Chapter 34 House of Vice — Side A #4
Then, before she knows it, he’s steppin’ away from the mic, turning for the curtain, leavin' before the last fuckin’ beat drops, guitar strap hangin’, no goodbye, no nothin’. He vanishes behind the curtain, into the dark.
But she ain’t panicked. She knows where he’s goin’.
He always dips when he doesn’t want the others crowdin’ in.
He’s not runnin’ from her.
He’s runnin’ from every other girl he can’t escape.
He couldn’t possibly be runnin’ from her.
Not after the second his eyes said she was everything he’d been wantin’.
She knows it hit him too—every girl before her was leadin’ to Talia.
She felt it. All the way down to her fuckin’ acrylics.
That ain’t panic. That’s pull.
She slips past two girls by the stage, both talkin’ loud—“He’s so hot. Wait ‘til he comes back out. I’m gonna ask for his number this time,” one of them says.
“His number? Please. That’s Andrew Harding. I’m after somethin’ else,” says the other.
Sure, babe. You do that.
Idiots don’t even know he’s already leavin'.
Talia hooks left while the rest of the crowd herds right.
Her boots hit the side ramp the second she spots the emergency exit.
It’s swingin’ shut, as if he just slipped through it.
She keeps her head down, hands shoved in the pockets of her leather, walkin’ casual like she’s just steppin’ out for a smoke.
Then she catches the door with one hand, following him out into the night.
She stays back by about twenty feet, far enough away not to spook him, but at a distance she can still see the little dip of his shoulders when he walks.
She smiles ‘cause he always walks in that way—hand in his pocket, head tipped down, a beat in his bones. It doesn’t matter if it’s midnight or ten a.m., every step’s got the Harding strut—full Jersey and don’t-fuck-with-me rhythm.
He’s headed to the garage.
She hangs back in the shadows, boots silent, heart ain’t.
She knows he only parks there when he’s runnin’ late. Only in the street if there’s time. And when he doesn’t have the car, he’s on the 123 back to Union City, probably sittin’ by the window, music in, the night slick on his neck, head to the glass like he’s in one of those sad-boy music videos.
He never brings anyone home, never lettin’ anyone see where he eats, where he sleeps—where he dreams. That part of him’s locked up tight.
She knows his bed’s empty for a reason.
He’s been savin’ it for her.
‘Til he can whisper Talia into the sheets.
They make it to the fifth floor of the parking garage—second from the top. Only five cars left, but she knows which one belongs to him. It’s parked third spot from the wall. A shitty red Civic, beat to hell, hood blacked out.
His boots echo loud across concrete while hers stay quiet.
She knows he don’t gotta see her for him to know she’s there.
That’s the kinda instinctual magic they got. The reason he doesn’t glance back when he pops the trunk and sets the guitar case down. Because he wants this. He’s letting her come to him. Finally.
She walks up slow.
Heart bangin’ in her throat.
“Hey,” she says. “Andrew, right?”
He spins fast, one hand still grippin’ the trunk, needin’ it to stay upright, vein in his neck’s still pumpin’, still breathin’ heavy from the set. His chest’s risin’, fallin’, sweat slidin’ down his throat, catchin’ on his chain.
“Talia,” she says, her voice drippin' out sweet, hopin’ the name hits him in the chest.
His mouth hangs open.
Then finally—“You followin’ me?”
She laughs, shrugs ‘cause he’s bein’ ridiculous. “Quit playin’, Harding,” she smirks.
His smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
But she knows what it means.
It means come closer.
She does, with one step and a hand buried in her jacket. “Thought you were gonna wait for me,” she says, as if it was already decided and he just forgot. “But then I saw you leave and figured we just missed each other.”
He breathes deeper, shuts the trunk with one hand.
“Nah. I dip out quick. Don’t wait on people.”
“I know,” she shrugs. “That’s how I knew you’d end up here.”
This makes him pause, then he turns to face her. His jaw flexes, considerin’ leavin’, but he won’t.
“Aight…” His voice dips low. “Guess I’m caught.” He leans back against the trunk, hands slidin’ into his jacket, lettin’ the silence sit.
Her lashes drop, mouth twistin’ smug.
“Knew it,” she breathes. “You were thinkin’ about me.”
He scratches his jaw. “‘Nah. I was thinkin’ about the lasagna I got at home waitin’ for me.”
A laugh of disbelief cracks out of her. “Please. Everyone knows who you are, what you do,” she says, steppin’ closer, eyes hooked right on his mouth. “That look you threw me? On stage, right at the end? You were beggin’ for it.”
His hair’s damp, strands stickin’ to his temple.
“Was just singin’ a fuckin’ song, sweetheart,” he mutters.
She pulls one hand out of her jacket, flicks her hair back lazily.
“Christ, you’re so slick, you know that?
Had me out there feelin’ like the only one in the room.
Made me think you actually wanted me.” She gives him the side-eye mid-line, watchin’ for guilt buried in his blink.
“Now you’re standin’ here makin’ me seem like I’m nuts for readin’ it wrong? ”
The garage lights hit the side of his face, throwin’ shadows under his cheekbones.
His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t tryin’ to do that.”
“Then say what you were tryna do, Andrew?” She cocks a brow. “Say what you want.”
He glances away, swallowin’ hard. “I don’t know what I want.”
She closes the space without thinkin’, ‘til her boots are nearly touchin’ his. “It’s one of two things.” She tips her chin up, givin’ him a chance to choose right. “Either you’re into me… or you’re full of shit and get off on bein’ a fuckin’ tease. So which is it?”
There’s a war in his eyes, and he don’t know which side to let win.
Then his brows pull in, hopin’ she’ll make the call for him. So she leans in bold, tits skimmin’ his chest, and grabs the back of his neck, haulin’ his mouth down to hers.
But he backs off, catchin’ her at her hips, stoppin’ her.
His gaze darts fast across her face, falls down her body.
A cry catches in her throat. “That it? You teasin’ me, Andrew?”
His teeth grind, sweat runnin' a line down the edge of his jaw.
His shoulders sink, hands hangin' at his sides.
The smirk's long gone, and he doesn't say another word.
She takes his silence for confession.
He exhales, finally giving into her.
Then just drops to his knees.
And Andrew Harding on his knees?
An image you get tattooed on your thigh.
She’s been dreamin’ about him since August. Since the first time she’d seen him sing. Now his mouth, his strut, his stage-god ego? All down on his knees, melted under her cunt.
“Yeah,” she breathes, smug as hell, eyes glitterin’ under garage light. “That’s what I thought.”
Talia was born for shit like this.
She ain’t shy. She’s Staten. That’s different.
She slides her hand up the back of his neck, fingers in his hair, then lifts her leg, boot plantin’ on the bumper of his car.
Her skirt rides up—no panties, no shame.
Her heavy folds hover inches from his face, and the scent of her cunt floats up to her nose.
She's been wet and swollen all night from thinkin’ about bein’ licked by the myth, the man, the mouth all goddamn night.
She stays there, hoverin’, lettin’ him look at her, smell her, breathe her in.
So he can taste the heat of her without touchin’.
He stares, hypnotized, his breath turnin’ ragged.
His throat bobs, his whole body’s holdin’ the line, and losin’.
His hand lifts up between her thighs until two fingers are swipin’ through her folds, collectin’ the wet, soakin’ ‘em.
Then he brings his fingers to his mouth, slips them inside, tasting how she melts on his tongue with a hum.
When he drags them back out, slow and filthy, his teeth scrape them clean, taking the rest of her mess into his mouth.
The sight of it—eyes hooded, lips lazy—drops heat straight between her legs. Her thighs tremble, her cunt squeezes as if it felt his mouth too.
Then he tips his head back. Opens his mouth.
Breath hot and beggin’ for it.
Talia’s smirk crawls up from her clit and lands right onto her lips.
She brushes down, rollin’ her hips once, and her folds drag wet across his tongue. He’s holdin’ himself back, but he doesn’t want to. She knows it. Feels it. The way his neck trembles in her hand. The way his fuckin’ fingers twitch ‘cause he’s dyin’ to grab her.
Then her whole cunt dips into his hot mouth. A slow, wet drag from clit to soaked opening. Another moan crawls up from his chest, and his lips close around her, sucks her arousal right off her folds.
“Ohh fuck,” she moans with a shudder, head tossed back, one hand slammin’ to the trunk for balance. She can’t take it anymore, and yanks his hair, tiltin’ his head back. “Say it, baby, say I’m yours, say I’m all you think about.”
But his eyes are lowered, lids heavy, starin’ at her cunt, like he's obsessed.
“Why won’t you say it? Why won't you say anything?” She’s breathin’ harder now. “You got feelings for me, I know you do. You just don’t wanna admit it.”
So she’s gonna watch him prove it.
Her cunt’s drippin’ when she leans forward, and his filthy mouth opens wide again, his jaw goin' slack under it.
She slides hot inside, heavy folds flatten out ‘round his lips, and he tips his chin back, lickin’ deep and slow up the middle. And he’s gone—eyes shut, moanin’ low as she melts warm in his mouth, givin’ him the taste she knows he’s been cravin’ for months.
“Swear to God, you eat like you’re in love with it,” she gasps.
Then she sinks—full weight, no mercy—fillin' his mouth before she rides it in a filthy grind. And he takes it all.
A breath stumbles out of her, and she grips the back of his head, fucks down harder, grindin’ into his mouth. And he chases it. Both hands fly up and grab her ass—grip’s bruisin’.