Chapter 29 Losing It #2
staring at me as if I’m overreacting.
“Yo, chill the fuck out. I was bein’ nice.”
For a split second, guilt slams into me.
For a split second, I feel like the bitch.
I made a scene. Blew it up. Acted crazy.
I should smile and say thank you next time.
But then—
No.
No, fuck that. He touched me.
Touched me.
And now it’s tar creeping through my veins.
“Ay—nah. You serious right now?”
A male voice barrels through the crowd,
wearing a Def Leppard tee,
sleeves strangling his biceps.
Another guy's behind him with a Staten jawline and buzz cut.
Def Lep points at me like I’m his girl,
born and raised.
“Yo. You really put hands on her?
“Right fuckin’ here?”
Mr. Shoulder Grab backs up,
but not before hearing:
“Try that again, and your whole grill’s gonna be part of the floor plan.”
Then Def Lep slides up next to me,
arm brushing mine,
as if we’ve been dating since kindergarten.
I stand here, speechless,
staring into the abyss of whiskey and sweat and confusion.
“You’re welcome,” he says, full grin, full dumbass. “Name's Wes.”
His friend steps in on the other side of me. “Jake.”
The drums scream around me.
The guitars saw through the floor.
Andrew’s shoulders glint under the lights,
his chest glistening.
He sings the hook with his eyes closed,
his tattoo flexing with every breath,
as if it’s breathing too.
Wes lays his hand on the back of my arm,
turning me to face him.
“You never gave me your name.”
I freeze. I'm still stuck on the last hand,
and now here comes another.
Different hand. Different guy.
Same fucking robbery.
Wes grins wider,
his fingers crawling down my arm.
“Bein’ your boyfriend’s hard if I don’t know your name.”
He leans in, smelling of Red Bull and vodka.
“Give me that, then maybe I buy you a drink that don’t land on your tits.”
Everything’s lagging five seconds behind.
I try to speak, to move,
but half of me’s gone,
watching from the exit sign.
Jake snorts, knuckles grazing my hip.
His eyes take their sweet fucking time down my legs. “C’mon, you could use a better night.”
Touch after touch, and I still can't move.
Maybe if I stay still long enough,
they’ll forget I’m real.
Maybe I’ll forget too.
Andrew squints from the stage,
voice slowing in the middle of a verse.
He’s distracted, trying to strum through it,
but his face is tense.
His guitar's scream slashes the air,
then cuts out as he kills the riff halfway through—“Aight—hold up.”
The rest of the instruments die,
waiting for him.
“Gimme one sec, I need my fuckin’ glasses,” he says, falling back, walking away from the mic. “Apparently I gotta SEE which dumbass’s beggin’ to die tonight.”
Laughter cracks across the floor.
Wes and Jake both glance over at the stage,
hands dropping off me.
Andrew grabs a case from the amp,
pops his glasses on with one hand,
steps back up to the mic.
His gaze narrows in my direction,
a grin rising. “Funny, huh? Man throws on glasses and now y’all remember your manners.”
The crowd laughs again.
Someone whistles.
Someone yells, “YOOO.”
Jake lifts a brow. “That for us?”
I shrug. “Don’t know, hard to tell.”
Wes chuckles. “He your boyfriend?”
“Thought you were my boyfriend,” I deadpan.
Andrew points at them.
“Eyes only, gentlemen.
“Hands put you in the hospital.”
Another fistful of laughs spill from the crowd.
Jake chuckles,
nudging a thumb toward the stage.
“Wait—we got him all worked up like that?”
Wes’s amused,
smirking as he calls out over the crowd—
“Oh, that? That wasn’t touchin’ her.
“I could show you touchin her.”
Both guys laugh.
Andrew doesn’t.
He rips the mic from the stand, holding his guitar back with his other hand. “Nah. I ain’t playin’, bro. Keep your fuckin’ hands off her.”
Whispers ricochet across the crowd.
Eyes are probably staring at me,
but I'm not sure.
I'm too busy staring at Andrew.
Every muscle in him's screaming,
teeth clenched, breath fraying.
He’s about to lose it.
Both Nico and Mikey are grinning to the floor.
Jay’s fingers hover over the strings, waiting,
like he’s buffering.
Jake rakes his gaze down me,
then bumps Wes's shoulder.
“Let’s bounce.”
Andrew sets the mic back into the stand,
points his pick into the crowd.
“Next hand that lands on her?
“I break every bone in it.”
He strums the guitar once—
“Back. The fuck. Up.”
Then there goes my heart,
off beat, off leash, doing things it shouldn’t.
Andrew holds up his hand,
snatching up the crowd’s attention.
The drums slam, then it’s fucking unhinged.
Every body's moving in sync—
sweat, heat, breath, bass—
the beat shoving itself down their throats
and puppeting their bones.
The lights flash. The crowd roars.
But, Andrew…
It’s already too late for us.
// 11:41 PM //
“To the girl who’s had the whole bar fumblin’ since she walked in."
I turn—
Romeo’s hip’s leaned against the beam,
legs crossed at the ankle,
one hand in his pocket,
the other raising a glass.
“Been tryin’ to time it right to come over… but then you had fake boyfriends, the entertainment throwing out threats, and a whole damn crowd fightin’ for your attention. Tough competition.”
Funny. I never felt lonelier in a room full of people. If he only knew I’m one more heartbreak away from crying in a bathroom stall.
“Yeah. Some night, huh?”
He swings forward on the beam. “Was real close to sendin’ you a drink with a note sayin’, ‘you okay?’” His head dips closer. “But you didn’t look like the kind of girl who needed saving. Just a break.”
I glance at him,
then remember how gorgeous he is.
“Good call. Might’ve drowned in that drink too.” A smile pulls on my lips anyway. “But the note would’ve ruined me.”
“That so?” He shifts closer. “Then I should’ve sent it. You deserve to know how much you shook me.”
I turn, and his eyes find mine in the dark.
The second the strobe flashes white across his jaw, the guitar dips low, knowing we’re staring too long.
Andrew steals me back—leaned into his hip,
neck taut, spotlight kissing his throat.
And for a split second,
I forget everything I’ve learned
and all the hurt I felt tonight.
Romeo turns, facing me fully now.
“Can I ask you somethin’—”
“Romeooo.”
A girl says it in a dragged-out, drunk-girl way as she pulls up on us. His brow lifts by a hair as she steps up next to him, hand on his bicep.
Hair black. Glossy. Straight. Middle part.
Hits the middle of her back.
She’s not just beautiful. She’s undeniable.
And she's whispering in his ear.
Romeo pulls back with a grin.
“Appreciate it, sweetheart.
“But I don’t play the room.”
He lifts a shoulder.
“Eyes on one girl. That’s it.”
When she leaves, he pushes off the beam with his heel, smooth as vinyl, one foot sliding in front of the other, until he’s behind my side, his chest grazing my shoulder.
Body heat, breath, his attention,
all touching me without laying a finger.
“You good with me here? ‘Cause I’m not lookin’ anywhere else tonight.”
My chest tightens, my throat closing in.
Because this was it.
God, this was all I fucking wanted tonight.
And I didn’t know how much I craved it
‘til Romeo filled it.
To be the girl the room disappears around for someone.
And the one giving it to me isn’t Andrew.
It’s Romeo.
Without touching me, without interfering,
Romeo did what Andrew should’ve been able to pull off, even with a bet in place.
Instead Andrew's only goal was to piss me off.
The truth burns behind my eyes, in my throat.
“So what’s the story, Romeo?” I ask, tossing a glance over my shoulder. “You stroll in here like a Sinatra daydream, all pressed collar and bedroom eyes. You don’t exactly scream Vice regular.”My gaze runs the full length of him, then back up. “Get lost? Forced against your will?”
He leans a forearm against the beam,
chin tipped to me.
“Visiting from Chicago. Cousin dragged me in. Not my scene. Was halfway out the door.” His espresso eyes narrow, playful. “But then I saw you dancin’.”
Andrew’s voice rips through the room and takes me with it.
I turn back in time to catch the vein in his neck straining as he hits the high note, voice tearing out of him.
His face is a fucking war zone.
Anger at his mouth, panic in his brow,
heartbreak bleeding down his chest.
His gaze grips me hard.
Not gentle, but desperate.
He’s teetering on the edge of me,
needing my eyes on him or he’ll lose it.
So I tear mine away.
He can go fuck himself.
“I watched the way he flipped over you,” Romeo says. “You two together? Or is this some unfinished business?”
I shake my head.
“Nah. I showed up to be supportive.”
Andrew’s stare is heavy, burning into me,
brows pulled tight,
as if the lyrics hurt coming out.
“I didn’t expect to get ignored, groped, laughed at.” A bitter laugh slips out of me. I smother it with an exhale. “Should’ve stayed home.”
Romeo reaches out and brushes a knuckle under my elbow. “Look at me a sec…”
And I do.
He’s heartbreak-pretty,
with a voice sliding in slow—
all silk sheets and sweat.
All Bruno Mars tracks
where the lights go red
and the bass drops to fuck you.
All Gorilla. Versace. Money Make Her Smile.
But my skin feels wrong,
telling me this isn’t where I’m supposed to be.
And the closer he gets, the more I feel it—
the no living under the yes.
He slides up closer,
his pelvis catching my hip from the side,
heat sinking straight through.
“You showed up. You stayed. That says it all.”
He shrugs,
plucking a piece of pulp from my hair.
“And for the record? You held your own.
“That’s class, sweetheart."
He finds my hip,
and he gives it a soft squeeze.
“Seriously,” he says.
“Most people swing low when they’re hit.
“You didn’t even blink.”
Then the first chord of Angel rips the floor out from under me—
a bullet aimed straight at my chest.
My eyes snap back to the stage,
where Andrew’s wringing it all out,
one hand crushing the neck of his guitar,
every note of the riff dragged out in torment.
As if he’s saying, please, look at me again.
And the song grabs me,
a hand to the throat,
slamming me up against the wall,
then kissing the fuck out of me.
My chest tightens so hard that I grab it,
my fingertips press against bone to hold my heart back.
A burn flares behind my eyes,
and my body seizes,
like I swallowed a scream,
and it’s punching to get out.
One tear tries to escape,
tries to slip past everything I’ve built.
Fuck. I kill it before it leaves my eye.
Now I’m shaking.
Then the strings cut out.
The crowd explodes into chaos over it.
Mikey and Nico share a glance with a laugh,
then fall back from the guitar, the drums,
not knowing why they’re there anymore.
Andrew lifts his head,
chest heaving,
leans into the mic,
and breathes—
“Now that I got your attention, and your pretty little heart poundin’…” He wets his lip. “I need you closer. You feel too fuckin’ far. And I hate it.”
The room falls quiet.
My heart slams hard.
His voice shakes a little—
“Truth is—I’m not fuckin’ okay right now.”
His eyes squeeze shut and he tries to breathe.
After an exhale, he opens his eyes again,
a breathless laugh leaving him.
“Yeah, I’m kind of fallin’ apart up here.”
Then there goes my heart, freefalling.
My lungs, spacebound.
I hold still because one blink,
one swallow,
one step
and I’m splattered on the floor.
He waits, unmoving,
with a stare made of hands,
trying to hold me by the throat
and the heart at the same time.
The entire crowd blurs,
the lens of this night finally finding its focus.
And everything falls away again.
It’s him. And it’s me.
As it’s always been him and me.
Whispers pass around, confusion.
He swallows hard.
There’s gravel in his throat—
“Feels like I’m losin’ you.
“And I’m not lettin’ that happen.”
I open my mouth to say—
you had all night to not lose me, but you chose to win a bet, chose to make me jealous, chose to prove a point, chose them, and it’s too fuckin’ late—
but my voice bails.
I shake my head, not moving.
And me not moving breaks his heart.
He shifts in place,
shifts closer to the mic,
more nervous,
more desperate.
“Please, angel. Come save me.”
His fingers curl around the mic,
the only thing keeping him standing.
“You got me beggin’.”
Sweat drips from his temple.
“Stand right here with me,
“so I can fuckin’ breathe.”
My heart thumps.
And thumps.
Some prick laughs.
Two girls whisper behind cupped hands.
Andrew’s not moving.
The no in my throat turns to smoke.
My heart cries.
It doesn’t know whether to sprint or shut down. It wants to crawl toward him and crawl out the door at the same time.
I hate him right now. I do.
I’m so fucking angry. So fucking hurt.
But I hate seeing him like this more.
He’s up there—
voice cracking, shaking, stupid, still waiting—
and it’s fucking killing me.
I can’t let him fall apart up there while everyone watches.
My feet move, not knowing any better,
walking right to him.
I'm furious, burning, but I don’t look back.
Andrew leans over the mic stand,
head against his bicep,
a relieved breath leaving him.
As if I just handed him his lungs back.
The whole room’s watching.
They don’t cheer,
not like they do in the movies.
They’re completely silent.
Andrew turns to drag a hand across his chest.
Then he turns back to me,
holding his guitar behind him.
He covers a hand over the mic,
leans away from it, looking right into my eyes.
“I want you,” he spits out, eyes like glass.
“I want you so fuckin’ bad it hurts.”
He wets his lip, shaking his head.
“I’ve never wanted anyone or anything.
“Never said those words before…
“Don’t know how to deal.
“It’s making me stupid.”
He’s still staring at me, brows raised like—
I said it out loud so now you’re mine.
End of fuckin’ story.
“But I know one thing—
“I only want you. And that's not gonna stop.”
He turns to the rest of the room.
The guitar swings back into his hands.
“She’s here. I’m good.
“Let’s get back to the fuckin’ music.”