Chapter 24 Alone
HEART
I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing.
He’s intentionally driving me insane
and getting high off of it.
Because getting an answer out of him?
Might as well crawl into his brain
and dig it out myself.
I keep picturing him in his room late at night,
between pouring drinks at the bar,
between guests at the hotel,
phone in hand,
reading the contract,
rereading it,
weighing every word,
analyzing every syllable,
finding any loopholes.
If he were my Boy,
I’d have him on his knees by now.
If he were mine,
he’d be paying for not answering me.
But he’s not mine. He’s Andrew.
The one who talked me into this.
The one who cracked me open,
poured hope in,
then walked off to think about it.
I shove the thought away as the limo glides through Midtown. Outside, Manhattan blurs across the glass in headlights, in gold and red neon—urban watercolor.
Beside me,
Ben’s leaned against the window,
glancing over.
“Why you so quiet all’a sudden?” he says.
Blond hair slicked. Armani suit hugging every muscle that cost him four hours a day. A perfectly shaven jaw, stubble casting shadows that make women melt.
He’s a GQ cover with two hammers for fists.
I fix my dress—
black satin,
backless,
cuts down the middle,
cuts down the sides of my breasts,
a slit high enough to be dangerous.
“I’m fine.”
It’s my trademark. And total bullshit.
I turn back to the window.
I should’ve brought Celie.
At least then I’d be laughing.
Not sitting here counting my own fucking inhales.
The limo rolls to a stop.
When the door swings open,
the world lunges in, slamming into me.
Flashing lights.
Gossip blogs circling.
Paps shouting names.
Ben climbs out first,
perfect posture, perfect face.
He turns,
prince charming offering his hand,
and I take it.
When they see me,
half the paps drop their cameras,
turn to each other,
and small-talk like I’m a brick wall.
But the second Ben ushers me inside,
chatter hums under the music.
The room’s still moving, buzzing,
but the current runs straight to me.
Heads turn. Gazes follow.
They quiet in waves as I walk by.
Artists slip me discreet nods, hidden grins.
Execs grip their glasses tighter.
A&Rs point me out,
plotting how they’ll get a word in.
On the street, I’m no one.
But inside these walls,
my name enters a room before I do.
They all know I’m the girl who can make or break them.
Save their careers,
stuff their pockets,
keep their name from vanishing.
The one who can turn a washed-up setlist
into a sold-out world tour.
The pen that writes them back from the dead.
I’m famous only to the famous, which makes me the most famous nobody alive.
And I wouldn’t trade it for shit.
Ben stays close.
But never too close to outshine.
It’s one of the things I like about him. He knows exactly how to fit into my world without trying to make it his.
For half an hour,
I laugh where I’m supposed to,
smile as if my stomach isn’t strangling itself,
pretend my mind isn’t trapped in a waiting room, desperate for an answer from a Jersey boy that might never come.
Then I see Raymond.
He’s slicing through the crowd,
laughing,
shaking hands,
patting shoulders.
He spots us.
He’s closing in.
I grab Ben’s arm, fake a smile.
“I need a fuckin’ breath. Don’t wait up.”
He catches the nerves in my eyes I can’t hide.
“Yeah, aight,” he says. “I’ll be at our table.”
I don’t walk. I escape.
My breath curls up in the corner of my lungs
until I break from the crowd.
Then it scatters out in scraps.
I want a drink—God, I want a drink.
One with alcohol
to take the fucking edge off.
But not here.
I don’t trust anyone in this place.
I don’t get sloppy where hands could grab
and mouths could lie.
I’m halfway to the bar,
Cranberry Soda on my mind,
when the noise disappears.
The music fades.
The people blur.
Time warps.
All of it collapses the second I look up.
And see Andrew.
Behind the bar.
And I stop moving.
Five feet away,
and it might as well be a hundred.
He’s wiping down a glass,
unaware he just shattered the night.
Sleeves pushed up, black dress shirt, black tie.
Everything I’ve been trying to stop thinking about—all there.
My stare sinks into him.
He feels it.
And lifts his eyes.
Gaze rising slow.
Until our eyes crash.
And he freezes.
The shock hits.
His face goes blank.
Forgetting where he is.
We’ve done this before—
me on this side, him behind the bar.
But this time I didn’t see it coming.
He wasn’t ready to see me, either.
The impact’s written all over his face.
Neither of us moves.
We just stare.
And then a voice slices through the noise.
“Allison. There you are.”
My spine goes stiff.
My eyes shut.
My stomach caves in.
“Raymond,” I say through a clenched jaw.
When I open my eyes, he’s already beside me,
walking with me the rest of the way to the bar.
Andrew watches us,
eyes darting between me and Raymond,
then back again.
Whatever existed between us—
whatever gravity had me rooted to the floor—
vanishes.
Andrew stands taller.
Then his face resets,
wipes clean,
smooths over like glassware.
Professional. Indifferent. Bartender neutral.
As if I’m no one.
And now?
I wanna flip this whole place upside down,
shove the glasses off the bar,
grab him by the collar, and say—
don’t you fuckin’ dare pretend I’m just another face in this room.
But I don’t move.
All I’m capable of is standing.
While being nobody.
And he stands there, pretending I’m nobody.
Raymond knocks once on the polished bar.
“Whiskey neat.”
Andrew nods,
grabs the bottle,
pours,
seeming unbothered.
A chill creeps under my skin at how easily he can play this cool.
I shift on my heel, heart ticking louder in my ears as he pushes the drink across the bar to Raymond.
Then finally, his eyes find mine.
He leans in. “And what about for you?”
His voice strokes my pulse.
My body lights up,
a rush of heat through my veins.
As if my body recognizes it,
all my blood trying to escape me to run to it.
I’m staring back at him,
fisting my dress at my thigh.
My heart’s a runaway train—
off-track, wild, barreling straight for him,
speeding faster with every second his eyes are on me, waiting for me to answer.
And all I can think is—
where the fuck is my answer?
He’s been dangling it over me all week.
One text short of mercy.
And right when I open my mouth—
“She don’t drink at events,” Raymond cuts in.
“Club soda’ll do.”
My mouth’s still open.
But the words freeze behind my teeth.
Andrew’s eyes don’t leave me.
He taps the bar like it’s keeping him from jumping over it.
“Is that what you want?” he asks,
a challenge laced in heat.
From my left, Raymond’s gaze weighs on me. As if ordering anything else would be betrayal.
I clear my throat, straightening.
“Actually,” I say,
“make it an Amara Mezzanotte.
“And make it extra bitter.”
His mouth borders on a grin.
“Nice call.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Some of us don’t need ten days to figure out what we want.”
His smile strikes—
then his teeth dig into his bottom lip to kill it fast.
A laugh slips out anyway,
curled into his breath,
and he hangs his head,
shakes it once,
pushes off the bar,
and goes for the bottle.
“Better make it two,” Raymond tosses in,
eyes stuck to the side of my face.
“Wouldn’t wanna leave her date hangin’.”
Andrew’s hand stalls midair, glass in hand—
whole body locked up.
A second passes.
Then he moves again, like it didn’t happen.
His gaze drifts past me—
scanning, hunting, casing the room for Ben.
Raymond turns to me,
his hand sliding down my arm.
I flinch, my skin trying to peel off the bone just to get away.
Andrew sees it, and his fingers clench around the whiskey. Every muscle ripples down his forearm, his jaw tensing.
Then his stare goes cold,
eyes tracking Raymond’s fingers.
“Looks like you’re havin’ your fun,” Raymond says.
I step back an inch to make his hand slide off my arm, and I grip the spot where his fingers were, chasing his touch with my own, trying to overwrite the memory before it settles into my skin.
“Not yet,” I say, gaze drifting across the room.
“But the night’s still young.”
Raymond swirls the whiskey in his glass,
sips slow,
eyes on me the whole time.
Then his smirk crawls in,
and he leans close, arm settling on the bar—
“Been keepin’ those pretty hands busy, huh.”
He smirks.
He’s not only talking about me digging into files at Soundwave. The devil in his eyes says he knows I haven’t used Ben in twelve days.
I match his smirk,
pissed that Ben updates him.
Pissed he’s got eyes in the building
and in my penthouse,
watching my every move.
“Keeping tabs again?”
“Hey—I’m just lookin’ out.”
He shrugs, eyes moving across the room.
“Poke around long enough, you’re bound to find somethin’ that bites back. And your daddy? Made more than a few messy deals.”
Andrew’s listening. Andrew's watching.
Every quick glance is a fingerprint pressed into the back of my neck.
Raymond lifts his glass,
watching me over the rim.
“No point diggin’ up ghosts, baby.
“I’m tryin’ to keep your legacy spotless.
“Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
He says legacy like it’s his to protect.
Then he taps the glass,
watching my bored expression.
“You always been headstrong. Nothin’ wrong with that. But don’t go mistakin’ chaos for independence.”
I blow out a breath,
steer my gaze across the floor.
“Yeah. Appreciate the advice,” I say,
and the coldness in my voice kills him.
His eyes rake down my body, his grin follows.
Feral. Filthy. Faking charm.
“Really think you’ve grown into somethin’, huh?”
My eyes whip to him fast,
my fist pressing into the bar,
nails biting the edge.
“Didn’t have a fuckin’ choice,” I whisper.
My voice trembles, but it doesn’t back down.
He drains the rest of the whiskey,
flips the glass,
slamming it face-down in front of me.
The sound makes me jump in place.
He leans in, tucking my hair behind my ear,
his mouth close to my temple.