Page 520 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Then Mouth Breather humps his face to the rhythm of it. She ain’t even with him anymore. She’s locked on the song, grindin’ to their beat, settin’ her own pace like he’s a fuckin’ toy.

Down at the end of the alley, the girl’s still rappin’, her flow on point, when suddenly, she drops into a mashup. The lyrics slide into Aerosmith, “Cryin’” punchin’ outta her lungs, kickin’ Salt-N-Pepa to the curb, as if the beat belonged to Steven Tyler all along.

The transition’s masterclass, brilliant, and it rips into him, turns his head and pulls his eyes right to her. “Yo—what the fuck?” he breathes, seein’ the two girls thirty to forty feet away, and the one who has the guts to mash hip-hop and classic rock. The execution’s tight, too word-perfect for a girl alcohol-deep. He knows then, she ain’t drunk. She’s locked in.

And so is he. 'Cause it's “Cryin'.”

No one touches Aerosmith like that.

When he didn’t think she could cut him any deeper, she turns, facin’ him, and steps under the busted streetlamp at the end, yellow light rainin’ down on her like the city’s cuein’ her up.

Right there, in the glow, she yanks “Cryin’” outta the rap-mash like a knife from the lungs, and her voice bleeds out, layin’ the song bare, stripped, all ballad and sweet misery.

And Andrew’s breath dies in his chest.

He holds still, stunned while she sings, listenin’ while her voice tears the night open and climbs up through the middle of it. He feels the rush under his skin, both pleasure and pain in the basement of him.

He doesn’t wanna take his eyes off her, but the only way to make sure what he’s feelin’ is real is to glance down at his own skin. So he does, and goosebumps are rollin’ across his arm, every hair standin’ straight.

He looks back up at her, his soul goin’ up in flames. Fuckin’ hell.

Above him, the brunette spits her panties out, smackin’ wet against the side of his face. “What the fuck,” she snaps.

Andrew hardly hears it, barely feels it.

His entire attention’s on the girl at the end of the alley.

He sits back on his heel, breathin’ heavy. The song’s sinkin’, and his broken heart’s right behind it. He knows the end’s comin’. He can’t resist.

“Yo—” His fucked grin heats his face. “You singin’ to me right now?”

His whole body’s roarin, deafenin’—breath, heartbeat, all of it crashin’ as she stands there. All he can do is hope she don’t take off, hope she says somethin’ back. Fuckin’-A—anything.

Then she’s cuppin’ her mouth. “Better than all the moanin’ I wasn’t hearin’,” she bites back. “Baby girl, life’s too short to fake it. Just say the universal girl code, and I’ll walk my ass over there and finish the job.”

Shit, right. He’s got a Mouth Breather waitin’ on him.

And for the first time, Andrew Harding’s got no fuckin’ idea what to do.

All he knows is he wants to keep Aerosmith girl here, keep talkin’ to her.

“Yeah? You wanna tag in, sweetheart?” he asks, ‘cause it’s the only goddamn move he’s got. The fuck’s left to do? “You and me—we can do it together. She won’t mind.”

“That your way of callin’ for backup? Need my help?”

That fuck-you in her head tilt?

That devilry in her smirk?

She’s fuckin’ killin’ him.

Everyone breaks into a laugh.

Except Andrew.

“Nah, but you keep openin’ that mouth, I’m gonna make it useful.”

Real smooth, Andrew…