Chapter 21
THE ROLLING STONES
I freeze.
Can’t move.
Can’t speak.
Can’t even blink.
Wrist-deep. Five minutes. Next.
I think I stopped breathing somewhere between all three.
His words weren’t meant for a real person.
I’m just the skin he bounced them off of.
But it was a joke, right? He’s lying.
This guy’s pissed off I rejected him,
and now he’s stirring up shit.
Andrew’s not moving either.
His hand’s frozen on my thigh,
breath stuck in his chest,
eyes are locked on me.
At the way I’m not moving.
At the way my breath isn't leaving.
At the way I’m staring at my thigh where his hand is,
but I can’t feel it anymore.
I can’t feel anything.
As if my whole body stepped out of the room.
Then Andrew turns, finally facing him.
His hand slides with him, cupping behind my knee, not wanting to let go.
His jaw flexes, the pulse in his neck kicking.
“Yo, you think that shit’s funny? Talkin’ about her like that?” His hand slips off me as he rises to his feet. “She’s not some fuckin’ hookup, man. You crossed a line. Made shit real hard on yourself.”
My heart slow-blinks at me like—
Really, bitch?
You wanna fuck things up with this guy?
No one’s ever defended me before.
Not unless their name was Celie
or I paid for it.
The guy’s voice sweeps the room, amused, “Yo, I'm just sayin'—kinda weird to play boyfriend when you just had your dick in someone last week.”
My eyes snap up.
The guy’s smirking,
eyes crawling over my body.
Then he nods at me,
his smile jerking off to the tension.
“Did you tell her about your Friday Night Fuck tradition or nah?”
Andrew sneaks a look at me.
I avoid his gaze, and any grain of truth living in his eyes.
He turns back to the guy,
snaps his fingers once, loud.
“Yo—up here. Eyes off her.
“You ain’t got no business lookin’ at her.”
Then his voice goes so low, so cold, so calm
it’s terrifying.
He steps forward,
staying in front of me, blocking me.
“You payin’ attention now?
“You see me take that step?”
He’s facing the guy, who’s nodding.
Andrew’s slow nod follows. “Good. Give me one more fuckin’ reason to take another step away from her, it’ll be the one you regret.”
The guy tries to smile it away,
tries to test Andrew’s threat,
see if he can lighten it.
Andrew exhales through his nose,
his jaw tight.
“Wipe that fuckin’ look off your face.
“I’m not playin’—Swear to God—
“one more word outta you.
“Let’s see how quick I forget I need this job.”
The guy freezes.
Andrew’s gaze drifts across me,
trying to call out to me.
“Let’s go.” He waves me up.
I can’t open my mouth.
But I can stand, and my muscles ache from being stiff for too long.
‘five minutes before I’m knockin’ for my turn, bro.
‘I want this one next.’
‘… my turn, bro.’
My heart won’t sit still in my chest,
she's pacing around his voice, these words.
She wants out.
‘Friday night fuck tradition…
‘I want this one next…’
I’m shaking my head,
as if the voice will shake out of me.
But there’s only one way to stop it.
I walk past Andrew. Past the guy,
shoulder-checking him so hard
he stumbles into the doorframe.
Andrew's behind me, but I don’t wait for him.
And before the door swings shut,
I hear him say under his breath:
“You fill her head with that shit again,
“I’ll put you in the fuckin’ ground.”
Noise spikes as I turn the corner,
voices climbing the hall.
Then there’s bodies—everywhere.
The bar’s crowded,
wall to wall,
holding in heat.
I want out of my skin, out of myself.
The only answer is a quick come or a cold death.
Either way, I need to be gone.
My pulse is in my clit,
my thighs,
at the bottom of my spine.
Everywhere but where it’s supposed to be.
My thighs clench.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Where’s the exit?
No—the bathroom.
I need the bathroom.
Where the fuck’s the bathroom.
I find it in twenty-five steps or less.
My hand shoves open the door.
It smells of cherry vanilla and vodka breath.
And there’s a fucking line.
Three girls are waiting.
One’s glued to the mirror,
painting her mouth red.
Lipstick. A cap clicking shut.
My heartbeat’s crawling up my throat.
My eyes crawl across three stalls with black doors—
three coffins with brass locks.
I pace off to the side,
my hands shaking.
Sweat drips down my neck, my back,
and sticks to my shirt.
Everything inside me’s pulling tight—
muscle, blood, bone, all screaming.
A stall opens. I lunge,
cutting right in front of the next girl.
“Move, emergency!” I shout,
swinging the door closed,
the lock clicking behind me.
“Wow, okay?”
“Seriously?”
I’m digging in my purse.
Hand sanitizer, travel-size KY, wipes, spare thong—party’s all here.
Skort unzipped, panties pushed,
and the second my finger hits my clit,
a long breath spills out of me.
Then I hear Teddy Vale
through the speakers,
singing “Honey, Don’t Vanish”
straight into my veins.
My thighs twitch. My head hits the wall.
One finger. Same angle. Same speed.
Just get it out. Focus on Teddy.
But the voices come anyway…
‘Give me a pretty view to look at.’
‘You’re one of those—mouth on you,
‘but you like the attention.’
‘I’m knockin’ for my turn, bro.’
‘I want this one next.’
‘Friday Night Fuck Tradition…’
This is your fault, Drew.
If you hadn’t made me wait in your bar,
guys circling me, their eyes grazing,
mouths smirking, minds wandering,
right before I ripped myself open
to give you everything,
say shit I’ve never said out loud,
break myself just to hand you the pieces…
put your hand between my thighs,
let you catch your breath on my skin,
let you use my body like a cigarette,
light me up, burn me out,
I wouldn’t fuckin’ be here,
in a bathroom stall,
trying to outrun that guy’s comments,
the visuals in my head of you,
of a girl’s legs spread wide,
of you fucking a hole against a wall.
I wouldn’t fuckin’ care.
Or be shaking.
Or be this close to crying.
Or be this fucked up right now.
Because you broke me open,
and I can’t trust you to close me back up.
Because I gave you my pulse,
and you handed it back all jacked up.
Got me jonesing.
So fuck you.
I grit my teeth, grinding it out.
Until the orgasm rips out of me.
My thighs shake,
the ecstasy floods.
I'm floating,
swimming.
Until—
Silence.
My body sinks.
Limp. Spent. Hollow in the best way.
I can breathe again, and for a second,
I forget why I ever couldn’t.
After, I clean up.
Wipe.
Flush.
Sanitize.
Breathe.
Zip.
Lipstick reapplied.
I’m already on the VantaCARd app,
calling a car before I’m out of the stall.
Black sedan. Blacked-out windows.
Mine in four minutes.
Then I’m sliding out.
I leave no trace of myself behind.
I don’t catch my reflection on my way out.
Because I’m fine.
When the door swings open, Andrew’s there,
leaning against the wall, waiting for me,
hands in his pockets, jaw set.
As if he saw the whole thing through the goddamn walls.
I keep walking, my thighs trembling.
But he steps in close, blocking me.
“Don’t gotta pull that lone-wolf shit on me, aight?”
Then his hand drops between us near mine,
a small brush of his knuckle across my palm.
The car’s too quiet.
I told Andrew he wasn’t coming up to my floor.
He didn’t argue,
insisting he only wanted to see me home.
Now he’s on the other side of the sedan—
city rushing past,
headlights strobing through the dark—
but I’ve never felt further from him.
His jaw keeps clenching, biting back words,
as if the tinted glass is pissing him off and the leather’s too comfortable.
He didn’t want the car,
didn’t want me paying,
didn’t want to feel like a stray I picked up on the way home.
The car’s spacious,
but still too small for everything left unsaid.
Words pile into the silence,
getting rowdy in the corners of my mouth
that by the time we climb out,
it’s like we survived a riot.
Then the door shuts behind us,
and everything goes still.
Fifth Avenue,
where it’s dead quiet at one in the morning.
Because wealth doesn’t scream.
It whispers and locks its doors and looks the other way.
Mickey spots us before we hit the awning,
bald head shining under the light,
posture chiseled from granite,
coat buttoned to his throat.
“Evenin’, Miss Taylor.”
Mick clocks Drew with an old-school glare—
head to toe, judgment first—
then eyes me. “That him?
“The one stealin’ your smile lately?”
I sigh. “Keep trackin’ my smile, I’ll have to pay you.”
Mick smirks. “Just makin’ sure it’s still yours.”
Andrew leans into me, heat at my spine.
“She let me hold it for a minute,” he says.
“I’ll return it in one piece.”
I shake my head, fighting back a grin,
but lose.
“See?” Andrew looks at me, smug.
“What’d I tell ya? Safe and sound.”
Mickey lifts his chin toward Andrew,
eyes narrowing.
“Union City?”
Andrew nods. “Yeah. Born and raised.”
“Figures,” Mickey grunts. “Straight outta Hudson County with the punched vowels, gold chain, and that keep-it-together jaw if I ever saw one, swallowin’ shit your whole life just to keep the peace.”
Andrew grins, tilting his chin.
“Yeah, and lemme guess—Bayonne.”
Mickey stills.
Andrew keeps going—“You clocked me in five seconds. Then didn’t act surprised when I confirmed it. Only someone from Bayonne does that.”
Mick huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Bayonne.
“And don’t you forget it.”
Great. Mick’s falling for him too.
We should all just line up.
“What is this?” I cut in. “A Jersey thing?
“Or bellhop vs. doorman?”
“Bellhop?” Mick nods, impressed.
“Now that I wasn’t expectin’.”
To a couple Jersey boys,
any job requiring manual labor is respected.
Mick gestures toward him.
“Means you got the patience of a saint and the back of a mule.” He nods with a grin. “Yeah. You might have a shot with her. Hardest part was makin’ it to this building. Miss Taylor doesn’t bring anyone here.”
At the corner of my eye,
Andrew’s smiling down at me like—
she let me in.
Even if it’s only up to the front door.
Mickey rocks on his feet,
attention driving back to me.
“You two heading in?”