Chapter 26 Gorgeous - VHS（X）（Rerecorded）
X AMBASSADORS
My black mini says fuck me.
My knee high boots say try me.
My oversized denim jacket says don’t.
And Andrew’s text said
I got something for you.
Vague enough to haunt.
Clear enough to drag me out of my penthouse and into this mess at night, where the streets are alive—
a vein on the verge of bursting.
Taxi lights strobe the curb—
gold, red, gold, red.
I walk through it, not knowing if it’s the sidewalk or my nerves buzzing.
Can’t hear my own thoughts with the city in my ears:
bass leaking from cracked car windows,
girls laughing,
cabs honking,
voices blurring.
And the cold’s stabbing through my jacket
and into my bones.
At this hour, everything’s drunk.
Everything’s wild.
Everything wants something.
Including me.
But if he’s not holding a signed contract
or a sharp blade with his name on it?
I’m out in ten.
As I walk closer to The Cellar,
somewhere, someone whistles.
Around me, eyes crawl over my legs,
every glance grabbing skin.
Steps echo behind me,
same pace, same rhythm,
but each time I stop, so does theirs.
My spine knows before I do—
someone’s back there,
usin’ my footfalls for directions.
I blow it off,
keeping one foot in front of the other.
Until I see him.
Straight ahead.
Andrew’s already there,
leaning against a lamppost,
lit red by The Cellar sign—
half-devil, half-love song.
Black button-down rolled at the sleeves.
Gray trousers cuffed at the ankles.
Glasses.
Hair caught somewhere between
‘I tried’ and ‘I gave up.’
He looks like the kind of guy who carries a Charles Dickens book in his pocket on the train in, then whispers things like I wanna eat your pussy so fuckin’ bad it’s killin’ me into your mouth.
His gaze rips through the air and doesn’t miss, drops right into me.
A long, aching stare above a furious jaw that says—fuck, I missed you.
As if he wasn’t okay until this second,
and he’s not sure he’s okay now, either.
Then I’m in front of him,
standing close,
a foot or two apart.
His eyes sweep down—
face, lips, throat, chest—
Back to mine, not knowing how much time we have together this time, so he’s taking as much of me in as he can.
My fingers find his pockets, sinking halfway in before realizing I reached for them.
My hands bury, roots digging in—
soul memory, or madness, or both.
And then he exhales, one long, ragged breath he’s been holding since the gala.
He wraps a hand around the back of my neck and moves in closer,
leaning his forehead to mine.
His thumb brushes behind my ear.
“So who’s this dress for?” he says, eyes drifting down between us, then up to my mouth. “You show up like this. Fingers in my pockets. Now I’m s’posed to walk away and not think about who gets you after?”
My fingers start slipping away.
He catches my wrist, stopping me.
“Did I say you could let go?”
Jaw tight, his fingertips slide down the back of my neck.
“Keep ‘em on me, Sonny.”
My fingers curl deeper into his pockets,
and I tug on him.
“Depends on what you got for me.”
A strangled exhale leaves him,
his hand slipping away from my neck.
He reaches into his back pocket.
Then he’s handing me a stack of rolled papers.
“It’s not the contract,” he says quickly.
“I can’t sign it yet.”
A scoff leaves me. “You can’t sign it yet, huh.”
I’m standing here, surrounded by the scent of cigarettes, weed, piss, and sidewalk steam smelling like it came from hell’s asshole, not holding the fucking signed contract, and I want to scream.
Andrew stands taller.
“Not yet, I'm still figurin' my shit out…”
My hand flies to my forehead.
My eyes slide off him. “Andrew, just—”
“Hey, Andrew,” some girl tosses out as she walks by.
All the words I was about to say
skid to a stop.
My eyes snap to his.
He doesn’t glance back at her.
His eyes are on me.
As if it never happened.
So either it didn’t,
or he’s pretending so hard
he’s almost convincing me.
I exhale and keep going—“Just tell me if I’m wasting my time.
” It comes out all at once through an exhale.
“Swear—it’s like we’re stuck in foreplay purgatory while you figure out if I’m worth the trouble.
Because right now?” My hand falls from my forehead, slaps my thigh.
“This is the longest no in history. And I didn’t come here to beg. ”
His elbow hits the lamppost,
eyes darting over my shoulder,
then down to the ground.
“Sonny—nah. I wouldn’t pull you out here just to bullshit you.”
A group of girls blow past us, stepping into our bubble.
Andrew’s sentence stops,
and he reaches for my hand,
draws me into him, boxing people out.
His voice lowers the same time his eyes do,
to the papers I’m holding.
“Drug screenin’, bloodwork, allergy panel, full fuckin’ STD panel—all there. That’s what I been doin’ just so I could give you somethin’ to prove I’m serious about you.”
My breath tangles up in my throat.
I want to glance down at the papers,
but I can’t.
His brows slant upward at me,
then he catches the hair blowing in my face,
tucks it behind my ear.
“Ain’t about if you’re worth it.
“You fuckin’ are.”
His brows jump, his hand flat on his chest.
“It's me. I’m havin’ a real hard time comin’ to terms with some shit.”
I’m frozen.
He did the tests.
All of them.
In ten days.
Between two jobs.
Dropped over six hundred dollars.
“Okay, well now I’m the asshole.”
I flip through the papers,
hating my hand for trembling.
Because I don’t know what’s fucking me up more—that he did all this, no questions asked, or that his iron levels are flirting with death, and he’s out here walking around like everything’s fine.
“Jesus, Drew. Your blood sugar’s in the gutter and you’re low on iron. What’re you runnin’ on, espresso and dumbfuck pride?” I roll the papers, then smack him square in the chest with them. “You did all this for me and you’re over here falling apart.”
He rubs the spot where I smacked him,
giving me a boyish smile.
“Didn’t want you seein’ that part. I just—” He lifts a shoulder. “I wanted to show you I’m clean. I’m safe. I’m serious.”
Then his gaze lingers,
his head tips,
his hand still soothing his chest.
“You really do care ‘bout me, huh.”
A statement neither of us have yet to fathom.
And in his eyes? A whole goddamn mixtape of emotions on shuffle.
I can’t catch all of it,
but I can feel every track.
“Then tell me somethin’, Sonny,” he says.
“You still usin’ him?”
“Who?”
It comes out as a reflex.
Like when they say ‘Bless you,’
you say ‘thank you.’
When they say ‘You still usin’ him,’
you say ‘who?’
And my heartbeat’s doing a slow clap.
Andrew cocks a brow,
the hollow smile stretching late.
“Who? Who else, Son?”
He throws a hand down the street,
like he’s gesturing to Ben.
“After seein’ me tonight, if it hits you later… is it him still takin’ care of it?”
No, Andrew. I haven’t used Ben in two weeks.
Because I can’t. Because of you.
But this confession doesn’t let me sleep.
It claws at the mattress,
pulls the sheets down,
rattles the windows.
It fucks with my head,
my heart,
my whole fucking nervous system.
The lie would’ve tucked me in and kissed my forehead.
But he’s still waiting for an answer.
Keep your mouth shut. Don’t tell him.
He’ll think it means more than it does.
That you’re serious and want more.
Like a relationshit—Hhhhuk—
I mean, relationship.
“The guy I contracted to settle my addiction, you serious?” I say with a laugh.
At least I think it’s a laugh.
Or maybe it’s the beginning of one.
A sound between a cough and a breakdown.
“What the fuck you want me to do?
“Breathe it out in yoga?
“Take a fuckin’ stroll through Central Park?”
He glances off,
hiding the hurt burning in his eyes.
I shrug.
“Since I met you, it’s only gotten worse—”
“Sonny,” he shake his head.
“Stop usin’ him.”
His stare stays on the sidewalk. “I’m askin’ you to stop usin’ him. I know I got no right. I know what the rules are. I know he’s there and I’m here, and I haven’t signed shit yet. But, c’mon—” He finally meets my eyes. “If you’re gonna break with someone, break with me.”
He leans closer. “Let's just fuckin' try.
“You and me. No one else.”
Another "Hey Andrew" falls out of a girl as she walks past.
She glances back over her shoulder,
waiting for a reply,
a reaction,
anything.
Andrew doesn’t turn.
His eyes stay locked on mine, jaw clenching.
Okay… So either this whole fuckin’ sidewalk’s got a crush on him, or I walked into a party I wasn’t invited to.
I sweep the streets—groups everywhere.
Behind Andrew,
behind me,
next to us,
across the street.
Eyes crawl over us,
whispers slipping between them.
Then to my right—
“Andrew, hey!” snaps me sideways.
Two girls, arms linked, giggling.
The tall one reaches for his arm.
“Fuck, yeah—does this mean you’re singing tonight?”
My eyes fly to Andrew.
Singing?
He brushes her hand away,
waving them off, palm cutting the air.
“Nah. Not the time. Keep walkin', aight?”
His eyes are still on me.
The girls scoff.
“Yo, what the hell’s your problem?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer and grabs my hand, muttering, “C’mon.”
His eyes are on the ground as we walk,
other hand shoved deep into his pocket,
jaw tight, head shaking.
But I can’t stop hearing it.
Does this mean you’re singing tonight?
The second we turn the corner,
I’m pulling my hand away, stepping back.
“So this is a fuckin’ blast,” I say, hand flying.
“Street full of girls knowin’ your name,
“your plans,
“your bicep—
“probably your dick.”
My voice snaps in half at the end.
I turn away from him,
dropping my closed fist on my forehead,
furious at myself for letting it out,
as if all this shit’s bothering me.
But it does. It does. It does.
And I fucking hate that it does.
He steps in closer, tries to catch my gaze.
“They’re just girls from Vice.
“I used to fill in when Matty or Mikey bailed.
“And yeah—hooked up some.”
I try to think first.
Rare move.
Doesn’t matter, brain’s got nothin’.
He searches my face. “You good?”
I nod.