Page 50 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“Hey, you good?”

I try to play it off, as if my heart’s not sitting in a fetal position in the corner of my chest. “Yeah. He just gave me the creeps.”

I don’t want to think about Hunter, and I don’t want to see him in every jump-scare, but every time, there he is. As if fear has no reason to bother with inventing new monsters anymore, it’s already picked a favorite face, and it’s his.

Andrew’s hand slides up the back of my neck, his thumb brushing over my pulse that’s slamming into my throat. The second he touches it, he glances back down at me.

My chest is still rising too fast,

falling too deep.

He starts to pull me into the heat of him,

when the drinks hit the bar like bombs.

THIRD QUARTER // EAGLES 16 — GIANTS 10

Game’s lagging ‘cause of Midtown WiFi.

The whole bar groans when Lock botches a wide-open slant.

I’m still a little shaky, side-eyeing the Grim Reaper, making sure that fucker stays on that side of the bar.

And Little Death’s here now too,

thanks to the Reaper.

It’s all poetic in the most fucked-up way.

Little Death’s standing tall on my cervix,

tapping his watch⁠—

we got somewhere to be, a clit to rub.

Andrew’s back in the barstool, laughing behind me. “Yeah, nah. I’m not bettin’ you again,” he says.

“This is redemption,” Peter insists.

“This is addiction,” Andrew slaps back.

I finish off my drink, the alcohol comforting enough to keep me here, but not enough to make Little Death disappear. The ache’s still spreading slow between my thighs. I don’t want to crave it, but my mind’s already planning the when, where, how, pussy foaming at the mouth for a lockable door and ten minutes alone.

Lock gets sacked and a guy one table over from ours mouths off at Peter. “Nah, Lock can’t throw a checkdown.” He’s wearing a fake Rolex, fake gold chain out, beer half-spilled on his joggers. “Shoulda kept Dimes. Dumbest move they ever made.”

Andrew leans back, drink in hand. “Still cryin’ over Danny Dimes, huh? He got five years. Bro had his shot.”

The guy scoffs.

“Deserved one more season.”

“Your boy ran outta miracles in ‘22,” Andrew mutters. “Shoulda retired with Eli. Opened a car dealership. Called it Hail Mary Motors.”

A few guys nearby laugh, nodding,

hating that he’s right.

Fake Rolex is three beers past subtle. “Oh, you got jokes now?” he says, sweeping the bar for an audience, voice climbing. “What’s that accent? Jersey? Is that where they teach you to run your mouth?”