Chapter 27 Kiwi
HARRY STYLES
Andrew follows me back across the building,
ceiling's so low it could scalp him if he stood too tall.
Smoke hovers above,
bodies packed elbow-to-elbow, drink to drink.
Space between us? Paper-thin.
I could rip it in half, reach back, grab his hand.
But I won't. Same way he won't grab mine.
Not with the bet standing between us.
We’re both too stubborn,
competitive,
proud.
We’re halfway past the crowd when—
“Damn. Slow down, sweetheart,”
some voice growls as we pass.
“Don’t walk off, I ain’t finished lookin’.”
I keep walking, ignoring.
I learned the art young:
don’t react, don’t feed it.
They can’t reach what they can’t touch,
and they can’t touch what doesn’t flinch.
I can feel Andrew's frostbite at my back.
His silent restraint is its own kind of violence.
The guy fades into the crowd.
We pass a stage that's a foot off the ground,
tucked intimately in the corner.
We slip along the edge of the crowd,
girls tracking our every step, their curious eyes hitting us from all directions.
Crescent-shaped booths melt into the brick walls on both sides.
The bar stretches across the back.
The lighting's moody and dim, but not dark enough to blot out the girl getting fingered against the steel beam, head thrown back, mouth ajar.
When I glance back,
Andrew’s watching me—eyes slow, lids heavy,
trying to figure out what angle I’m playing tonight.
“Keep going. All the way to the back corner,” he tells me, phone sliding into his pocket as he points left.
Someone calls his name, he doesn’t turn.
A girl reaches out, he sidesteps her.
He moves like a guy who’s completely off-limits.
And I wonder if it's because I'm here,
or if he's like this all the time.
When we hit the back half-circle booth,
it's overflowing with bodies.
No table, just a scuffed wooden ledge where sweating drinks go to die.
One guy’s hanging off one end,
twirling a drumstick between two fingers,
backwards snapback, eyes glued to his phone.
Until we show up,
and half of them lift their heads.
Drumstick guy stands up too fast,
fumbles his phone,
nearly launching it across the floor.
Another chokes on his drink,
coughing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Bro. brO—” Drumstick says,
throwing a palm up at us. “Nah. Fuck.”
His gaze sweeps the two of us head to toe.
“First time Harding ever brings a girl and it’s this one?
” His eyes ricochet off the guy at the other end of the booth, then land back on me.
“He drops the baddest woman I ever seen into Vice like it’s nothing?
” He laughs, shaking his head. “Yo—game over. You win. Just go.” He shoos us off, head turned.
“Take your hot girl and your stupid, perfect face and leave. I hate you. Respectfully.”
Then there’s a spotlight on me, heating my skin. Like he plugged a mic into my nerves and cranked it.
Now guys within a ten foot radius mark me me as the challenge, girls clock me as competition.
Andrew leans into me. “That’s Nico,” he says. “Ignore half the shit that comes outta his mouth. He’s been like this since birth.”
Nico stares down at me with a raised chin, then squints. “Don’t lie—you got an 850 credit score, huh? Walkin’ in all premium.”
I wave it off. “Nah. I don’t do credit.
“If I want something, I take it.
“I don’t wait for permission.”
Nico stumbles back a step
as if my words turned to gold.
Then he clutches his chest, nudging Andrew.
“I’m rooting for you to fuck this up, bro.
“Or if you love me, you could choke.
“Just this once.
“For me.
“Your boy.”
Andrew shakes his head,
a nervous laugh catching in his throat.
“That’s Jay on bass.” He nods to the guy half-asleep in the hoodie, Vans kicked out, a girl tucked behind him, headphones in, a book cracked open in her lap. “Mae—his girl. Halfway through a murder podcast, zero clue what’s happenin’.”
Jay lifts two fingers in a lazy peace sign.
“Hey.”
Lastly, sitting at the end,
slouched back, feet outstretched:
Gold chain.
Shirt half-buttoned.
Ink splashed across his chest.
Five rings, all flashy.
Dark hair and a fuck-me smirk cocked between a carved jaw.
Andrew nods. “Mikey’s lead guitar.”
Mikey leans across, offering his hand.
“What’s the name, sweetheart?
“Or we s’posed to guess?”
I shake it.
Only because ignoring it would be louder.
“Allison.”
His hand lingers, thumb brushes mine,
and I can feel Andrew vibrating next to me.
Mikey shoots him a smirk—
“No disrespect, man,
“just tryna get my facts straight—she yours?”
Andrew slides me a side glance,
one breath away from saying—
fuck Thanksgiving.
But when I scan the room,
I notice he has an audience.
It’s too loud in here to hear anything.
But somehow, they all do.
Conversations stall.
One girl behind Mikey arches a brow.
Another bites her lip.
A guy lingering close by eyes me, waiting on a green light.
The girl leaning against the wall stops mid-sip to listen.
And Andrew’s eyes are fixed on me.
“Nah. We’re just friends.”
And it blows into me like a punch I was dumb enough to lean into.
I know what I agreed to,
but I still breathe air in fragments,
my body forgetting how to hold it.
Mikey’s grin kicks up.
“If he don’t want you, sweetheart, I got two hands and can go all fuckin’ weekend.”
Ha.
Haha.
The fucking confidence on this kid.
“Not interested.”
My thumb hooks behind me.
“But yo—if you’re lonely,
“I can find someone for you.
“Got a couple hundred cash in my wallet.”
Mikey freezes for half a second.
Andrew’s laugh hits the back of my head.
Nico chuckles into his cup.
“Damn. Okay.” Mikey lets out a low whistle, leaning back with his drink, draping his arm across the booth. “No wonder Andrew’s being soft.”
// 10:18 PM //
Okay, listen up, mirror slut.
You flinch, you die.
You cry, I punch you.
Doubt yourself once?
I’ll rip your lashes out with tweezers.
Tonight, you’re a statue. You are ice.
You are the great sexy vanilla-scented wall of
I-don’t-give-a-fuck.
You hear some shit about his past? You smile.
You toss it into the pile of:
Not My Fucking Business.
Do. Not. Touch. Him.
Not even by accident.
Not even if he starts reciting poetry
and falls into your mouth.
Don’t fucking interfere.
Girls are gonna flirt.
The pretty kind. The confident kind.
And you? You’re gonna stand there and pretend it doesn’t gut you.
Because you fucking asked for this.
And you don’t get to cry over your own rules.
Not after running your mouth about how you don’t get jealous.
You’re not his. He’s definitely not yours.
He’s just a man.
With eyes.
A mouth.
Hipbones.
Hands.
And a dick.
You are unbreakable. Unfuckwithable.
You win, then exit like the place is lucky you came.
Now go.
No giving two fucks, sweet child of mine—
The bathroom door flings open,
banging against the wall,
and two girls tumble in.
One’s crying,
lipstick bleeding, lashes sliding.
Another’s gripping her hand.
But her eyes are locked on the mirror,
wide and panicked,
staring at a monster zit that ruptured through a layer of foundation.
“Just breathe, babe,”
Zit Girl says into the mirror.
“You didn’t do shit wrong, okay?
“He’s a dirtbag.”
But Captain Cry won’t stop shaking her head,
mascara streaking her jaw.
“I thought—I don’t know.
“He was bein’ nice. Like, normal nice.”
She snorts back a sob, a hand over her mouth.
Zit Girl turns away from the mirror,
focusing on Captain Cry now.
“That’s why they left.” Then her voice drops down to a whisper for Cry's sake, “‘This one smells like fish,' he said. Just like that. Loud enough for God to hear it."
Captain Cry makes that sound when your body can’t tell if it wants to laugh, cry, or cave in on itself.
“It’s hot in there,” she says.
“I’m sweating.
“Not like I didn’t shower before. I—”
She cuts herself off, embarrassed.
I wash my hands, dry them,
then step between them
as if I’ve been summoned.
“May I?”
The one with the zit snaps her brows together.
I nod at her forehead. She nods back.
Warm water. Paper towel, folded just right.
I press it to her skin.
“Hold this. Sixty seconds. Don’t move.”
She nods, breathing like she’s in labor.
I turn to the crying one.
“And you,” I say. “Your kiwi's a self-cleaning badass bitch and smarter than half the guys in this club, aight?”
She stares, nodding with wide eyes.
So I keep going—
“Listen, sometimes... she smells different. Nine times outta ten, that's pH, not hygiene. Could be BV, hormones, stress, or too much tequila. Don’t know. Don’t know you. Doesn’t matter. It ain't shame, you got me?"
I take the compress from Zit Girl and angle her face toward me. I press her forehead gentle enough to open the zit. Pus releases in one clean breath.
I wipe. Dab. Cold water compress now.
“Alcohol dehydrates you,” I continue, holding the paper towel against a forehead while talking to the other. “Dehydration throws your balance off—less water, less natural acid, more bacteria partyin' where they shouldn't. You want balance back? Go to the bar. Lemon. Water.”
I flick my eyes over at her.
She’s stopped crying.
“You wearing silk panties?”
“Yeah…”
“Take those off. Tonight.
“Never again.
“They trap heat.
“Your pussy can’t breathe.
“Go commando if you can in the meantime.
“And from now on—cotton only.
“No excuses.”
I lift the paper towel off the forehead.
An angry pink dot stares back at me.
I unzip my purse and dig for my foundation tube, then dab one dot on my finger.
Tap, tap, soft on the pink spot.
I lift her chin and admire my work.
“Now you’re flawless.”
“Thank you,” Zit Girl whispers.
I turn back to the mirror.
I wash my hands again.
“Oh. And tomorrow? Greek yogurt, no sugar—good bacteria, good balance. One probiotic on the side. You'll smell like clouds and peace by Thursday. Trust me.”
// 10:26 PM //
I stand tall near the booth.
Not leaning against it.
Because I don’t depend on shit.
I scan the layout.
Bar to the left,
crowd and stage to the right.
Exits marked.