Chapter 27 Kiwi #2
There are fingers are everywhere—
pulling, pawing, palming flesh.
Twenty feet away,
some guy grabs a girl’s waist,
gets slapped, then kissed.
To my right, a dick just slapped the rim of someone’s whiskey sour.
Middle of the crowd,
a guy’s crouched, lighting a cig,
while a girl grinds on his back.
This is the filthiest corner of Rock 'n' Roll.
Bass-line creeps up thighs.
Drumbeats dry-hump hips.
The ceiling drips.
The walls pulse.
The floor fucks.
Sin and temptation’s on tap.
No, seriously.
What the actual fuck did I walk into?
Andrew said he hooked up ‘some.’
Not a couple or a few—‘some.’
Conveniently rhymes with come.
Real safe syllable, isn’t it?
You know what ‘some’ means, Drew?
Whatever the fuck it wants to mean.
Undefined. Unclear. Unaccounted for.
Floating somewhere between
‘don’t ask’ and ‘don’t wanna know.’
Now every set of lashes in here is aiming for my jugular.
And as heads turn to him,
eyes drift to him,
bodies float toward him,
hovering,
orbiting,
drunk giggles and heels circling,
the number of some in my head keeps climbing.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Fuck.
From the way they’re all watching him?
I’m convinced he gave the whole room orgasms just by existing.
Andrew’s at the other end of the booth,
foot propped on the ledge, clipboard in hand,
unbothered as the crowd fucks around him.
“Midnight, I’m gone,”
I catch him saying to Jay.
They’re both hunched over the clipboard,
going over the setlist, trimming time.
Then, from behind,
fingers trail up his spine and curl at his waist.
Soft honey-blonde waves.
Big glassy eyes.
Black crop top.
Andrew turns, eyes dropping to her hand that doesn’t belong on him. He starts pulling away, hand’s halfway up, opens his mouth—
Then his gaze crashes into mine.
And whatever he was going to say
dies in his mouth.
His hand drops,
and he leans back, lets her wrap around him.
“God, it’s been forever…” she says into his neck. “You still smell the same.”
She says it as if she can still taste him too.
“You disappeared on me.
“Didn’t think you’d still slum it here.”
Andrew’s eyes drift up to me,
then drop to the clipboard.
“Yeah… shit’s been different lately,” he says.
She grips his sides.
“You never gave me your number—
“ghosted me hard.
“Thought you’d wanna pick up where we left off.”
She lifts onto her toes, whispering in his ear.
Then from a few feet away—“Yo.”
Mikey appears right next to me,
the proof in plain sight:
Andrew tangled up in some girl,
green light to make a move.
“Lemme fix your necklace before the chain knots up,” he says, side-eying Andrew.
I don’t move, unsure what to do.
Then I’m turning, lifting my hair for him.
Mikey leans over,
leaving his drink on the ledge,
then steps in behind me.
His fingers are gentle against the nape of my neck,
cool chain sliding across my skin.
“So you and Andrew really not a thing then?”
Andrew tips his head our way, taking us in—
necklace, hands, the way Mikey leans in.
Something in me grips tight.
Something in him snaps.
I keep my gaze on the floor,
Mikey stepping closer,
his front brushing up against my ass.
“Really not a thing,” I say, cold and serious.
I glance back at Mikey over my shoulder.
“I like my men a little manic about me.
“Not pussy in general.”
Mikey coughs out a laugh.
Five feet away, Andrew’s hand slips away from the girl’s shoulder.
He’s no longer smiling,
hand’s reaching for the clipboard again.
“Can’t,” I hear Andrew say to her.
“Too much shit goin’ on.”
Mikey nods behind me. “Yeah—with his rep? Rules him out then,” he goes on. “Good guy, but more of the one-night kind. Not the keep-him kind. You want obsessed? Date a Scorpio. Trust me.”
I'm a fuckin' Scorpio, bro.
But I drop my chin and laugh, acting unfazed.
Inside?
I’m pissed over the fact I don’t know Andrew’s fucking sign.
More pissed that it matters to me.
Capricorn? Taurus? Aries?
What were the stars drinking when they were making you?
Mikey’s fingers slip around my neck as he straightens the chain.
“You’re good now.”
I let my hair fall.
Andrew’s back in Jay’s ear—
“Cut it or go instrumental.
“I don’t care if we’re mid-bridge.
“I’m out at twelve.”
Then—
“Allison fuckin’ Taylor.”
Male voice coming from the bar ramp.
Andrew’s eyes snap over before mine do.
Mikey’s are already there.
Nico chokes hard on his drink when he sees who it is.
I turn,
and my gaze slams into cruel cheekbones,
a pair of bourbon eyes,
and tattoos spilling down a neck and two arms.
Neon Grey.
Indie artist who doesn’t belong to a genre.
He haunts them.
Slides through R&B,
borrows country,
leaves pop gasping in his wake.
You can’t pin him down in a genre
or with a label.
Girls are following him,
a halo of clenched thighs.
“Well, fuck—” He chuckles. “You don’t usually walk floors that stick to your heels.”
“And I hear Vice isn’t usually full of almosts.” I shrug. “New for both of us.”
He laughs, pulling me close.
One hand slips low on my spine.
The other climbs too high up my side.
I brace,
track his hands,
clenching back the flinch.
“Yeah, aight. Still got that dangerous mouth on you,” he says in my ear.
Andrew’s watching,
hip against the booth,
one brow up,
sipping water like it’s wine.
“So what is it tonight?” I ask Neon.
“Network, perform, or start shit?”
He bites his bottom lip.
“Was supposed to meet someone.” His eyes crawl over me. “But then I see the sexiest fuckin’ complication in New York in a black dress.”
Andrew glances sideways,
somewhere off,
head shaking.
Then he goes back to the clipboard,
as if he’s got real shit to care about.
But I caught the jaw flex,
the microsecond when his gaze could cut diamonds.
Neon holds up a hand. “Now I’m reconsiderin’ my whole damn night… Who you here with? Don’t tell me you showed up with some guy who left you lookin’ like you’re available.”
Andrew huffs a breath that could pass for a laugh if I didn’t know better. Then he scratches behind his ear, muttering something to Jay.
“Trust me,” I say, eyes on Andrew.
“If I was with someone?
“He’d already be draggin’ you out by the throat.”
The vein in Andrew’s neck pops,
a trigger half-pulled.
His chin tips higher,
hand sliding into his pocket.
Whatever smile was left on his mouth evaporated.
I shrug. “But, sure. Lead with ‘complication.’
“Real creative.
“No wonder your career stalled.”
Neon tips his head. “Still salty? ‘Cause you and I both know I had offers. Let’s not act like I was beggin’ to get wit' a label.”
Then he leans in.
“Only thing I wanted to sign—”
“Yo, Allie. You good?”
Nico steps up beside me,
nodding as if we’re old pals.
He doesn’t wait for an answer,
and goes straight into—
“You’re Neon Grey, right?
“I’m Nico. Big fan, bro.”
He sticks his hand out to Neon.
Neon licks his bottom lip.
Then takes Nico’s hand,
glancing back at me,
brow raised like—you know this guy?
“Nico’s the drummer for the band tonight.”
I don’t add anything else.
I don't know anything else.
“Wait—ya’ll know each other?” Nico says,
eyes widening.
Neon scratches his jaw—“She saved my ass on a track I couldn’t touch for six months.” His gaze cuts back to me. “Haven’t had a hit since.”
“Explains the silence,” I tease. “Guess not everyone can recover after peaking with a song touched by Taylor.”
Neon falls back a step, hand to his chest. “And another upper cut. Right to the fuckin’ pride.”
I wave him off. “Let’s be real. You haven’t held a mic in months. Try holding a pen and sign with Soundwave, for fuck’s sake. We’ll collab.” I shrug, hating how it came off a little desperate. “Not that you listen, but hey, free suggestion.”
Neon Grey's a name other artists respect.
Get him on paper,
and every indie will pay attention.
If I play this right,
Soundwave will matter again.
Neon lowers his head, shaking it.
“Be serious. I came for Corey’s daughter. Not that walking lawsuit you call a CEO.” He flicks a hand like Raymond’s dust. “Told you—hit me up when he’s gone, and I’ll be signin’ that deal with you sittin’ in my lap.”
Over Neon's shoulder,
I catch Andrew watching.
I toss him a sweet smile.
He tosses a sweet one back—
one that feels like “I’mma ‘bout to fuck him up,”
but looks like “hi, sweetheart.”
Nico’s wide eyes are ping-ponging between me and Neon. “Corey?” he asks. “Corey who?”
“Her dad,” Neon says, obvious, then he stretches out—“Taylor.”
Nico squints, not getting it.
So Neon drops it harder—
“Corey Taylor, bro. Saints of the Sun? You serious right now?”
Andrew freezes when he hears it.
The clipboard in his hand lowers slow.
His eyes lift to me.
Neon glances at me next, deadpan,
jabbing a thumb toward Nico—
“Tell me you just met him. Like, tonight. Please.” Then without waiting—“Lemme put you on,” Neon says, a hand between him and Nico, about to lay it down.
“Her pops? Built Soundwave from nothin’ but a voice and a fuck-you.
Changed the whole game.” He glances back at me, mouth tugging.
“Ain’t that right, Allie? Gave ‘em the playbook, now they out here actin’ like they wrote it.
” He raises his glass. “Left Taylor out of the credits.”
Nico’s eyes go wide.
“Nah, wait, like… for real.”
His eyes bounce from me, back to Neon.
“Don’t play with me. Not that Corey Taylor.”
But Neon’s words are still echoing down my throat: Left Taylor out of the credits.
Raymond’s not only been erasing me.
This whole time? He’s been erasing Dad too.
Off the walls. Off the books. Out of the story.
As if Soundwave was born from nowhere.
I don’t hear the rest of what Neon says.
I’m not here anymore.
I’m sixteen,
fists on a lawyer’s desk,
in the middle of shouting matches
and Raymond saying, “It’s better this way.”
By the time I blink, Neon's gone.
Nico’s grinning, turning to the booth.
“Harding, what the actual fuck, bro?”
Andrew’s on his phone,
thumb frozen mid-scroll, face still, jaw locked.
He’s scanning the headlines now,