaw to his fist clutchin’ the button-up hangin’ off his shoulder.
“All those stories…” I started. “And you run off like a little bitch the second a girl you can’t handle gets too close. Whole neighborhood talkin' 'bout you like you some fantasy. You probably started half those stories yourself.”
He laughed. "Nah—I ain't you."
“Then lemme guess.” I stepped into his space, palm flat on his chest. “You don’t fuck with fine girls like me ‘cause deep down you know the ones you want? They don’t want you or that fuckin’ mouth bitches be braggin’ about.
That’s why you get with girls like Vic. Safe, easy, grateful. Makes you feel like a god.”
He stepped back. “Nah, don’t fuckin’ touch me, aight?”
And I'm thinkin'—look at this guy, still runnin' his hard-to-get game, and I wondered how unbothered he'd stay with my tongue in his mouth. So I leaned in, fingers hookin' his belt, mouth launchin' for his.
Harding dodged the kiss, my lips barely grazin’ his cheek. Then he snatched my wrist, spun me hard, and shoved me against the driver's side door, pinnin’ my arm behind my back.
My chest hit the side of my car with a thud, metal shockin' my tits.
“The fuck—” My cheek scraped the dusty glass.
But then he was right there, his hard abs flush to my spine, his belt buckle kissin’ my ass, breath hot at my scalp. “Said not to fuckin’ touch me.”
The streetlight hummed above us, buzzin’, watchin’.
When he leaned in, his gold chain tapped my shoulder.
“Still think I’m scared’a girls like you?
” he asked, and my thighs clenched, my breathin' jagged. “Lemme make somethin’ real clear—there ain’t ‘girls like you’ and ‘girls like Vic.’ That’s the most bitch-ass, judgmental shit I ever heard.
I don’t split women into fuckin’ categories. That ain’t me.”
His grip was loose enough that I could escape if I wanted to.
But I didn't. I stared at the warped reflection, my face, my sweat, the way my tits were pressed up against the glass, and him standin' behind me with his jaw locked, thick cock pressin' between my cheeks.