Chapter 27 Kiwi #3
checking if it’s true,
seeing the photos of me and Dad,
back when the world still had him.
Nico’s hands lock together on the top of his head. “You just… forgot to mention she’s Corey Taylor’s daughter?” He gestures to me. “Like that’s not major fuckin’ info?”
He laughs again, brows hitting the ceiling. “She’s out here fixing Neon fuckin’ Grey's career, and you're all like—'Oh, hey, guys. That's Allison'.”
Mikey squints at me.
“Wait. Hold the fuck on.
“Indie rock god Corey Taylor?”
Then he sits back, eyes wide. “No wonder you told me to fuck off. Shit. Shoulda been on my knees. Not runnin’ my fuckin’ mouth like a rookie.”
Andrew blacks out his phone and slides it into his front pocket.
His gaze narrows to me.
Because he didn’t know.
Because I never told him.
Because once I say Dad’s name,
people want to talk about him.
And I can’t. Because the minute I do,
Dad dies all over again,
and my chest fucking hurts each time.
Nico nudges a chin at Andrew. “You know that was Neon Grey, right?” He tosses a thumb at the door. “He just rolled up on your friend over here, all flirtin’ in falsetto and layin’ it down thick, bro. Meanwhile, you standin’ over here all up in your feelings.”
Mikey laughs into his fist.
Nico hums the chorus,
grinding against Andrew’s hip—
“Just lay back / let me ruin /
“slow-fuckin’ / hush, no rushin’ /
“take my time like it ain’t nothin’—”
Andrew shoves him off, palm to the face.
Nico stumbles back, still cackling.
“Friend zonin' her?”
Then he points at Andrew—
“You the dumbest motherfucker walkin’, bro.”
// 10:32 PM //
Andrew’s leaning against the edge of the booth,
scrolling through his phone,
arm across his chest
after I just served him a full-course disaster.
Starter: wrote a song with Neon Grey.
Main course: groped and hit on by Neon Grey.
Dessert? Surprise. I’m Corey Taylor’s daughter, heir to Soundwave.
But you didn’t tell me either, Andrew.
You didn't tell me your hangout spot is a sex-crazed playground,
or that half the room’s lookin' at you like they already had a taste of you,
and the other half's still tryin'.
You didn't tell me you’d be singing tonight.
So now we’re both standing here,
staring at each other,
two strangers with our pasts between us.
I was fine, too.
For all of five fucking seconds.
I was going to be the bigger person.
Take the high road.
But then he had to stand there all wounded
in the middle of all the secrets he's keeping.
Like he’s the only one who got side-swiped.
Yeah, no. Fuck that.
I’m not about to eat shit and comfort him.
This time, I’m choosing to stay in my pissery.
Then—“Oh my God, Oh my God, he’s here.”
Next to me, on the platform near the bar,
two girls lean against the railing.
They’re huddled tight,
talking above a whisper.
One of them looks down at Andrew,
tracking the side of his face,
hungry for eye contact.
“Who? Who’s here.”
“Andrew Harding. Against the booth. Dark hair. Black shirt.”
“Wait—what? The Andrew Harding? You didn’t say it was him. I would’ve remembered.”
“Yes, I did. You didn’t fuckin’ believe me.” She scoffs. “He was on lead guitar. In July, remember? Right after Ian ghosted my ass. Told him I needed to forget that asshole, and bro didn’t ask my name. Just grabbed my waist and said, ‘How many times?’”
Andrew's gaze crawls up to the girls on the platform, then fall down to me.
And I know he’s wondering if I’m listening.
“Swear to God—five minutes later? I’m bent over a speaker case. Shorts down. One hand in me, one over my mouth—”
My stomach churns, but I stay rooted to the spot as they keep talking.
“Swear I felt it for a week. Twice. In his hand…”
The laugh that slips out under my breath haunts me on the way out.
A hollow thing. A dead thing. Not even mine.
The girls are still talking,
all starry eyes and tangled memories,
like they’re telling ghost stories
about a man who still fucks in the dark.
Around me, someone laughs too loud,
bass rattles the floorboards.
Glass breaks near the stage.
Somebody's scream gets swallowed by a drum solo.
Strobe lights drip down every wall.
I can’t stand here a second longer.
I peel off the wall and move up the ramp to find something to hold.
A rail. A gun. A shovel. A drink.
Anything to kill the thought of his hand inside her.
The bar’s crowded—
people three-deep, cards in fists, elbows out.
But there’s a spot at the end.
There’s always a spot at the end.
I slide in,
and the bartender’s in front of me in seconds.
Buzzcut. Silver rings.
“Whatcha drinkin’? Water? Whiskey?
“Whole fuckin’ bar?” He smiles with a shrug.
“Tryna speak, breathe, and stand—
“kinda hard when you look like that.”
Andrew slides in beside me,
nods as if the bartender's one of his boys.
“Imagine kissin’ her,” he says, shaking his head. “Fucks you up, bro.” Then Andrew leans into the bar, fist on the grain. “You ever kiss a girl from Staten? You think you’re ready, then—boom, weekend’s gone. This one?” He nods at me. “This one’ll wreck your whole fuckin’ life…”
He shoots me a fake-innocent grin.
I lock eyes with the bartender. “Ever say 'just friends', but they still follow you around like they got a shot?” I cock a brow, tilting my head toward Andrew.
Andrew fixes the bottom of his shirt,
nodding. “Real cute.”
I flash the bartender a smile.
“Soda water with lime.”
Andrew glances over at me. “Make that two.”
Bartender nods before slipping away.
“You really not drinkin’?” Andrew asks,
pulling out his wallet.
I shrug. “I don’t fuck with liquor much. Throws off the whole flavor profile. Dries you out, messes with pH, weakens your pelvic floor, takes longer to come. I keep my shit fresh and tight. My pussy has standards.”
He stares, deadpan, caught off guard.
I lean back into my hip. “What? You ever had day-after-alcohol pussy? Tastes stale. I keep it clean.” I shrug. “And if I do drink, it’s rarely in public—if ever. I prefer to stay in control.”
He shakes his head,
jaw flexing with a grin he’s trying to bury.
Then he’s nodding.
Swallows—
“You don’t drink in public.”
He squints. “Since when?”
“Since always.”
He turns to me, studying my face,
tapping his card against the bar.
“You drank with me on the roof.
“And the Clover,” he points out.
“And the gala,” he adds.
I shrug. “'Cause you were there."
Andrew’s eyes lift.
Then his brow.
Then his smile.
“So what—you sayin' you only drink when I’m wit’ you?”
He says it wrapped in humor, a joke.
When I don’t meet his eyes,
just tap my nails on the bar,
his smile fades.
“C’mon, be real.
“Only time you drink’s when I’m around?”
My shoulder goes up. “Yeah.
“‘Cause you got me.
“Feels safe.
“With you, I can fall apart and still not fall.
“But you’re goin’ on stage,
“so… soda water and lime it is.”
A short laugh slips out of him.
Then he leans in close,
heating the space between us.
“You drop that on me like I ain’t two seconds from haulin’ you outta here.” His breath grazes my ear. “You takin’ care’a yourself.
“Not out drinkin’ around other guys.
“Not gettin’ sloppy.
“Not puttin’ yourself in dumb situations.”
His voice dips closer. “That yours-only shit?”
He licks his bottom lip, eyes fixed on me.
“Yeah.
“You got no idea how fuckin’ sexy that is.”
My lungs lock up. My knees too.
But I don’t let it show.
Instead, I laugh. Short. An exhale.
Then I shake my head,
ripping my gaze from his.
Andrew drops his fist on the bar again,
like he's mad at himself for even saying it.
But then he drops—
“You haven’t let me kiss you since the rooftop.” He stares forward, eyes anywhere but on me. As if it’s not killing him. “I fuckin’ miss it.”
I swallow with a nod.
My chest turns to him first.
Then my mouth.
Then my eyes.
“Then kiss me.”
His gaze darts to mine,
silhouette at a standstill.
He tries to recover with a grin,
but the smile doesn’t make it,
his pulse missing a step.
It stutters,
shakes,
falls apart right there on his lips.
“Sonny,” he breathes. “That's not nice.”
His eyes were already on me,
but now they’re falling into me fast.
Everything drowns behind his breath.
The noise drops out.
the crowd melts into color.
Then it's just eyes.
His.
Mine.
And he leans in anyway.
So close that I can feel the pull in his chest.
He angles his head toward mine,
warm breath spilling across my cheek,
the heat of it soaking into my skin.
Mouth so close I can taste him.
Then my breath trips,
stutters,
shakes.
I close my eyes, breathe in his scent,
filling my lungs with the stillness of him.
And when I breathe out, he does too.
We’re moving the same without moving at all,
breaths lined up, hearts eavesdropping,
like we’re the same body,
split down the middle.
And it’s intimate in a way that scares me.
Because it’s something I could lose.
Something I could watch get dragged away...
I’m suddenly terrified of what could bulldoze between us and take him from me.
The thought makes my pulse crash against skin, each beat louder and faster than the last.
My eyes stay closed, gripping the sound of his breath with both hands.
Until everything in me becomes painfully attuned to Andrew.
I feel him.
I’m aware of only him.
The pulse in his throat.
The soft parting of his lips.
His breath dragging across my mouth.
A kiss that never happens but still aches.
My breath leaves slow, slipping into his.
where it belongs,
and now he’s holding all of it.
Then his breath stumbles,
just as torn up as I am.
I lift my eyes to his,
feeling dangerously exposed.
He’s staring down at me,
brows bunched together,
swallowing hard.
And I’m undone
by nothing more
than fucking breathing.
His forehead is still near mine,
and a stunned smile splits his lips.
“Fuck—you got me shakin’.”
He swallows, closing his hands into fists.
“You always do this.
“Got me standin’ here, shakin’.”
He tries to laugh, but it doesn’t go anywhere.
“Fuckin’ cruel, you know that?”
I back away, tearing my gaze away from his,
stepping out of the spell,