Page 136 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

He stops, shuts his eyes, breathin’ out the guilt. Then he turns, palms up, givin’ her a tired shrug. “You’re right,” he mutters. “That’s on me. Been on my feet eighteen hours, sweetheart. I’m cooked.”

Her foot slips from the wall.

“Lemme guess. I’m just a face you’ll forget in ten minutes.”

“Nah.” The word crawls, sweat burnin’ his eyes. “If I forget anyone tonight, it’s myself. I’m runnin’ on fumes.”

She snags his hand before he can move.

Then it’s too late to pull away without her feelin’ rejected.

“C’mon.” Her smile’s lopsided. “You need five, right? Let’s go… there’s an old couch in the storage room. No one ever checks it. I’ll sit with you. Make sure you don’t pass out for too long.”

Girl’s out here, tryin’, but what breaks Andrew’s heart is the way she curls into herself, fidgetin’ with her top, her shorts, how her voice shakes from nerves. She’s probably been psychin’ herself up for this all night—the signs are all there—and he ain’t cruel enough to tear his hand back, ain’t the guy to put her on blast.

But Christ, he don’t got it in him tonight.

He wants five minutes with his eyes shut, a little peace and quiet.

“You really don’t gotta⁠—”

Her grip tightens, not wantin’ to let go, so he can’t.

Pushin’ her off would take more fight than he’s got left.

She leads him into a dark storage room, where he’s surrounded by crates, amps, cables, and an old, saggin’ couch that smells like it’s been soakin’ in sweat since ‘98. He doesn’t tell her he’s been back here many times before, with many different girls.

She tugs the chain overhead, and Andrew collapses on the couch, legs shoved out. “Got fifteen minutes. Still half a set to go,” he mutters, throwin’ an arm over his eyes to shield 'em from the glare that's splittin' his head open. “This is the part where I fake a burst of energy.”

She doesn’t sit beside him or on the floor or crate. She doesn’t sit anywhere that makes sense. Nah, she climbs into his lap, straddlin’ him.

His laugh jumps out, surprised at the forwardness.

“Damn,” he says, a ghost of a smile tuggin’. “Outta all the options, you went straight for the guy half-dead, huh?” His words hover in the air, all open-ended, nothin’ for her to lean into, but enough slack for her to think twice and step off him without feelin’ shoved.

She don’t, though. She’s bettin’ on the same thing they all bet on—that he’s got a dick, and he’s only after one thing. Show a little skin, and he’ll fold. Because he’s a guy, right? And no guy in history turns down pussy when it’s dropped in his lap.

But she ain’t still sittin’ in his lap ‘cause his dick’s hard for it.

She’s still sittin’ there ‘cause he can’t bring himself to push her away.

That’s the line nobody sees.

“Took every ounce of guts I had just to talk to you,” she says, thinkin’ that ‘cause she was brave enough to go for it, she could have it. Her arms drape heavy across his sore shoulders. “Don’t care what kinda shape you’re in.”

He’s gotta tell himself that she doesn’t mean it that way. It ain’t her fault it hit a nerve, but damn, that line stung worse than her fingers diggin’ into his pulled muscle.

That is, ‘til she swings back, tuggin’ on that shoulder.

Pain spikes hot, and he catches her wrist, guides it behind his neck.

She only leans in more, pressin’ a kiss against his throat.

His head snaps sideways on reflex, needin’ her mouth off him.

His throat’s off-limits, always has been.

He can’t stomach how it feels. As if she’s takin’ somethin’ that ain’t hers.