strangled / standards / summit skies
But with you / I feel different /
I don’t wanna say goodbye
But with you / I feel different /
tho you left n’ drew the line
And with you / I feel different /
I’ll repeat it every time
Crazy / but in that / other life / please /
save a spot for you and I
TRACK NO. 06: RENEGADE
// ROXY — LATE AUGUST '17 — WEEHAWKEN, NJ //
“Legends didn't wait around to be written.
They crawled out of Jersey nights, carried in the mouths of people who couldn't stop tellin' 'em. Almost true, fully-believed, and I knew better than anyone: stories hit harder when I was the headline.
Nights like that spun on B-sides—hot, drunk, forgotten by sunrise.
Confessions spilled. Fists flew. Nights ended in fogged-up windows and backseats. 'Cause the August heat got in our blood, turned thoughts filthy, made mouths reckless.
And on Boulevard East in Weehawken, just after midnight, the city skyline turned me into a fever dream. I wore summer nights like dirty secrets, with sweat slidin’ between my tits, cutoffs with no panties, and a walk that turned heads.
They all watched me. They always did.
I was the kind of girl you either wanted or wanted to be.
Guys tripped over their tongues around me. Girls pulled their boys closer when I walked past. I got off on how easy it was to disarm any man. How one seductive smile could make dicks stretch under denim. How one lick of my lips could make theirzippers strain, and how I could bend forward just enough to make 'em stupid.
I was never gonna fuck 'em. But knowing this didn’t stop every guy in the lot from starin’—except one.
Andrew Harding—twenty-years-old, a story in the makin’—was leanin’ against Danny’s ride with a smirk that didn’t give a single fuck.
Pure Italian-Jersey boy—dark, grippable hair, white tee huggin' his chest, button-up hangin’ lazy off his shoulder. His black jeans were cut tight, gold chain catchin' the streetlight, with a jawline built for bitin', and a fuckin' smile that dropkicked your common sense and landed tongue-first into your panties.
He was the kind of hot that screamed two things: off-limits and most-wanted. The kind of hot that got a guy slapped and sucked off in the same breath. He was six feet of lean muscle, ready to bolt, belt a verse, or bend you over the hood.
I was leaned against Carlos’s car, boxed in by Carlos, Maria, and Josalyn. Their backs were to the Hudson while I lit my cigarette with a spark that wasn't mine.
“Who’s that leanin’ all fine against Danny’s car like he ain’t got a care in the fuckin’ world?” I muttered, watchin' him from behind my lashes.
Maria blew her smoke sideways. “That’s Andrew Harding.”
My head snapped. “Nah. That’s him?”
Maria flicked her chin up. “Mhm. He's chill, but they say he’ll ruin you for any other man in one night with just his mouth and hands.”
I scanned him, unimpressed. “Figured he’d be taller.”
Maria side-eyed me. “He’s six foot, Rox.”
