A rail. A gun. A shovel. A drink.
Anything to kill the thought of his hand inside her.
The bar’s crowded?—
people three-deep, cards in fists, elbows out.
But there’s a spot at the end.
There’s always a spot at the end.
I slide in,
and the bartender’s in front of me in seconds.
Buzzcut. Silver rings.
“Whatcha drinkin’? Water? Whiskey?
“Whole fuckin’ bar?” He smiles with a shrug.
“Tryna speak, breathe, and stand?—
“kinda hard when you look like that.”
Andrew slides in beside me,
nods as if the bartender's one of his boys.
“Imagine kissin’ her,” he says, shaking his head. “Fucks you up, bro.” Then Andrew leans into the bar, fist on the grain. “You ever kiss a girl from Staten? You think you’re ready, then—boom, weekend’s gone. This one?” He nods at me. “This one’ll wreck your whole fuckin’ life…”
He shoots me a fake-innocent grin.
I lock eyes with the bartender. “Ever say'just friends',but they still follow you around like they got a shot?” I cock a brow, tilting my head toward Andrew.
Andrew fixes the bottom of his shirt,
nodding. “Real cute.”
I flash the bartender a smile.
“Soda water with lime.”
Andrew glances over at me. “Make that two.”
Bartender nods before slipping away.
“You really not drinkin’?” Andrew asks,
pulling out his wallet.
I shrug. “I don’t fuck with liquor much. Throws off the whole flavor profile. Dries you out, messes with pH, weakens your pelvic floor, takes longer to come. I keep my shit fresh and tight. My pussy has standards.”
He stares, deadpan, caught off guard.
I lean back into my hip. “What? You ever had day-after-alcohol pussy? Tastes stale. I keep it clean.” I shrug. “And if I do drink, it’s rarely in public—if ever. I prefer to stay in control.”
He shakes his head,
