Chapter 31 Cryin’ #2
lips sucking on my bottom lip.
His knee slides up between my thighs,
and he grinds slow.
Deep.
Fuck.
I bite his lip.
He moans into my mouth,
trying to lick the memory of Andrew right off my tongue.
Romeo’s not trying to turn me on.
He is.
He moves with a star-crossed curse in his blood—too slick-tongued to survive, too fine not to fuck.
Indecent as hell,
but Satan can take the fucking wheel.
I’m lighting up, heat flaming up my thighs.
My body arches into him
as if it’s forgotten who touched it last.
My hoodie rides higher,
bunched under my elbows,
stomach bare to his shirt.
His cold belt buckle grazes my belly,
his breath spills across my mouth.
It’s fierce. It's filthy.
But when he moans,
I hear Andrew groan.
When he grinds his hips,
I feel Andrew’s breath.
When Romeo growls,
“You’re mine tonight,”
I hear Andrew pleading,
“I want you so fuckin’ bad it hurts.”
Romeo’s touching me,
but Andrew’s under my skin.
Both of them here.
At the same time.
My mouth kissed by one
while my memory’s kissed by the other.
It's sick. I feel sick.
But what else am I supposed to do?
These hearts of ours aren’t mainstream.
I kiss Romeo harder to burn Andrew off
piece
by
piece.
Romeo’s warm palm slides up my stomach,
cups my tit,
squeezes.
The other drifts down and around,
takes a fist of my ass,
pulling me in as he grinds hard—
mouth slanted, kiss deep, filthy, wet.
“Sweetheart… you’re killin’ me.
“I’m hard as hell right now.”
He breathes into my mouth. “I can’t hide this.”
He hooks my panties with one finger,
then pulls them aside, exposing my pussy.
His eyes drop down to look,
breath pulling heavy, then heavier.
He sucks his thumb,
then finds my clit and drags it in a circle.
“Fuckin’ sexy,” he says under his breath,
catching the backside of my thigh,
knee sliding, nudging me open wider.
Hand on my hip, he leans back to watch me grind slow into his thigh. “This is unreal. Like—what the fuck. Look at you.”
His hand slides up my thigh, my stomach,
grips the band of my panties,
eyes drowning in the view.
“How’d you even end up here? With me?”
Courtesy of four shots of vodka. Maybe five.
It’s working. (I’m lying.)
I’m in this. (I'm not.)
I’m not even imagining Andrew, who’s probably doing this exact same thing with someone else, watching another pussy grind against his thigh,
wanting it,
breathing hard,
getting hard,
whispering sickening words,
his body all hers for the night.
My head tips back against the shelf,
my eyes closing.
This is the part when I vanish.
When my body takes over,
my brain goes blurry,
and my heart checks out,
leaves Earth,
rocketships to the moon,
races with the asteroids.
When Little Death slides in,
sinking its fangs into me.
But Little Death’s nowhere to be found,
abandoning me when I need it most.
All I have left is an ugly ache crawling up from my chest.
I squeeze my eyes shut,
fist clenched tighter to fight it,
to crush it before it breaks out,
to reach for numb,
but only hurt grabs my hand.
Then a memory crashes through—
“What’s your name?”
“Jesus. Sorry. Uh… Andrew. I think—you?”
“Allison.”
“Allison…
“Wanna come up here with me?”
Romeo’s hands slow. His breath pulls back.
And when he scans my face,
he doesn’t know what he’s seeing.
He only knows that something's wrong.
He tries to keep going, cupping my face with one more roll of his thumb against my clit, kissing me slower now, hoping I’ll come back to him.
But I don’t kiss back.
I breathe hard through my nose,
trying not to cry.
He pulls back, his hands falling away.
“Okay. Alright. We’re stopping.”
The crack climbs fast and hits my throat,
burning through my lungs
and up into my face.
Then—fuck—I’m crying.
Full-body,
breath-stealing,
shoulder-shaking tears.
Fucking embarrassing.
And before I can push him off or gather myself, he’s got me, wrapping both arms around me, pulling me in after I just fucked the whole night up.
I shake my head,
shoving the tears back inside.
“It’s the shots, okay?
“I don’t drink. I don’t cry.”
He holds me tighter, arms sincere.
I swipe under both eyes,
mad this is happening to me.
“You’re… weirdly nice and calm about this.”
He chuckles warm and shrugs.
“What can I say? I’m from Chicago.”
// 2:58 AM - PENTHOUSE - UPPER EAST SIDE, NYC //
It’s almost three in the fucking morning.
Andrew’s STD report’s lying in the pool chair in front of my crossed legs.
“This patient has undergone routine STI screening 21 times since 2019…”
If he didn’t tell me,
I would have seen this anyway,
asked why the fuck he tested himself this many times in five years.
Previous screenings on file:
09/28/2024 — Negative
07/16/2024 — Negative
03/04/2024 — Negative
10/09/2023 — Negative…
And it keeps fucking going.
All negative. Again. And again.
He knows what he’s doing.
He runs diagnostics on his body
as if it’s a machine built to please,
thinking as long as he’s responsible,
he can keep having what he wants,
keep touching,
eating,
fucking who he wants,
and not feel guilty about it.
Three hundred...
The number of his body count.
And the number of songs stripped from me.
It's ironic, really.
He gives skin, I give sound.
He gives pleasure, I give pain.
Both used 'til empty.
Both end with someone else
taking the best part of us.
Both consumed and forgotten—
just in different ways.
Did any of them mean anything to you?
Do I mean anything to you?
Are you desensitized by now?
Can you stop? Can I trust you?
What do you want from me? Why me?
Just… why?
Are you an addict too?
Is it to cover something that hurts more?
Maybe… we both turn bodies into bandaids.
My eyes land on ‘Andrew Joseph Harding’ in the top right corner.
His address.
His birthday: June 29, 1997
Now I know. He’s a Cancer.
The stars were blackout drunk when they poured him.
My fingertips brush over it,
his voice invading me—
‘…love’s about how good you make someone feel… what they get outta you. What you got to offer. If you fill what they’re missin’… once you stop? Poof. They’re gone.’
He glances down at the tattoo,
where my finger’s brushing.
The lyric: I do not long to be loved but to be known.
‘Bein’ known? It’s seein’ you. Not what you do or what you give, but who you are when you ain’t givin’ shit…’
He drags a thumb across my hand.
‘Just seein’ you, and that be enough…’
I set the tests under the ashtray,
where a cig’s burning, smoke rising up.
The pool chair sighs under me when I lean back, guitar in my lap.
Above, the sky’s cracked open,
night and stars spilling out.
I drag the pick, strumming once, twice,
then hit the wood with the heel of my palm to give the story a heartbeat…
“Met this boy one night— //
we crashed at Type
Said my name—seven times slow— //
touched me twice
Without a fight // kissed right /
held my hand tight
Said: ‘Don’t wanna stop—but /
all I got is tonight’
His reply was a curse /
like two fists swingin’
‘Yo, girl—Everything happens /
for a reason’
That night—we tore through Tylers //
both Bonnie and Steven
We didn’t leave sprung //
we left still springin’
The lonely Jersey boy—
all mouth n’ two moms,
A city girl who don’t fuck,
all she do is drop F-bombs.
This keeps goin’—
On and on And then…
No one died, but it’s still a tragedy
Fuck Shakespeare, he lied—
a brush with agony
They fell into death—
before love killed slow
That’s the tragedy
he should’a fuckin’ wrote
Pulled a Romeo—a fast fuck to forget
Drew a line through hate-and-love—
sick Juliet
They got The End. We got And Then
Circle and crash
into each other
again—“
A slow clap comes from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder,
and Ben’s standing in the open doorway,
shirtless,
toothbrush hanging from his mouth,
brow raised.
“You just fuckin’ freestyle that?
“Some storytelling, pop-rap shit.”
I reach for my cig, tap ash into the tray,
drag, then blow smoke.
“Yeah, well. Drunk outta my mind.
“Brain won’t shut up unless I rhyme.”
He pulls the toothbrush from his mouth
and points it at me. “I’m ‘bout to crash. You need me to eat you out first before I pass out, or nah?”
I wince.
For the first time, I fucking wince.
And then I’m squinting at him.
At how hollow it sounds bouncing off the walls of my broken heart.
Confusion blows into his face,
and he tries again with a grin.
“Goin’ down in ten seconds either way, Baby.
“Could be on you. Just sayin’.”
He throws it out there, casual.
As if he's saying—can I borrow a light?
And for the longest time, I treated it the same.
A way to forget something,
or feel something different,
or get something over with,
but now it sounds wrong.
And I’m wondering when this stopped being meaningless to me.
“God, Ben. You talk like your mouth isn't attached to a person anymore. Have some respect for yourself.”
My knee’s bouncing from the cold or the guilt.
Ben half-laughs,
toothbrush hanging limp at his side.
“Swear to fuckin’ God, Baby, you’re a piece of work, y’kno that?”
My gaze hits him again.
“Where the fuck you goin’ with that?”
He steps outside fully,
barefoot on freezing concrete.
“You bleed for ghosts and draw blood from the living.” He looks tired.
Not in the eyes, in the bones. “You treat me like shit for no goddamn reason. I’m literally standing here, offerin’ ‘cause it’s my fuckin’ job, bein’ a perfect Boy for you, and you still find a way to mock me for bein’ exactly who you want me to be. ”
I peer past him at the elevator inside,
picturing him leaving me.
But he can’t leave.
I don’t care if he hates me, I need him here.
I don’t have backups. I don't Boy #2 or #3.
I don't have anyone to keep the cravings from ripping me apart.
If he leaves, I’m fucked.
I raise a brow. “Ben, you tryna tell me—”
“Nah—I ain’t leavin’, Baby. Don’t worry.
“I’m just tired of you usin’ me—the real me—to punish yourself, and then humiliating the guy you turned me into.”
He starts to speak—stops,
his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
But then he says it anyway—
“You take the kinda sex I want, and judge the fuck outta it, but got no problem takin’ advantage of it when you wanna feel nothin’. You twist what I like into somethin’ wrong. Then shove me into the Hall of Shame.” He scoffs. “Honestly? Don’t know who the fuck to be around you.”
A laugh slips out, dead on arrival.
He raises a palm and a shoulder at the same time.
“Can’t be myself.
“Can’t be what you want me to be.
“Can’t even fuckin’ lose my shit for a goddamn second ‘cause no one else is allowed to break but you.”
He settles his gaze on me.
“I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.”
I wanna shut him up,
grab his jaw,
snap the words before they finish.
But I don’t. I let him talk,
and his words punch me with every syllable.
His shoulders roll back, nostrils flaring.
“Bein’ broken doesn’t give you permission to break other people. And it sure as fuck don’t give you permission to judge others for how they deal with their shit, or how they choose to break, too. You of all people should understand that."
Silence falls between us.
His eyes sweep over me,
and he shakes his head.
“Not all of us got it where we can hide behind a fuckin’ contract.
“Some of us gotta live with our monsters.”