“Harding, what the actual fuck, bro?”
Andrew’s on his phone,
thumb frozen mid-scroll, face still, jaw locked.
He’s scanning the headlines now,
checking if it’s true,
seeing the photos of me and Dad,
back when the world still had him.
Nico’s hands lock together on the top of his head. “You just… forgot to mention she’s Corey Taylor’s daughter?” He gestures to me. “Like that’s not major fuckin’ info?”
He laughs again, brows hitting the ceiling. “She’s out here fixing Neon fuckin’ Grey's career, and you're all like—'Oh, hey, guys. That's Allison'.”
Mikey squints at me.
“Wait. Hold the fuck on.
“Indie rock god Corey Taylor?”
Then he sits back, eyes wide. “No wonder you told me to fuck off. Shit. Shoulda been on my knees. Not runnin’ my fuckin’ mouth like a rookie.”
Andrew blacks out his phone and slides it into his front pocket.
His gaze narrows to me.
Because he didn’t know.
Because I never told him.
Because once I say Dad’s name,
people want to talk about him.
And I can’t. Because the minute I do,
Dad dies all over again,
and my chest fucking hurts each time.
Nico nudges a chin at Andrew. “You know that was Neon Grey, right?” He tosses a thumb at the door. “He just rolled up on yourfriendover here,all flirtin’ in falsetto and layin’ it down thick, bro. Meanwhile, you standin’ over here all up in your feelings.”
Mikey laughs into his fist.
Nico hums the chorus,
grinding against Andrew’s hip?—
“Just lay back / let me ruin /
“slow-fuckin’ / hush, no rushin’ /
“take my time like it ain’t nothin’—”
Andrew shoves him off, palm to the face.
