Page 23 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

To her, he was perfect.

Ate her for hours, gave her every orgasm Roger didn’t.

That night, Andrew stayed right there ‘til goddamn sun came up.

For Roger. For her. For the part of him that wasn’t human anymore.

He didn’t stick around after ‘cause he wanted her—shit, Andrew Harding never once wanted anyone. Didn’t stay ‘cause he craved it, either. At the time, he didn’t even know what cravin’ felt like. Nah, for the first couple weeks, he stayed out of guilt—straight-up obligation.

But then he kept comin’ back for all the wrong reasons.

Shit he couldn’t name without bein’ disgusted with himself.

Some days it felt like punishing himself. Other days it felt like punishing her and every other person who used him. Yeah, on some sick, fucked-up level, he figured the longer he stayed, the more it would hurt her when he walked away. And she held on, kept playin’ her game, thinkin’ she could be the first to break Andrew Harding.

So he kept lyin’, kept the ball in his glove the whole time, lettin’ her think she was runnin’ the bases, stealin’ somethin’. And now this porch scene he’s starin’ up at? It’s his fault. Now it’s three girls drunk on themselves, phones out, mouths movin’. And all Andrew can think is not again.

All he feels is boxed in. This is always how it starts whenever he’s alone with girls. He gets turned into a show, a toy, a prop, a dare, a good time, entertainment, a mouth to pass around, a ‘bet you won’t go down on all’a us.’ Hell, whatever fucked up shit alcohol turns them into.

The nausea stirs up from his gut.

The bone-deep panic hits him all at once.

His foot slips off the bottom step, and he turns back, every step farther away feelin’ like he’s walkin’ without skin on.

“Yo,” she says, as if she’s still got a leash on him.

But he’s halfway gone and through the gate. Behind him, the girls are laughin’. Elle’s feet slap the steps, trying to get to him as if she can convince him to turn around and be her boyfriend or some shit.

“Andrew, what the hell was that?”

He lets out a low chuckle, keys swingin’ between his knuckles. “Ain’t that the million-dollar question,” he mutters, still walkin’, still not glancin’ her way. “What. The hell. Was that? Lied to me just to get me here so you could prove somethin’. Whole display, huh? Actin’ like you fuckin’ own me?”

“You serious right now?” Then she’s right next to him, blonde hair in his peripheral. “You pissed about that? You just made me look stupid in front of them.”

He refuses to look at her and keeps movin’ forward, shakin’ his head.

He saw it comin’ a mile away and still walked right into it.

“Andrew. Hey—stop. Can you talk to me instead of walking away?”

She grabs his shoulder, but he shrugs her off.

“Andrew—wait—” She pulls him harder the second time, yankin’ him so fast his sneakers skid across the blacktop. Then she's kissin' him, her mouth on his before he can dodge it.

It’s messy, and he’s stuck there, hatin’ it, not kissin’ her back.

But he's not pullin’ away either. ‘Cause it’s his first kiss, and stupidly, he’s waitin’ for somethin’ to happen, like for his dick to get hard, or for the hollow to forget it’s empty and fill itself in. And maybe—just maybe—if he kisses her back, the echo’ll turn into a heartbeat, and he’ll finally feel somethin’. Anything.

He grabs her in a panic, his grip brutal, and he steps in fast, chest hittin’ hers, tryin’ to knock the feelin’ into himself.

But nothin’s happenin’. Not a fuckin’ thing.

He opens his mouth, givin’ more, desperate to find the feelin’ and grab it himself. C’mon. Just once. I’m beggin’. I’m right fuckin’ here.

Until he can’t take it anymore.

And he lets go, chest hollow as he takes a step back.