Wes lays his hand on the back of my arm,
turning me to face him.
“You never gave me your name.”
I freeze. I'm still stuck on the last hand,
and now here comes another.
Different hand. Different guy.
Same fucking robbery.
Wes grins wider,
his fingers crawling down my arm.
“Bein’ your boyfriend’s hard if I don’t know your name.”
He leans in, smelling of Red Bull and vodka.
“Give me that, then maybe I buy you a drink that don’t land on your tits.”
Everything’s lagging five seconds behind.
I try to speak, to move,
but half of me’s gone,
watching from the exit sign.
Jake snorts, knuckles grazing my hip.
His eyes take their sweet fucking time down my legs. “C’mon, you could use a better night.”
Touch after touch, and I still can't move.
Maybe if I stay still long enough,
they’ll forget I’m real.
Maybe I’ll forget too.
Andrew squints from the stage,
voice slowing in the middle of a verse.
He’s distracted, trying to strum through it,
but his face is tense.
His guitar's scream slashes the air,
then cuts out as he kills the riff halfway through—“Aight—hold up.”
The rest of the instruments die,
waiting for him.
