Chapter 34 House of Vice — Side A #2
Then his boots hit the steps.
He’s there.
He's headed her way.
She freezes. Her chest’s flip-floppin’. Her stomach’s twistin’ up.
He’s comin’. He’s really comin’.
His eyes find hers.
And for half a second, she swears he’s—
but then he swerves.
Hard left.
Real fast.
Leavin’.
Back toward the stage, avoidin’ her.
She can’t breathe.
Her chest’s caved in, heart sprawled somewhere across the floor.
“Oh, c’mon. Seriously. Duckin’ me?” It flies out fast and slaps the wall.
He stops.
A second goes by.
Then he turns slow, raisin’ a hand in surrender.
“You’re right,” he says, comin’ back her way, shadows stretchin’ long behind him.
His voice ain’t nothin’ but honest as he steps into the light, so close she can smell his cologne clingin’ to his sweaty skin. His eyes are tired, hooded, lashes stickin’, corners wet.
His brow’s all tilted with a lazy ache when he says, “That’s on me. Been on my feet eighteen hours, sweetheart. I’m cooked.”
Abigail don’t know what to say. She ain’t breathin’ right.
“Lemme guess,” she mumbles, “I’m just a face you’ll forget in ten minutes.”
He huffs out a breath, draggin’ a hand down his face. “Nah,” he says. “If I forget anyone tonight, it’s myself. I’m runnin’ on fumes.”
His hand drops to his side, just hangs there, and before her brain can scream, don’t, you’re bein’ crazy, she reaches for it, taking it into her own.
And then she’s holdin’ Andrew Harding’s hand.
And he ain’t pullin’ away.
“C’mon,” she says, her voice wobblin’, but she don’t let it break. “You need five, right? Let’s go. Bartender was talkin' 'bout an old couch in the storage room that no one ever checks it. I’ll sit with you. Make sure you don’t pass out for too long.”
He glances back at the stage, starts to argue, “Nah. You really don’t gotta—”
But she’s already leadin’ the way. And he laughs under his breath, trailin’ behind her, head low, brow cocked, as if she’s the wild card he didn’t see comin’.
She don’t stop ‘til they’re through the storage room door.
It’s hot, dark, dusty, and every step crunches—old picks, bottle caps, maybe bones. Cables snake across the floor, waitin’ to trip her. And there’s a couch that’s seen more action than the moon.
She reaches up and tugs the pull-chain. The bulb flickers to life—buzzin’, swingin’, spillin’ yellow all over the mess.
Andrew crashes into the couch. He ain’t got bones no more, long legs stretched out, head tossed back, sweat glintin’ down his hairline. “Got fifteen minutes. Still half a set to go,” he mutters. “This is the part where I fake a burst of energy.”
At first she stands there, holdin' her breath, starin’ at him like a deer with a crush.
Andrew Harding. Right there.
And she’s alone with him.
She don’t got a clue what she’s doin’.
But she knows if she don’t move now, nothin’ll happen at all.
She swings a leg over, straddlin' him real smooth, ‘til panic smacks her straight in the brain: Lord have mercy, what if I just cracked his damn femur in half?
His hands are flyin’ up, startled, laughter shootin’ outta him.
That surprised laugh that slips out before you think.
“Damn,” he says, a smile hangin’ around after the laughter dies. “Outta all the options to park, you went straight for the guy half-dead, huh?” His brow lifts.
She grabs hold of his shoulders, fingers shakin’ bad. “Took every bit’a guts I got just to talk to you,” she says. “Don’t care what kinda shape you’re in.”
Ain’t no shame in admitting it any longer.
Not when you’ve imagined it ‘til you’re blue in the heart.
His body heat soaks through her hands, her thighs, her whole damn chest. She leans back, smilin’ through the panic. But he takes her wrist, pulls her arm ‘round his neck, and sinks into the couch.
She don’t think twice and leans in, kissin’ his neck.
Salt. Sweat. Skin tastin’ like heat.
“Let me wake you up,” she breathes, lips barely leavin’ his throat. “I’ll give you that burst of energy you’re lookin’ for.”
Who is she and how does she know to talk like this?
He flinches, tensing, then exhales hard, a door shuttin’.
Abigail freezes, stomach droppin’, brain spinnin’.
Oh Lord. That’s it. Messed it all up.
Came on too strong, too much, too desperate.
He’s gonna push her off. He’s gonna tell her to back off.
“Hey…” His voice cuts through her panic before it takes root. “You don’t gotta give me nothin’.” His hands travel up her thighs, his grin hittin' her ear. “You got me real fuckin’ awake now.”
Her whole body goes holy-shit still.
She wants to say somethin’—thank you or don’t let this be a dream—but all she can do is breathe. She wonders if that’s how it works. If you throw yourself at a guy, he’ll catch you. He don't gotta like you, or even know your name. Just gotta make sure nobody’s watchin’.
A pussy’s just a pussy if the lights are off.
She lets out a shaky laugh, cheeks burnin’.
“Couldn’t stop starin’ at you on stage,” she breathes, eyes findin’ his mouth. “Swear I tried.”
He starts to whisper, mouth so close it tickles her skin—
“Guess we—”
But she don’t let him finish. She dives into him, tongue slidin’ past his lips—fast, messy, starvin’ to taste him too bad to care. If she thinks too hard she’ll chicken out.
In a blink, he pulls back.
Her heart drops, her breath breaks.
His gaze darts across her face.
“Easy,” he breathes against her mouth as he hovers there. His eyes drop to her chest. “What’s goin’ through that head, huh?” His hand slides higher up her thigh, thumb skimmin’ the seam of her shorts. “You come back here wantin’ somethin’ from me? Or just wanted to be near me?”
“I dunno…” her breath hitches as her hips move again, heat climbin’ higher. “Yeah. But I just… want you wantin’ me, too.”
He exhales. “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now.”
She wants to believe him. Lord, she does.
“C’mere.” He palms her ass, pulls her down harder onto his lap.
“Ain’t here to run my mouth, sweetheart.
” His gaze drifts down to her boobs, to the way her thighs straddle his lap.
“Now tell me what you’re thinkin’. You knew where I’d be.
Knew what you wanted when you waited. So say it.
Right here. Right now. What were you hopin’ for? ”
Her mouth opens. She’s got nothin’. ‘Cause what was she hopin’ for?
She swallows. “I dunno what I’m doin',” she finally admits, eyes starin’ at his mouth. “I’m gonna mess this up. But I know I wanna do things.”
A tense second passes, and then his mouth tugs up at the corner.
“You wanna do things, huh?” he says, reaching for her ankle and slidin’ one boot off. “Then lemme do some things to you.” Boot number two hits the floor. His brow cocks. “That cool with you?”
She nods, not trustin' her voice.
He nods too. Like they’re meetin’ in the middle of somethin’ big.
“Good. Now go on—stand up for me, yeah?”
She rises slowly, knees wobblin’, her body tremblin’, and stands between his knees.
Andrew’s fingers hook into the waistband of her shorts.
Her heart’s poundin’. She’s sweatin’. She’s been sweatin’. He ain’t even lookin’ up. His eyes are on her chest. Her stomach. Her lungs that’re tryin’ too hard to stay still while his gaze traces her body, readin’ her.
Then he’s tuggin’, peelin’ her shorts down her slick skin, takin’ her wet panties too, draggin’ ‘em past her thighs, past the weight she always hides, ‘til they drop at her feet.
She tried shavin’ in the shower once, bent her leg up on the tub.
Mirror in one hand, razor in the other. Ended up nickin’ herself right on the lip.
She dropped the mirror, sat down in the tub, water beatin’ down on her neck, cryin’ tears that are tired of tryin’.
The ones that choke your throat and make you feel stupid for cryin’ at all.
And standin’ in front of him now, she almost gives up all over again.
Her hands fly to her face to cover her eyes.
She can’t see him lookin’ at her.
“Sorry. I ain’t shaved—”
“Nah—cut that shit.” He grabs her wrists and pulls them down.
“I like you just like this,” he says, cuttin’ her off.
“Don’t forget—you grabbed me and walked your ass back here.
So if you want it, show me.” He lets her go, nudges his chin to the rest of her.
“Take it off. Bra too. You’re gonna do it. ”
She stands there, feet nailed to the floor.
He leans back, arms spread out across the length of the couch.
“Ain’t got much time left. Twelve minutes, tops… ” His brow lifts again, all smug. “Was really hopin’ to spend ‘em makin’ you come.”
Her heart stops.
He’s gotta be jokin’, right? He’s gettin’ her naked to make fun of her.
There’s no other explanation.
But she’s been made fun of plenty of times.
She’s willin’ to risk it.
Her heart kicks back in hard, agreein’. It’s now or never.
She grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it up fast, arms gettin’ tangled, shirt stuck around her neck.
Andrew stands, towering over her, slidin’ her shirt off the rest of the way.
It drops somewhere at her feet. And when she looks up, he’s crowdin’ her close, eyes slidin’ down her body, breath hittin’ her lips.
He wets his lip. “Keep goin’.”
She reaches behind her, loses her bra next, lettin’ it fall.
And there she is. Bare. Brown freckles all over pale skin.
His gaze moves down her body, a lopsided smile breakin’ across his face, as if she’s somethin’ he’s been wantin’ to touch all night.
And it still ain’t sinkin’ in right. She’s bare-ass naked in front of Andrew Harding, and he wants to touch her.
This can’t be real. It’s too big. And good. And not-hers.
He takes her hands, guidin’ her back step by step ‘til her ass hits a wall.
His smile brushes her damp shoulder, and Abigail’s whole body’s buzzin’, hairs standin’ straight, her heat throbbin’ for friction. And when one of his hands finds her waist, and the other comes over her breast, thumb brushin’ across the peak, a shiver races up her spine.