His pupils are blown wide,
his lips apple-red,
chest rising fast,
breath torn to shreds.
He’s beautiful like this.
“There's only one way to be with me,” I say, holding the ache in my voice steady. “Don’t bother standin’ ‘til you know what the fuck you want.”
I push off the wall, stepping past him.
And when I reach the door,
I throw one last glance over my shoulder.
He’s still on his knee.
Holding my drink.
Panting.
Undone.
25 /YOU REALLY GOT A HOLD ON ME
SMOKEY ROBINSON, STEVEN TYLER
// NOV 24, 3:28 PM - SOUNDWAVE RECORDS - MIDTOWN, NYC //
“Yo, that bartender last night?
“Way too generous, man.”
Ace trails into the studio like the night puked him out,
eyes half-lidded,
zip-up hanging off his shoulder,
coffee in one hand, takeout in the other.
“Bro smiled when he handed me my last drink,” he mutters. “I knew I wasn’t makin’ it out alive.”
His hand’s shaking when he brings the coffee to his lips.
Then he collapses into the chair with a groan,
the night still beating the shit out of him.
“He poured like he was tryin’ to put me to sleep for good.” He shakes his head. “Aloha and goodbye.”
I flip a page, not looking up at him.
“The only thing he killed was your game.
“You lost three girls ‘cause you were slurrin’ and doin’ that weird-ass shoulder thing.” I flip another page. “Shit freaked me the fuck out.”
