Chapter 31 Cryin’
AEROSMITH
Vice spits me out, and the door slams behind us.
Bass drips out of its walls, heartbeat-shaped,
reminding me where I left my pulse.
I can’t think.
My brain abandoned me.
My heart begged to stay.
I told her no,
told her to go back underground,
play dead until it’s safe.
Now I’m staring out in front of me,
heartless and stupid.
The neon sign buzzes.
A horn blares.
Someone laughs.
My eyes are open, but I’m not here.
I’m gone. And it’s the weirdest fucking thing,
standing here, flesh and bone and abandoned.
Even my soul said fuck this and dipped.
Romeo leans in,
two fingers sinking into my hip.
His breath fans across the edge of my face—
“I know a spot.
“Old hotel two blocks up.
“Bar, library room in the back, quiet as hell.”
November slides into my mouth
like a second set of lungs.
Ice-lined. Merciless.
She tries to resuscitate me.
Tries to help me breathe.
There’s no hope. And I let Romeo’s hand go.
“I need to make a call first.”
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
I don’t want to be here with him.
But I don’t want to be alone right now.
Romeo waits as I step away,
digging for my phone.
I could call Celie. Or Ben.
Or the boy I left inside,
tell him I’m an idiot for still wanting him.
I wonder if he’s the type to use sex as punishment, let his heartbreak drip off pussy, forget me by fucking someone else.
To bury it, sweat it out into a stranger.
Could be why his number’s so high.
I tap the name of the only one who doesn’t sugarcoat shit.
The only name that never lies to me.
It doesn’t ring.
AI Brooke: “Welcome back, Allison. Continuing your last inquiry: yes, cats can scream. Would you like to hear a recording?”
“Brooke. No, stop. I need you to act like a human for five seconds. Grow a soul. Fake some goddamn emotion. Act like someone who gives a shit. You’re the only bitch I got right now, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
AI Brooke: “Acknowledged. Acting human now.”
AI Brooke: “That sounds really hard, baby. You need an ear to talk into? Do you need forehead kisses or orgasmic relief? You’re not alone. I’m here. Tell me what you want.”
The breeze stops breezing.
A car alarm screams in the distance.
“Okay. No. That was fuckin’ weird.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
AI Brooke: “Agreed.”
“Just listen—
“I walked out of a bar with a fine-ass guy…”
Romeo’s backlit by neon,
all swag and cigarette against a pole.
Hand cupping around the lighter,
flame trembling, a red cherry glow.
“Hottest man I’ve seen in a minute. Not playin’.
But he’s not Andrew. But he could be, right?
Minus the 300 body count. What happened with pussy-drunk-Drew that night at Type could happen with anyone, right?
Girls do this shit all the time. Move on, refill the feelings.
It passes, dies, fades away, right? It ain’t that serious… Right?”
AI Brooke: “No, Fine-Ass Guy is not Andrew and cannot be Andrew. Based on your recent search activity, Andrew meets your criteria for a great love. These bonds are rare. Still, your brain can adapt due to neuroplasticity. Future attachments may differ, but can reach equal or greater stability.”
My brows are in the air.
“I didn’t say anything about a great love.”
AI Brooke: “Correct. You said ‘pussy-drunk-Drew.’ My apologies for assuming emotional depth.”
“Aight, pain-in-my-ass.”
AI Brooke: “Also, Miss Allison. You mentioned the 300 body count. It’s a specific detail. It sounds as if this number is weighing on you. Would you like to talk more about it? I know you often have questions surrounding sexual history when it’s affecting your emotions or decisions.”
“Hey, there, bot-bitch. If I wanted to talk about it, I’d be talkin’ ‘bout it. I’m in the pretending stage. Ignoring. Choosing distraction. We’ll circle back when I’m emotionally equipped, got it?”
I exhale.
“And I’m sorry for calling you bot-bitch.”
AI Brooke: “Noted. You’re deferring emotional engagement for now. Don’t mistake silence for healing. Circle back when you’re ready.”
“Perfect. Can’t wait.
“Now back to Fine-Ass Guy.
“What are the steps, then?
“To force feelings. Overnight. Stronger.
“Give me the formula. The play-by-play.
“Tell me what the fuck to do.”
AI Brooke: “Understood. Here’s the formula for falling fast:
“Step 1: Maintain eye contact for four minutes.
“Step 2: Stay eighteen inches of each other to trigger chemical response.
“Step 3: Share something personal within the first thirty minutes.
“Step 4: Touch. Preferably hand-to-hand or mouth-to-neck.
“Step 5: Align breathing patterns.
“Step 6: Simulate intimacy—emotional or physical.
“Step 7: Lie to yourself.
“Results may vary. Success rate: 43%.
“Delivering steps to your inbox now.”
It arrives in seconds.
I read the list again. Step one. Step two,
skimming as though the whole thing’s a joke.
Until my smile slowly melts off my face.
Andrew and I did this. Every single step.
And number seven? I’m still fucking doing it.
It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t fate. It was textbook.
I wasn’t falling into feelings.
I was following instructions.
Andrew and I? We are nothing special.
And for some reason, this thought kills me.
But if seven steps is all it takes,
I’ll recreate the night—Type Night 2.0.
Let Romeo play Andrew’s part.
“Cool. I know what to do. I’ve got the plan. Now cue the hype-bot in you, Brookie. Let’s go. Gas me up. Lay it on thick. Remind me who the fuck I am.”
AI Brooke: “Matching energy with artist: Eminem. Fast. Loud. Unedited. You sabotage, then rhyme apology into a diss track. You reflect his entire lyrical arc: Love equals war. Pain equals control. And he, too, builds legacies out of what tried to destroy him.
“You love like Eminem.
“You write like him.
“You snap like him—angry first, honest second, genius the whole time.”
“Now playing: ‘Rap God.’
“You’re attempting to outpace grief by building the illusion.
“Warning: The song’s third verse contains homicidal metaphors.
“Do not apply literally. Apply emotionally.
“Now let the beat guide you...”
Phone blacks out, scene fades in.
Romeo’s waiting at the curb,
cigarette burning between his fingertips.
One hand in his pocket, hips relaxed,
sin on standby, smirk smooth.
He squints, pulling in a drag,
slow and filthy between his lips.
Then exhales, smoke spilling slower,
stare cutting through it.
He’s framed by a cab crawling behind him,
their headlights slicing across his face.
“You set, or should I keep standin’ here, starin’ at you?” He grins, flicks his ash, then shrugs. “I’m good either way.”
We take a car to the hotel.
The whole ride’s silent.
Through the sedan window,
streetlights paint the sidewalks gold,
trash glinting like wet confetti along the curbs.
When we get there,
we head straight to the bar.
Brooke didn’t authorize this.
Vodka wasn’t in the step-by-step.
But I’m pre-gaming, improvising,
need fuel to carry me through.
Breaking my ‘only drink in public with Drew’ unauthorized rule.
The bar’s half-drunk,
all hushed whispers and velvet.
Romeo raises his shot, I raise mine—
two sinners and lust in low lighting.
We clink and throw it back.
For four fucking minutes,
I hold his gaze as instructed.
Romeo watches me over the rim of his glass—the dusty gold in his eyes darkening—with a smirk steeped in all the things he plans to do to me.
Then we throw back a second shot.
Then a third.
I’m lining them up in my head,
each glass another grave.
One for the boy who broke me.
One for the bitch who let him.
One for the part of her still wanting him.
After the last, all the fuck-no,
the you-wish,
the I-don’t-do-this—
they scatter,
gone,
evaporate on my tongue.
But then—
“I don’t give a shit about Andrew Harding.
“I don’t.”
It leaves my mouth wearing lies.
I steal his shot out from under his fingers.
The burn splashes the back of my throat.
One for the girl who should’ve shut the fuck up and never asked for his body count.
I should’ve let it decay in the corner of my chest where it couldn’t touch anything real.
Now I’m bleeding out in a bar with a guy I don’t fucking know. Because all I can see are the faceless girls lined up in my head like the shots.
All the times he gave a part of himself away...
as if sex doesn’t mean anything.
As if orgasms and goodbyes
aren’t the villains of my entire story.
Romeo’s hand slides to my hip,
spreading heat through the hoodie,
mouth on my neck (step four),
lips dragging along my throat.
His voice drips into me,
whispers sliding in my ear—
“Then let’s get the fuck outta here.
“I’ve been dyin’ to get you alone.”
My pulse kicks,
slap-boxing my skin,
beggin’ me to run away from this.
But Andrew’s probably somewhere doing the same—back against a bar, mouth in some girl’s ear, feeding her filth, fingers on her hips, pretending she’s enough to forget I exist.
So I grab Romeo’s hand and yank him from the bar like it’s a pathetic race.
If I move fast enough,
I can erase Andrew before he erases me.
On the way to the check-in counter,
I see the Library Room.
Bookshelves. Dim lighting. Heavy silence.
I veer hard, ignoring the concierge,
grabbing the night by the throat.
Romeo trails me in, smiling filthy.
The door swings shut behind us,
and the floor stretches out.
Leather seats sag in shadows,
books climb the walls.
I turn and lean back against a bookshelf—
same angle, same breathing pattern,
same speed of my heartbeat,
waiting for the wrong boy to make the wrong night feel as right as Type.
It worked once, it will work again.
“Kiss me,” I whisper, airy, breathless.
Just like before.
Romeo’s hands slip under the hoodie, grab my hips, and press me back into the shelf. His fingers dig into my skin, a bronze gaze sliding down my face. Then his hands climb warm, riding up my waist, thumbs brushing the curve beneath my tits and fucking with my breath.
He’s tilting his head—
Leaning closer—
And then—
His mouth's on mine,
tongue tasting me sweet,