Chapter 20 #3
as if not beating the shit out of him took effort,
and holds out his hand.
I stare at it, then at him.
I have no idea where he'll lead me,
could be heartbreak straight into Hellfire,
but I take his hand,
jumping in head-first anyway.
His fingers wrap around mine,
and he helps me off the stool,
pulling me through the crowd,
his grip firm,
his thumb kneading into my skin.
Before, I used to think he did it to convince himself I’m real and his.
Possessive. Protective.
Never wanting to let go.
But then I remind myself he already did.
On the way to the back,
the music swells,
the lights go down.
People disappear as a door swings open
and we step into a private room.
An intimate room.
An empty room. With a dusky glow.
One smelling of bourbon
and old books
and lipstick-stained cigars.
Like 1920s got drunk, passed out,
and never woke up.
There’s a chandelier throwing shadows across green wallpaper. Velvet sofas. Wingback chairs. A cold fireplace. The door swings shut behind us, eating the noise.
Andrew lets my hand go slow.
And for the first time in five days,
it’s just us.
Alone.
He turns, gripping the back of his neck,
keeping himself from combusting.
The thought of him being nervous should make me feel better, should make this easier, but it doesn’t. I want to speak, say a word, any word, but I don’t know where to start.
So Andrew does—
“You want somethin’ to drink?”
He hooks a thumb behind him.
“I’ll whip somethin’ up for you real quick.”
I nod. Because I can’t find my voice yet.
But even my nod is broken.
He nods too, stiff, mechanical.
And with one last look—
“Just—don’t vanish on me again.
“I can’t take that shit.”
Then he’s gone,
and the room's suddenly too big and quiet.
I drop onto the sofa,
squeeze my thighs together,
drum my fingers against my knees,
every nerve on the loose,
wondering if there's enough time to rub one out.
He returns a few minutes later with one drink.
He hands it to me,
turns the wingback to face me,
then sinks into it.
He’s sitting so close, his knee bumps mine.
I look down into the drink, the cherry red.
“You’re not drinking?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder with a small head shake.
“Nah. I don't drink where I work.”
I lean forward,
wrapping my hands around the glass,
and inhale the first steady breath all night.
When I lift my eyes,
his are already on me,
his elbow resting on the arm of the chair,
finger at his mouth, brushing across his lip.
We’ve both forgotten how to speak,
and neither of us mind.
We stay, eyes chained to each other.
Then I sip from the glass,
and the heat flares down my throat.
It’s warm and bittersweet.
Cherries and dark chocolate.
“What’s this called?”
“Depends," he says behind his fingers.
My voice peaks. “Depends?”
His fingers tap once against the armrest,
then stop.
“It’s got two names dependin’ on the night.”
He wets his bottom lip—
“Amara Mezzanotte and Mezzanotte Amata.”
My brow lifts. “Your recipe?”
He glances off, shifting in his chair before his eyes return to mine. “Needed somethin' that tastes like you but leaves an afterburn.”
My mouth snaps shut.
He points to the glass in my hand.
“Rye. Sweet vermouth.
Splash of Averna.
“Amarena cherry at the bottom.”
His jaw flexes once when he says Amarena.
As if the taste is still in his mouth.
Or maybe I am.
“Tastes even better after midnight.”
Every syllable taps my pulse,
as if he spoke every word
straight into my bloodstream.
My eyes slip away,
my lip catching between my teeth.
“You gonna translate the names, or is that how you say fuck around and find out in fluent Andrew?”
He smiles behind his fingers,
tilting his head a little,
debating whether to give it to me.
“Amara Mezzanotte means bitter midnight. Mezzanotte Amata means beloved midnight.”
The words hit my lips before my ears,
and a stupid smile slides out of me.
Stupid. So stupid. As if he didn’t just spend five days not giving a shit.
I nod.
Then scoff at myself.
Then shake it off.
I thought coming here,
I’d see the end in his face.
I thought I’d see
two slammed doors in his eyes.
I thought I burned the bridge
and all I’d taste was ash.
But he’s right here
with the same drunk-on-you look as before.
And it’s fucking with my head.
‘Cause I was counting on it being gone.
I gaze down into my drink
like it’s going to save me.
As if whiskey ever saved anyone.
His jagged voice cuts between us. “Your rap.”
My eyes snap up.
His are waiting for me, brow lifted.
“It was fuckin’ good.”
“You read the whole thing?”
“Yeah. Shit’s still echoing in my head,” he admits. “I wasn’t expectin’ it.”
Then his crooked smile rises,
petting and cutting my heart up at once.
I swallow. “Yeah, well—it was either bare my soul or send a nude.”
“A nude?” A stunned laugh slips out. “You think I want you floatin’ on some cloud where every tech-bro can zoom in?”
He shakes his head, jaw tight,
then looks at me sideways.
“Swear to God—you ever send me that shit, I’m tossin’ my phone in the Hudson before settin' the cloud on fire.”
When the silence drifts,
he squints,
watching me for a long, serious beat.
“You never done that, right?”
I don’t answer right away, and his head tips.
“Please don’t tell me some asshole out there’s got photos of you. I’ll lose my shit.”
“No. Never,” I say fast. “Dad always said, 'If ya can’t afford ta lose it, don’t hand it ova' with a Newport hangin’ from his mouth. Real Chicago. Real wise guy shit.”
He laughs under his breath, but it’s faint.
“You a real Chi-Yorker, huh?”
He studies me a few seconds longer, then—
“Can’t afford to lose it, don’t hand it over,” he repeats. “That the reason I never stood a chance? Always got one foot out the door, half’a you already gone?”
A fierce silence smothers the room.
I try to speak, but my voice rebels.
I can’t find a single word.
They’re all here, stacked in my mouth,
picking fights with each other.
He waits, watching me crack slowly.
His knee bounces once, then stops.
“I know you didn’t come here to shoot the shit,” he says. “So let’s not waste time pretendin’ this is casual.”
I lift my chin to open my mouth again,
but it won’t.
My head shakes.
I’ve never felt so exposed in silence.
He leans forward, forearms on his knees,
gaze locked on mine.
Not to corner me,
but to catch me.
“Look—
“you don’t owe me a damn thing,” he says.
“But you showed up. I’m here.
“So talk to me, Allison.
“Whatever you gotta say, I wanna hear it.
“All of it.
“No bullshit.”
He has no idea what he’s asking for.
My spine straightens.
My panic drains.
The walls lock in.
I inhale. I exhale.
Then I hand it over,
ripping the whole fucking thing open.
“I don’t do the one-person thing.”
I say it as if it’s written into my DNA.
Permanent. Pre-decided.
“The second I feel boxed in, expected, owned? I run.” I’m not looking at him. I’m watching my nail tap the rim of my glass. “And because I’m a sex addict,” I drop,
then wince at my own words.
“Which isn’t true, it’s just easier than saying I’m addicted to the climax. ‘Cause I don’t even like sex. Or dick. Or kissing. It’s the come I’m wired to. That one high note for ten seconds. Twenty if I’m lucky.”
I shrug. A throwaway gesture to cover the part that stings. “My addiction doesn’t mix well with a one-person commitment. Only brings on guilt. Disappointment. So yeah, don’t wanna be at fault for hurting anyone.”
If I meet his eyes, I’ll lose my edge.
“It's the reason I don’t do feelings either.”
The next part is climbing up.
It’s ugly. It’s unwelcome. But I say it anyway.
“I don't care who loves me or hates me. It all sounds the same after a while. And once someone says they got feelings, I’m suddenly responsible for 'em.
I'm stuck holding 'em. And if I drop 'em? Somehow, I’m the asshole. It’s exhausting.
Suffocating. When I wanna climax and go, I can't when feelings are involved.
I now owe a reason for leaving, a goodbye, a piece of myself I never offered in the first place. "
My heart pounds, hard and brutal.
“So I don't bother with that shit,” I continue, quieter. “And it circles back to me not giving pieces of myself I can’t afford to lose.”
I lift my eyes and find his.
“Because people leave.
“Take those pieces with them.
“And I don’t have many left.”
Well. Damn. That’s out there now.
I should be relieved. But I’m only emptied.
And he’s statue-like, chest barely moving,
leaned back, elbow propped,
fingers braced against his jawline.
He lifts two fingers. “You thought I was gonna take a piece of you?”
My gaze buries into him.
“You already did.”
One answer, and it tastes like blood.
He goes still,
but he breaks from the shock-spell fast, clasping his hands together between his spread thighs, one eye squinting. “And Ben?”
Of course he’d go there.
Not more about my addiction,
but how I’m feeding it.
“Ben is my… boyfriend—technically, yes.
“But it’s not how you think.”
Andrew’s eyes dart between mine.
“How is it then?”
“It’s a business transaction.”
I force myself to hold eye contact
when every nerve is screaming to run.
“It’s structured. He works for me.
“Gives me what I need, when I need it.
“Follows the rules.”
I explain it as if it’s like hiring a chef four nights a week,
except they're the ones eating.
“He’s been in contract for three years.
“He doesn’t care about me.
“And I don’t care about him.”
The truth makes me sound cold.
Hell, maybe I am cold.
Andrew’s sitting there, gutted,
with a maybe-it-wasn’t-real look,
probably wondering if he was just a good orgasm in a bookstore.
“I know what you’re thinking right now,” I say.
He pulls off his glasses,
one hand dragging down his face.
“You know what I’m thinkin’.” He smiles.
“C’mon, then. Let’s hear it.
“Tell me how you think I see you right now.”
The doubt’s written all over his face.