Chapter 25 You Really Got A Hold On Me
SMOKEY ROBINSON, STEVEN TYLER
“Yo, that bartender last night?
“Way too generous, man.”
Ace trails into the studio like the night puked him out,
eyes half-lidded,
zip-up hanging off his shoulder,
coffee in one hand, takeout in the other.
“Bro smiled when he handed me my last drink,” he mutters. “I knew I wasn’t makin’ it out alive.”
His hand’s shaking when he brings the coffee to his lips.
Then he collapses into the chair with a groan,
the night still beating the shit out of him.
“He poured like he was tryin’ to put me to sleep for good.” He shakes his head. “Aloha and goodbye.”
I flip a page, not looking up at him.
“The only thing he killed was your game.
“You lost three girls ‘cause you were slurrin’ and doin’ that weird-ass shoulder thing.” I flip another page. “Shit freaked me the fuck out.”
He lets out a wounded noise, then winces.
“Feels like I got jumped by the ocean.”
He rubs his temples, groaning again.
“Shoulda hit pause on this.
“My brain’s about three waves behind.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say,
glancing at the mixing board,
all pulse and glow, having its own heartbeat.
“Studio’s full ‘til next Sunday.”
Ace sighs, chair creaking as he leans back,
stretching his arms behind his head.
Across from us,
Digby Holliday—London-born rocker and currently the second most miserable bastard alive—stares up at the ceiling like it was the one who broke his heart.
He’s sunk into the couch,
limbs long and wrecked,
one foot kicked up on the coffee table,
lip ring caught in his teeth,
tattooed arms crossing his chest.
Eyes, bloodshot.
Curls, a mess.
Just a man bleeding from a woman who loved drugs more.
He’d been her punching bag,
her vein to stick,
the mirror she smashed every night.
Now he’s stuck with needle tracks in his memory, and a thousand stitches in his heart.
Digby’s humming again, same line, same key
looped to death in his head.
“It’s off,” he mutters,
dragging a hand down his face.
“The whole thing’s fuckin off, mate.
“It’s flat. Lyrics are limp. Melody’s rubbish.”
He’s staring into nothing—
the coffee table,
the wood grain,
the face of his ex.
“Music’s meant to fuck you up a little, yeah?”
He shakes his head, over it.
“So I need it to fucking hurt.
“The way I’m fucking hurting.”
Then he shoots to his feet,
the words snatching him up.
Pacing, breathing, he spins to face me,
hands locked behind his neck.
“Let’s bin it,” he says, jaw flexing.
“It’s dead. Let it die. We start over.”
Ace throws his head back in the chair,
mumbling—
“…Shoulda lit up before walking in here.”
Diggs reaches for the notebook on the coffee table, and I snatch it first before he can set fire to it.
It’s a mess, yeah. But not a total loss.
“We’re keeping this one.”
I tap my pen against the page—
“‘I’m walking through the wreck you made of me.’”
It’s the only line that feels like a bruise.
“We need the feeling that makes people want to tattoo it on their ribcage.”
My mind’s spinning.
Not because of Andrew—
(Don’t fuckin’ start that shit.)
It’s been seventeen hours since I left him on the terrace.
And no—
I’m not thinking about him.
Not at all.
Nah.
I’m distracted.
Writing. Working. Creating.
Not thinking about him.
Don’t got time.
He’s the last damn thing on my mind.
These lies fill my head with poison.
I drink them down like water.
Then it hits me.
“I think I got somethin’—a visual.”
Diggs flops back onto the couch.
“Fuck it—give me a visual.”
I snap my fingers once.
“Both of you, lean back. Eyes closed.”
I point at Ace. “No nap time. I mean it.”
He shoots me a pained look, groans,
does it anyway.
Diggs follows.
And I drop last.
Into cracked leather.
Into the hush.
The mixing board hums.
The amps breathe.
The silence curls around our ankles,
waiting for me.
“Alright.”
The room falls quiet.
“Picture this: a loud-as-hell, unforgiving break-up anthem. The kind that shatters glass. Where every lyric gets screamed until throats bleed. A fuck-you goodbye. The one defining moment when you finally choose the unknown over her.”
Ace hums under his breath. Diggs shifts.
“The intro?” I keep going. “Eerie piano, real stripped. Haunting. Pretty in a way that hurts, like the beginning of a lie that feels good, the numb at the peak of a high, the lust you were chasing. Then the first verse kicks in. Drums and guitar barely breathing. A dull heartbeat in the distance.
“You’re standing on cracked pavement, staring at Jess. Every direction? Mirrors. Her reflection in every one. Her shadow in every space between. She built that room for you, then trapped you both inside.”
Her glass house of cravings.
Thought she could have it all—
her highs and lover, her fix and savior.
But all she did was make him watch her fall apart from every angle.
What’s mad—
half of him liked it.
He once said it felt like purpose,
the reason he stayed in it so long.
“The pre-chorus sneaks up on you. You don’t even know it’s happening. The piano slips out the back. Guitar loops slow, a thread pulling tighter with every bar—stacking and stacking. Mirrors start cracking. One by one. Truth shattering in sequence. And on the other side of ‘em? A dark storm.
“The riff climbs to a breaking point, then—”
I snap my fingers.
“Gone. Cuts out. A knife through noise.”
‘Then—”
I slam my palm against the table.
“The drums explode—violent.
“Last mirror shatters.
“And this is it. Your chance to walk away.
“Your exit.
“She falls, knees first, hands shaking.
“Flesh and bone on broken glass—”
Diggs breaks through, voice raw,
“I hear you scream but don’t turn back.”
I nod, goosebumps hitting cold.
My throat knots tight.
He walked away from the love of his life
because he decided he loved himself more.
I always figured walking away was for quitters, for cowards.
Never thought walking away could be choosing yourself when no one else will.
“It’s cutting her open,” I scrape out, seeing myself.
“She’s bleeding. But you’re walking straight into the storm—the toxic grip she had on you.
Her addiction. Her shame. Her hauntings.
But now there’s nothing left to lose by walkin’ into the unknown.
So you leave her there, on her knees, same spot she always left you, in the fuckin’ pile of sharp pain she caused. ”
I swallow.
“Then the bridge drops. A detonation—
“Drums thunder.
“Guitar wails like a final scream.
“The final heartbeat of it dying.”
The room goes silent as I exhale.
Falling into a whisper—
“Until we fade into the outro.
“Yeah, everything fades.
“The drums…
“The guitar…
“all drifting backward into the past…
“While the piano slips under it.
“Creeps back in. Stripped.
“That pure fucking catharsis
“wrappin’ around your throat.
“But this time,
“it’s pretty in a way that’s peaceful.
“Like the beginning of a new life.
“The high after the numb.
“The love you always deserved.
“Vengeance… freedom… in a song.”
The room falls dead quiet.
Like we were all there.
Just lived it together.
No one talks.
No one breathes.
And then—
“The fuck y’all doin’?”
I jump in my skin, heart lurching.
Celie’s towering over us, arms packed with two giant-ass brown paper bags.
I clutch my chest.
“Jesus, Celie.
“Make some fuckin’ noise next time.”
She raises a perfectly sculpted brow. “I did, you just ain’t hear me over the sound of your souls leaving your bodies.”
She eyes Diggs. “You good, Mick Jagger?”
Diggs is hunched forward,
hands tangled in his hair.
He peeks up at her, his face half-shadowed under his hood. “Nah.” He clears his throat and sits back. “She dragged me through the bloody mix and dumped my soul on the floor.”
He’s a wreck, insomnia wearing skin,
eyes bloodshot and raw,
shadows hanging heavy under them.
He hasn’t slept in weeks,
the cost for not walking away sooner.
That’s when it hits me:
Andrew will end up like him if I don’t cut him loose.
This is Andrew’s future.
A hard lump climbs into my throat.
I swallow, but it doesn’t go down right.
“We call that gettin’ Taylor’d, braddah.”
Ace laughs.
“Walks you right into the track.
“You don’t ever get used to it.”
I turn to Ace. “So thoughts?”
Ace rubs his hands together.
“Let’s cut it open, see what spills.”
Celie dumps the bags, knocking a notebook out of the way with her elbow. “While you nerds over here astral projecting, I brought empanadas.”
For the next hour, we eat, we talk.
There’s food on the floor,
lyrics in the margins,
pens running dry.
Somewhere in the chaos, the track builds.
Diggs picks up his guitar, toys with a riff.
The room hums—real, messy, alive,
cracking with emotion.
Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I glance down.
“It’s Andrew.”
Celie squeals.
My eyes snap to her,
not realizing I said it out loud.
Diggs strums a lazy chord. “Who’s Andrew?”
Celie pops a fry in her mouth. “Pretty sure he was your bartender from last night.”
I whip around. “Celie.”
Ace groans from the chair,
face half-buried in his hand.
“Text him back. Ask him what funeral home he recommends.”
I roll my eyes.
Open the message.
And damn it.
I’m smiling again.
Today 7:39 PM
Andrew:
You delivered on your promise.
Left me on my knees, heart pounding, dick hard, holding your damn drink. 5% survival rate, tops. But I’d 100% let you do it again.
Thought your ‘on your knees’ line was a metaphor.
Yeah… that was a dumb mistake. So congrats. You win.
Now I’m done playing dirty.
If you are too, meet me tomorrow in front of The Cellar.
9:30 PM.
I got something for you.
“… 5% survival rate,” I laugh through a sigh.
My heart?
She blacked out halfway through ‘dick hard,’
but when she comes to,
she swings her eyes at me like—
Square up, slut. We’re in love now.
My heart doesn’t know any better.
She’s dicknotized and dumb.
Even though I know exactly how this ends,
I still can’t fucking walk away either.
And I hate myself for it.
Celie leans over my shoulder,
eyes bugged as she tries to read.
I click out of it. I’ll deal with it later.
“Yo…” Diggs trails off from across the room.
His eyes spark when they snap to mine,
a wild-ass idea clawing its way into his brain.
His thumb’s drumming against the arm of the couch.
“5% Survival Rate,” he says with a grin.
“A killer song title for this.”
I grin. “She obliterated you.
“Ripped you to shreds.
“Now you’re finally fuckin’ leavin’.
“Not knowing what life’s like after her.
“But still choosing to walk away.”
Diggs is nodding. “With a 5% survival rate.”
He’s already grabbing a pen,
notebook hitting the armrest.
He writes fast, messy, scribbling,
a madman—
half-cursive, ink smudging his hand.
‘Cause if he slows down,
the words’ll disappear for good.
We build it for another hour.
Line by line.
Word by word.
Stacking meaning into sound
until it’s breathing and bleeding.
By the time the sun drips orange outside the studio windows, Diggs stretches like he walked out of a fistfight—arms up, breath heavy.
He glances at Celie.
“Steppin’ out for a cig,” he says, flicking his lighter once, then points at her. “You’re comin’ with, yeah?”
Celie blinks, completely caught off guard.
“She don’t smoke,” I mutter,
eyes back on my page.
Diggs throws his gaze at me.
“I know she doesn’t smoke,” he deadpans.
Celie stands, adjusting her yoga pants over her hips. “Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, nah, I wasn’t, like… not gonna go.”
A slow smile spreads across my face,
my gaze sliding between the two.
She’s been playing it cool all day—
‘just here to bring empanadas’ my ass.
He grins wide. “Good. Let’s go.”
The door clicks shut behind them.
I grab my phone and pull up Andrew’s text.
Read it again.
Still hits the same.
I start typing, when—
“Allie,” Ace says, snagging my attention.
I glance up from my phone.
He’s rubbing a hand down his jaw,
leaning back in his chair, exhaling.
“I’m about to do the old-man thing and give you advice you didn’t ask for.”
“Okay,” I say, cautiously.
Ace spins in his chair, facing me fully now.
“You know I’ve been in this scene since your dad was building it from scratch.”
I nod.
He yanks the headphones off his head,
drapes them across his neck.
“Corey was one of the real ones.
“Didn’t just sign folks—he raised ‘em.
“Changed my life, Allie. Straight up.
“I owe that man a lot.”
The mention of my dad claws at my lungs.
I don’t move. I don’t say anything.
Just spit it out, Ace.
You’re scaring me.
“I know Raymond’s your stepdad.
“Not tryin’ to step on anything personal.”
He leans forward,
elbows on knees,
eyes steady.
“But your dad—Corey—he was my brother.
“And that means you’re family.
“And I’m tellin’ you straight—”
He rubs the back of his neck, glancing at me.
“Raymond’s not someone to trust.”
I stiffen, thumbs freezing on the phone.
“I don’t.”
Ace nods, hoping I’d say that.
“Good. ‘Cause I’ve seen him pull some shady shit, Allie.” He shakes his head. “Signin’ artists into deals they can’t get out of. Layin’ traps in contracts. Pullin’ publishing like he wrote the damn song and dance himself.”
He lets the silence stretch,
debating how deep he wants to go.
“There was this one guy—songwriter. Brilliant,” he says, like it’s someone he admires. “Raymond gutted his whole catalog out from under him. Then bled him dry in legal bullshit, burying his name so deep he disappeared. Cut the dude’s name off at the knees.”
He rubs his jaw,
eyes drifting away, remembering.
“That’s what he does.
“Finds the cracks in people
“and pours legal cement over ‘em.”
The words sink inside me,
right into the places that knew all along.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
Ace studies me for a long moment.
“Because I know you, Allie. You got that thing, y’know? That raw shit no label can fake. The thing people in this industry leech off of. You’a loyal prodigy with a heart. That’s the first thing someone like Raymond bleeds dry.”
My fingers digging into the leather,
my pulse crawling up my neck.
“Just… be careful, Allie. Don’t let him sink his hands too deep into what your dad built. You’re next in line for this—he knows that.”
Ace leans forward, eyes tired.
“And if he ever forgets? Remind him whose fucking name is carved into the foundation.”