Awkward

“Sure, Benny,” Max said, a wry grin spreading across his unshaven features. “Grab that amp? It’s right next to you. Just gotta bend over and pick it up.”

Benny, again, forced herself to ignore him. Her eyes, eerily alert, focused only on an increasingly uncomfortable and red-faced Tré as he fiddled with another drumstick.

“Um,” he said finally, always the embodiment of smooth, “I think we got it. Just a couple more things to move. Thanks, though.”

“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t appear to really believe him, and he couldn’t blame her for it. His drum set wasn’t completely loaded back up, and several amps were still sitting under the bumper. She didn’t challenge him, however, only offering a lengthy and slightly curious expression up to his wide blue eyes before she shrugged and walked away, pausing only to hand the drumstick off to Max; Tré had never bothered to take it out of her hand.

“That was smooth, Max.” Poking his head around the side of the van, Reese laughed and stuck his tongue out at the other man. “My favorite part was how you couldn’t stop staring at her tits. Flat-chested girls turn you on?

“In a tank-top like that,” Max sighed, “no girl is flat-chested. Remind me again why I haven’t fucked her yet?”

“Because she says ‘no’ every time you try?” Reese ducked away when Max threw the drumstick at him, and popped up again laughing even harder. “Fail, dude.”

“Max,” said Kevin, forever playing the part of exasperated tour manager, “what have I told you about trying to sleep with underage girls?”

Tré immediately choked on his own spit, and was put out of commission for at least a few seconds, letting an amp fall back onto the dolly clumsily. Sympathetically, Cliff pounded at his back, but his attention was only on Kevin.

“She’s not underage,” he said, which did help to alleviate at least some of the panic Tré had begun to feel all over again. “She’s like nineteen or twenty, or something. Still, you’d probably be better off going for the other chick. She’s older, I think, so, you know…less creepy.”

“What, the one who’s trying too hard to look like Elvira?” Although Max’s tone suggested repugnance, his expression was thoughtful.

“Well,” said Reese, “at least she doesn’t have a mullet. Dude…Tré, are you okay? Breathe, man.”

“I need a glass of water,” Tré heard himself mumble between his hacking coughs. He didn’t wait for a response, and hopped off the edge of the dolly before anyone could offer one, still coughing slightly as he headed back to the motel building.

“Oh, fine,” Max scoffed at his retreating back. “We’ll just load all of your shit for you then, you pansy.” Then, when the drummer turned into one of the outdoor corridors that ran the length of the room doors around the corner, he added, “Christ, what’s his problem?”

It didn’t take long for Tré to find some relief for his coughing, at least. There was a vending machine just down the corridor and between two doors, and from the look of things it sold bottled water. Always a plus; soda never sat well with his stomach so early in the morning anyway.

Mumbling hoarsely to himself, he ransacked his pockets for change, but only came up with two quarters and quite a bit of lint. His wallet held no cash; only his credit cards and a few other odds and ends that wouldn’t help him out here. He sighed, shoving it back in his pocket and leaning his head against the cool plastic front of the vending machine. The image of the water-splashed bottled beverage on the front taunted him. So close, yet so far away, and he was still coughing slightly…

He was a horrible person, he decided, giving only a moment’s thought to the idea before he was pulling the other wallet, that dumb little silver one with the stars, out of his back pocket. He was strangely all right with this, and figured it only to be fair—his current mental anguish warranted a dollar or two from her, if she even had it to spare.

She did, though barely. She hardly even kept anything in the wallet; just a credit-debit card, her California drivers license, and a couple of receipts in the cash pocket along with a five and three ones. He nicked a one-dollar-bill, but left the rest in the little flap. Curiosity got a hold of him, however, and after looking around at his surroundings to make sure he was alone he slid the driver’s license out of its little compartment so he could get a better look at it.

She really was twenty, and at least now he had the proof of that. Her twenty-first birthday wasn’t until the coming July. He found it a point of interest that she was from Los Angeles, too, as most of the people he knew that lived there didn’t look like such ghosts. She had to consciously make an effort to avoid the sun at all costs, he thought, otherwise there was no way she could be that pale.

He had to laugh a bit at her hair. She’d pulled the dreadlocks into stiff pigtails, and they were purple-colored at the time the picture was taken. A tank top showed off the black outlines of a then-unfinished tattoo covering her left shoulder, and she’d had a lip piercing back then. What a little wannabe punk, he thought. It was kind of cute, though. And as soon as he thought it, he hastily and mentally added that he’d only meant it in a completely non-creepy way, since she was probably only around sixteen at the time. The thought invoked his curiosity, though. What sixteen-year-old had hair and tattoos like that? Where were her parents? If he had a teenager daughter, she sure as hell wouldn’t already be starting a sleeve of tattoos.

Oh. Yeah. Not the best idea to think of her, and then compare to her to a teenage daughter he didn’t have. He made a mental note of that, and shuddered. He really creeped himself out, sometimes.

Something else caught his eye just as he made to slide the ID back into its little pocket. He stared for a moment, and then finally began to laugh.

“Bernardette? Oh, wow…”

If his parents had named him something that awful, he thought, then he might have tried to get back at them by covering himself with tattoos and piercings when he was a teenager, too. It all kind of made sense, now.

His coughing started again, and he forced himself to put the wallet away. He bought a bottled water with the stolen dollar and one of his own quarters, and drank a good half of the liquid as hastily as he could. It helped, thankfully. After he’d cleared his throat a few times, he was hardly coughing at all anymore.

“Awesome,” he mumbled. “Now I don’t get to choke to death, and instead get to deal with all this shit. Yaaayyy…”

Max and the rest of the band, tour manager included, had abandoned the loaded tour van by the time Tré made his way back to it; probably for a quick bite to eat at the small diner across the street, he guessed, but he had no real desire to join them. He could see Benny as soon as he turned the corner, perched atop a low concrete wall that ran the length of a raised and very much empty flowerbed. She was bent over a small notebook and writing in it with a pen, and she was alone. Across the parking lot, he could see several of her bandmates sitting in the small bit of shade cast upon the ground by their tour van, and enjoying what looked like a “healthy” McDonald’s meal, judging from the paper bags. They didn’t pay him any mind when he strode across the hot asphalt and so he tried to just ignore them.

She only looked up when he was standing right in front of her, and then it was only to frown at him and wave her hand at his leg.

“You’re blocking my sun.”

“It has to be ninety degrees out. Do you really need all of the sun right now?”

“Yes. I’m greedy.” Nevertheless, his words seemed to make her realize that the area of shade she’d chosen to sit in had disappeared, with the sun moving higher up in the sky. Grumbling now, she scooted back a few more feet on the wide concrete ledge, until she was again partially hidden from the sun’s rays by the overhanging of the motel roof. “Fuckin’ sun.”

“Toldja.” He sat down upon the spot she’d vacated, facing her so the sun was at his back. It struck at the back of his t-shirt and the top of his head mercilessly, and he was sweating again within seconds, but he didn’t mind it much. “What are you doing?” It was a lame way to try and start a conversation with her, but at least it was better than, ‘Hey, here’s your wallet. Your name is dumb. By the way, thanks for the water.’

“Writing a letter.” She answered, as though it should have been obvious to him.

“Aren’t you archaic, then?”

“It’s not archaic,” she said, frowning again. “It’s…personal. That, and my mom hates computers, so it’s not like she’ll check her e-mail just for me or anything.”

“Ever heard of a cell phone?”

“I don’t got one. Annoying things.”

He sighed. Of course she didn’t have a cell phone. From what he’d gathered over the last couple of weeks, she didn’t even own a pair of pants that was without holes. “Right,” he said. “Erm…”

She set down her pen and crossed her arms, an eyebrow cocked as she waited for what he wanted to say. She’d been expecting this, obviously, and as the seconds ticked on by it became apparent that he really would have to be the one to start things off. He went the soundless route, digging the wallet out of his back pocket and handing it to her rather sheepishly.

“Oh…” Surprised, she took it and held it in her hand, and stared at it as though she’d never seen such a thing as a wallet before in her life. “I’d wondered where this went. Did I leave it in your room?”

“Um…yeah.”

“Ah. Well, it’s cool to have it back. I had to dig for change in my duffel bag just so I could get my coffee earlier, it sucked.” Then, rather suspiciously, she added, “I sure hope my eight dollars is still in here…”

“You don’t know how to count. There was only seven in there.”

“Right.” Rolling her eyes, she pocketed the flimsy silver wallet and then picked up her pen again.

It was unnerving, really, how she could ignore him just as quickly as she’d first noticed his presence. He just sat there, feeling steadily more uncomfortable with every few seconds that passed, watching as she scribbled down this and that in the notebook. She didn’t say another word to him. Was she playing a game with him? He couldn’t tell. The only conversation that would exist between them would be one that he’d instigate and carry along, it seemed, and right now he wasn’t really sure if he was ready for that. What the hell was he supposed to say, anyway?

He kept himself silent, fiddling with a loose thread sticking out from his long and checkered shorts and keeping his eyes averted downward. Anyone who might have seen him then could think he was absolutely fascinated with the thread; he never looked away from it, wrapped it around his finger until the tip turned purple, tugged on it to pull more out from the seam, and genuinely appeared disappointed when, finally, he pulled on it a little too hard and it detached from his pants.

Tré sighed, winding the bit of yellow-colored string between two fingers and lamenting the loss of the one thing he had to distract him from his current awkwardness. It just wasn’t as much fun to play with, it being all detached from his pants. Now it was just a normal piece of string. How boring. He sighed again, louder this time.

He looked up when she did, her curiosity mixing with slight annoyance and portraying itself as moderate irritation splayed across her pale features. “What’re you being all sigh-y about?”

“I broke my string,” he said sadly, holding it up so she could see it. It dangled pitifully between his thumb and forefinger, slightly curled at the end and beginning to fray. He offered her a small glare when her expression went blank, fraught with disinterest, and shoved the string into his pocket so she couldn’t see it anymore. “Fine,” he mumbled, “no sympathy, no getting to play with my string.”

“I don’t know if that’s supposed to be an innuendo or not…” Benny began, choosing her words carefully, “but…er…okay, then.”

She seemed to enjoy the way Tré’s face went beet-red at her words, and began to giggle to herself when his mumbles started up again, catching only snippets like, “…not what I meant…” and, “…fucking dirty mind, you know that?” before she began to actually laugh.

“Dude,” she said, reaching out a hand and placing it atop his in a decidedly uncharacteristic moment of affection, “chill. Christ. How long are you gonna act like this? Because seriously, the bumbling and awkward thing is cute on some guys, but I think I liked you better when you were weird, and slobberin’ all over my face just to piss me off.”

“Yeah, uh…” Tré cleared his throat uncomfortably, looking down at his knees. “I’m sorry about all of that, by the way. I shouldn’t of…you know. Sorry.”

“Shit,” she mumbled, causing him to look up at her with those bright blue eyes yet again. He watched as she set her notebook and pen aside, sticking the utensil in the metal wiring of the notebook and leaning it against a leafless and sprout-like tree that stood alone and not so tall in the dirt landscaping. Legs crossed and beneath her, she set her hands, pale and slender, atop her knees and settled her determined eyes upon him. “Look, stop it, okay?”

“Stop what? I was just apologi—”

“Exactly! You don’t apologize for stuff like that. I mean, I don’t know you all that well, I admit, but I think you and I both know that if we hadn’t slept together you wouldn’t have ever thought about saying sorry about all of the teasing. Why are you acting so weird?”

“You—you jumped me, practically!” He was aware of the high-pitched tone his voice was taking on, but was unable to quell it.

“So? From what I remember, you went along with it…”

“I…” He stopped himself, unsure of what to say. He had gone along with it, that was true. And for the life of him, he still couldn’t figure out why. It didn’t exactly reek of something he would normally do, and he felt almost ashamed that he had—and so willingly! What was he even thinking? She was a bit drunk, and he felt guilty enough about that, but he hadn’t consumed even a drop of alcohol or anything else that night. He was the one that was clear-headed and who should have known better, who should have put a stop to things before they even began…but no. When she kissed him, he kissed right back. Why?

He was a little lonely, there was no denying that. But that was no excuse, and he wouldn’t pretend that it could even act as one. Physical pleasure was something to be enjoyed, but he knew better than to seek after it from someone…well, like her. Though, he surmised, he hadn’t exactly been the one doing the actual seeking in the first place…

“Wow,” he said finally. “I’m being such a little bitch about this.”

“Duh.”

“Gee, sorry for overreacting after I sexed up the twenty-year-old.”

“Hey,” she said, sticking her tongue out for a moment or two, “I’m the one that did the old guy, and you don’t see me freaking out about it.”

Luckily for Benny, there was a small strip of grass that ran alongside her raised seat and the landscaping it held, so it didn’t hurt very much when Tré rolled his eyes and then pushed her off the low cement wall.

“No,” he said stoutly when, laughing, she tried to pull herself up again. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her right back down, then extending a leg and pressing his foot against her stomach so she would stay away. “You called me old. Young whippersnappers like you get to stay on the ground.”

“Ass.” But she didn’t protest, sitting cross-legged on the ground and dropping her chin into her upturned palms. She looked up at him through slitted eyelids, guarded against the sun, red dreadlocks glowing with a fiery exuberance now that it had been captured, at least in essence, by the bright morning light. They framed a pale face, but it was one now graced with a small smile. She had some freckles, he noticed. Not a lot; just a few sprinkled across her nose here and there, though there were more crowded upon one tattoo-less shoulder and scattered finely down the rest of the skin on her arms that was not covered in tattoo ink.

She’d managed to finish her quarter-sleeve since her driver’s license picture was taken, and various brightly-colored flowers now took up the most of her left shoulder, and stretched partway down to her elbow. He’d noticed her tattoos before, but never took the time to look at them up-close. The flowers were well-done, a surprising feat for someone so young; Tré had become so accustomed to younger people these days settling for mediocre artists for the sake of being tattooed at all. In way, he thought it said more about Benny that she’d be willing to probably pay more for a better result when it came to her body art.

“You like?” Noticing his stare, she raised her arm so he could see the flowers better. “Friend of mine is a fucking awesome artist, right? Moved to Boston a few years ago to set up his shop, and everything. I love his work, though I had the outline done by someone else. But she fucked it up, so he fixed what he could and colored it in and did the cover-ups and all that.”

“Did he do all of your tattoos?” He knew she had others. He caught a glimpse of them now and then—a flash of color behind an ear when she was spinning around on stage and her hair was flying about; black patterns on her foot when she was wearing sandals, which he never saw very well because seriously, she walked so damn fast all of the time, like she was perpetually in a hurry; other designs that he sometimes suspected might be Sharpie, but never saw up-close to verify for himself…

“No. Just the sleeve, for now.”

“Oh. What’s your favorite?”

She didn’t even have to think about it, twisting her other arm around before he’d even closed his mouth and pointing out a small and very simplistic bat design just above her elbow on her underarm. There wasn’t much to it, just a black dot with two pointed little wings sprouting from it. “I like it,” she said, “because my cousin isn’t a tattoo artist, but he’s the one that did it.”

“Dare I ask how that came about?”

“A lot of hard liquor and a tattoo gun.”

“Right.”

She smiled, always such a shocking, but pleasant surprise for her face when the expression was sincere. “See?” she asked. “Not so awkward. It’s not that difficult. Sorry if I like…freaked you out, or whatever, though,” she added, her insincerity evident with the rolling of her eyes. “You went with it; I didn’t figure it’d be such a big deal.”

This just cinched it, Tré suddenly realized. He was such a pansy. She was cute, he was single, and after sleeping together one time he was the one freaking out about it? She seemed…okay, about it. It didn’t appear as though she really cared, or had even thought about the repercussions of her actions. If anything, her patience with him now seemed given out of pity.

“Can I just ask…?” He hesitated, biting his tongue and giving himself that extra few seconds to decide if he really wanted to know. He did, as it turned out, but the question was spoken in something of a mumble. “Eh…why me?”

He didn’t feel as though he really warranted that strange look that she was offering him; that slightly open mouth, like she was getting ready to chide him, or that one eyebrow cocked at a different level to the other. “Really?” she asked finally, clearing her throat. “Uh…I mean…fuck, what do you mean, why you?”

“Well, let’s face it,” he said. “I’m probably not the best-looking dude on this tour, by anyone’s standards.”

“So?”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh, I get it. You were fishing for compliments. Sorry.”

Tré resisted the urge to bash his head against the nearest wall. “That’s…not what I was…never mind,” he sighed. “I was just curious.”

“Huh.” Her full attention was caught again, and her pen was set atop the paper. “I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of girls showing up at your door in the middle of the night?”

“Well, I mean, some girls…” He waved a hand dismissively and she laughed, much as he’d hoped she would. “Not…really, though, no. I mean, there’s the fans, but I’d never…not that I really get that anyway; I never did. But, uh…girls I’m touring with, however often that does or does not happen? No, that’s not a common occurrence.” He couldn’t help himself: “Dare I ask if it’s the same with you?”

“No, of course not,” she said, apparently offended by the very thought. “I’d never sleep with any of the girls I tour with.”

“Funny.”

“But…not…really, no,” she added, sensing he was trying to be at least somewhat serious about the topic. She made a face, a decidedly disturbed expression that almost made him laugh, and used the distraction to hop back up to the wall and sit next to him again. “I don’t make it a habit or anything.”

“That’s nice to know, at least.”

“I guess.” She shrugged, glaring into her nearly empty cup of iced coffee and tilting her head back, placing the rim of the opaque cup to her lips and turning it nearly upside-down just to catch the very last drip. She licked her lips when she was done, and it didn’t strike Tré as being unlike a cat trying to get every remnant of its milk off of its whiskers. Kind of cute, really, in a creepy and I-need-to-stop-attaching-words-like-that-to-her sort of way.

“You only ‘guess?’” he asked, slightly amused.

“I dunno. I just don’t really do…stuff like that, usually,” she mumbled. He wondered if she was avoiding his eyes purposely, or if she really was that transfixed with the sorry sight of her empty cup. “Ever.”

“Oh.” His smile fell.

“Yeah. I mean…ever, ever.”

“Ever…ever…ever?” Tré could feel his chest tightening. He was going to have a heart-attack, he just knew it. Which arm was supposed to go numb? The left? He flexed his fingers experimentally, his hysteria growing as his breathing became more and more restricted.

“Yeah. I mean, for a first time, it wasn’t so bad. Not like I have anything to compare it to, though. It’s cool, though,” she said with a small sigh. “I mean, you shouldn’t feel any obligation, or anything. Just ‘cause you deflowered me, and all.”

He could see the headlines now: GREEN DAY DRUMMER, 37, DIES ON TOUR. CAUSE OF DEATH: UNINTENTIONAL PERVERTEDNESS. “I…I…” He shook his head, sitting down clumsily next to her and putting his head in his hands. “Oh my god. I suck so badly.”

He was going to hell for this. If anything, he was going to hell for doing it, and enjoying it. At the time, anyway. Now he kind of wished that when Reese called and asked him to fill in as his band’s drummer, “Just for a month or so, dude, I promise,” he’d said no. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have sexed up the virginal twenty-year-old. Yeah, he thought. This was a nice alternate universe forming in his head.

It’s not like he could have known, he thought glumly. It’s not like she acted the part. Fuck, she was the one who’d practically ripped his pants off. And hell if anyone so inexperienced knew how to use a tongue stud like that…oh. Wait.

“Oh, Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick…” he groaned, running his hands through his unruly though short hair in frustration and then glancing to the girl through the crook of his elbow. She appeared unfazed at his sudden anger, though was maybe a little amused.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Blasphemous.”

“That was mean.”

“And it’s my fault you fell for it?”

“I’m a trusting person!”

“Oh, please. I’m awesome in bed,” she said; a statement that was met with a small snort of disdain from Tré. “You don’t get like that without experience.”

He decided not to tell her that right then, she seemed more like a teenager to him than anything, boasting about the “adult” things she did and how they reflected upon her as a person. It wasn’t something worth opening his mouth for. He couldn’t imagine he was any better about it at her age.

Her age.

Oh, great. Now he was back to feeling slightly like a pedophile again. Wonderful. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and straightened his back so that, as they sat on the bit of concrete wall together, he was again taller than her. He felt better this way, somehow. Looking down at her, at those big, though plain brown eyes and that red hair that sometimes astonished him, it was easier to see the adult side of her – she was smirking at him, though not in a particularly childish way. It helped. She wasn’t hurt by their one night stand. If anything, he was far more disturbed about it than she probably ever would be.

That cinched it. He was such a pansy. It was regrettable, the situation he found himself in, but no one was hurt and it had been enjoyable…so why was he the one that had the problem with it? Most men wouldn’t act like this afterward. Hell, from everything Tré had heard, Max would be doing a victory dance around the motel by now, if it had happened to him. True, Benny was nothing special, but Tré found her rather cute and…well, she had her skills. Her age disturbed him, but that was it. It wasn’t like he’d actually done anything bad…right?

“That’s…great, Benny,” he sighed, running a hand through his mussed hair and closing his eyes, giving himself a moment to think. Now that he was done convincing himself that he was about to have a heart attack, it was much easier to form cool and rational thoughts again. Just as quickly, when he opened his eyes and settled them upon her again, his brain felt like a pile of goo. He couldn’t see her the same way as before. He’d always thought of her, of her slightly freckled face and that interesting red hair, when forming a mental image of her in his head. Now he couldn’t. He thought of them; he thought of her writhing beneath him, moaning and gasping nonsense words, her fingers digging into his back…

“Um,” he finally managed to mumble. “Shit. Look…”

“Oh, here we go.” Already, she sounded disappointed.

“Yeah. I just…I’m just trying to say, what happened is something that just…probably shouldn’t happen…again…okay? No offense, but—”

“I hate it when anyone starts something with ‘no offense,’ it’s just an easy way for someone to say something difficult and then get away with it.”

“—we had a good time and everything, but I’d just feel way more comfortable if it didn’t happen again. Okay?”

“Why?” He couldn’t get over her tone of voice when she asked. Her expression betrayed her regret, and the words themselves were genuinely curious—she truly didn’t understand why he was acting like this, and he couldn’t help but find that fascinating.

“Because…you’re twenty years old?” Granted this permission, he just couldn’t hold it back; he all but shouted it, and clapped a hand over his mouth as soon as the words passed his lips, as though hoping he could shove them right back in again. “Oh,” he mumbled between his fingers, “fuck. Sorry.”

“No, I thank you for that,” she said dryly. “Sometimes I forget how old I am. It’s always nice to have a reminder.”

“I…sorry. I just…I don’t think we should have…done…that. It’s just…not right, I’m sorry…”

“Why?”

The question caught him off guard yet again.

“I…” He stopped himself, and when he spoke again his voice was far quieter. “You’re twenty years old.”

“Yeah, so we’ve established.”

He cocked his head to the side, light eyes narrowed. “You don’t find it weird?”

“I think you’re being kinda weird right now, but…eh.” She shrugged, a gesture that was beginning to irritate him. “I think that when something like that happens between two adults…well, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s not like either of us are whoring around the whole tour, or anything. Well, I’m not, anyway. I don’t know what you do with your free time, but whatever.”

“Heh. No, I’m…not like that. Which is, I have to think, one of the reasons I don’t think it should happen again. Does that make sense?”

“Not really.” She leaned forward, chin in her palms, her dreadlocks falling over her shoulders and tickling at his uncovered knees. He gulped, telling himself that she wasn’t trying to affect him like this on purpose…or if she was, that he was stronger than her and could resist her charms. “The way I see it, we’re both adults—and quit looking at me like that, yeah, I qualify as an adult—and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with said adults indulging in a bit of…release, now and then, is there?”

“‘Release,’ huh?”

“Yeah, that’s what the kids are calling it nowadays,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Here’s the deal—it’s been a stressful tour for me. Not getting into specifics, but yeah, there you have it. And you were a nice distraction, for the time.”

“Good to know I have my uses, I guess…”

“And,” she continued, as though she hadn’t heard him, “you went along with it…enjoyed it, too, from what I saw. I don’t really mean to get all into your shit or anything, but from what I’ve heard…well.” She shrugged, letting her unsaid words speak for themselves as his eyes narrowed. “I’m sure I’m not the only one that might need it. I’m just saying. There’s nothing wrong with this. It’s healthy.

“I choose to view it like sunlight. It’s healthy for you in small doses only. Anything more, and you get skin disease.”

“That was a horrible analogy.”

“…Yeah. But the point still stands.”

She shook her head, looking sad. “It doesn’t have to be weird, you know.”

“Give me a few more years, and you’d be half my age, Benny.”

“Figures, I’d sleep with the one thirty-something-year-old guy that wouldn’t see that as something to be proud of.”

Tré laughed, which, judging from her sudden and wide smile, was what she’d be aiming for. He returned her affection from before, patting her knee but pulling away before she could construe the contact as anything but a friendly gesture. Across the parking lot, he was aware that a couple of her bandmates appeared to now be watching them from their van, and he didn’t want to look as though he was in any way leading her on.

“They’re staring,” he said, still chuckling.

“Yeah. They do that. You get used to it.”

He smiled at her, pleased to see that familiar smirk back on her lips. It was too much to see her looking so sad, while knowing that he was the cause of it. “You going to be okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, waving a hand dismissively and shrugging yet again. He was beginning to believe that she didn’t know any other way to pretend as though she was uncaring. “I’m used to the brush-off thing.”

“Well gee, that makes me feel great about it.”

“You could always succumb to my master plan and feel bad enough to change your mind,” she said brightly. He laughed again, discarding the worries that came along with her bandmates carefully watching him, and surprising her with a sloppy kiss reminiscent to the many that had preceded it—on her cheek, this time. Her lips were, to him, now and forever off-limits.

“You’re a sweet kid. But it’s not happening.”

“Ah, well. Worth a shot.” She sighed, pulling away from him and gathering up the few belongings that she’d brought over to the wall with her. She bent down to retrieve her empty coffee cup from the spot on the ground it had been set, and it wasn’t beyond him to wonder if she kept her back to him like that just so he could get a nice view of her ass. He enjoyed it anyway, though supposed that was only natural. It didn’t matter; her methods of persuasion would no longer work on him (or so he at least assured himself).

“Good talk,” she said, her voice tinged with sarcasm but her expression suggesting good nature. “Your guys are coming back across the road, and mine are glaring at me—well, mostly at you, I think—so we’re probably leaving soon. See you at the venue.”

He nodded to her, a small grunting sound stepping in for the sort of goodbye that he would normally let simple words form. He should have known it wasn’t really over, and it wasn’t, so at least it was no surprise when she only managed to take a few steps before she paused, and turned back to him.

“Just…” She bit her lip for a moment, contemplating her own train of thoughts. “If you change your mind…”

“I won’t.”

“But if you do…well, just think about it, okay? There’s no commitment, you know. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, I’m not looking for anything serious…I’m just looking for a bit of fun.” She shrugged. He was about to call her out on it, or beg her to please stop relying on that redundant gesture to articulate her supposed apathy, but held his tongue. “Think about it.”

Again: “I won’t.” It was a lie, but whether she took it as one or not, she didn’t seem to care. Her back was already to him, boot-clad feed whisking her away across the scorching hot parking lot and her dreadlocks swinging along behind her, so fiery red in the Texas morning sunlight.

Nothing about this was fair, he was beginning to realize. She knew things about him—things that most people knew, he supposed, but she knew and she was willing to use that knowledge against him. It was harsh, but he couldn’t pretend as though she didn’t have a point. With two divorces under his belt, he took a break from dating, from women in general, really. He missed the feeling of loving a woman and being loved right back, but at the same time…this wasn’t love. It was just sex. And without the emotional attachment behind that sex, it was meaningless to him.

But did it have to be meaningful? He’d always assumed that was the case, but last night he could remember…he fell asleep and he was happy. Confused, but at least content. When was the last time he’d felt like that?

Tré sighed, leaning forward and resting his rather sweaty face in his calloused hands. This sucked. She was cute, he was single, and she was offering herself to him with no commitment. It just wasn’t right. If she was just a little older, if he was just a little more open to the idea of something so casual…

It just wasn’t fair.

--

Benny knew that he was watching her that night. His eyes were only on her during their sound checks, when they hauled equipment into the venue, when they had their group meeting with the venue managers…he looked away when he noticed that she was staring right back at him, but there was rarely a time that her eyes would seek him out and not find that he’d already done the same.

Now she was starting to feel bad for him. She’d really twisted him around, hadn’t she? That had never been her intent, and although she still didn’t regret her actions the night before—how could she; it was such fun—she was beginning to feel…uncomfortable? Only for his sake, of course. If only he could loosen up a bit, she thought to herself in exasperation. He was right; there were better looking guys on tour she could set her sights on, younger guys, but that didn’t really matter. He was cute, and kind of weird, and she could dig that. But no, he had to ruin it all by having morals, or something. This, at least, balanced her unsettled feelings for those of slight aggravation.

Still, she would use his ever-present gaze to her advantage, if she could. Those eyes, those eerily blue eyes that she never thought could exist in such a color without the aid of contact lenses, were still on her when it came time for her band to perform that night. When she glanced sidestage he was there, he was always there, wedged between a perpetually—though lightheartedly—bickering Cliff and Reese, and ignoring them in favor of her.

Suddenly, he became her audience, not the plethora of kids gathered at the front of the stage and screaming their heads off for Pudding, adding a cheer now and then for her band but mostly just tolerating them. Everything she did that night, she did for him. She was suggestive without being obvious, goading without even looking directly at him, and it was dangerous, it was stupid, but really…that’s what she loved about the freedom of the stage.

There was no other place she could think of, where it was considered commonplace for her to scale the scaffolding at the side of the stage and jump into a crowd (that seemed to be warming to her band), after all. There was no other place where her insanity and self-destructive tendencies were welcomed, and more than that, were encouraged. Only applause met her wild spins, and haphazard and mostly fumbled attempts at flips and tumbles were laughed at, but not jeered at. That subtle difference drove her on, and soon enough even she didn’t know where she was going next.

She didn’t forget about the music, but it was played as more of an afterthought. It wasn’t like any of her bandmates cared anyway; Sicily always took things a little too seriously when onstage, but by now he was far too accustomed to her antics to reprimand her for them. He only rolled his eyes when he turned around and found her splayed across the drum toms of Oliver’s kit, and Oliver didn’t mind it much either; he simply laughed, and pushed her off. She spent the next minute or so rolling around on the floor before she found her footing again, and then she was off to bother Zachary. One might not have thought that it was possible, a small, skinny little thing like her being able to actually mess with a hulking young bassist of his size, but he was fidgety by nature. When she began leaning back against him, batting her eyelashes and grinning at him from over her shoulder, his beet-red face was a reward enough for her.

She found the floor again, eventually. Lucille tripped her, and though Benny didn’t know if it was meant to be taken in that lighthearted way that most onstage shenanigans were known for, she let it go anyway. She was tired, she was sweaty, and she was ready for this set to be over. She stayed on the floor for the last few songs, sticking out her tongue at Max, who stood sidestage as well and whom was throwing ice cubes at her. It wasn’t beyond her to realize that he was trying to get one down the front of her t-shirt, but his aim was terrible.

“Up!” she screamed when the last chord was strung, abandoning her guitar and tossing the strap over her shoulder, then raising her arms and spreading her fingers, as though she was a small child waiting for someone to come along and scoop her up. Oliver humored her, tossing her over his shoulder and marching away with her proudly, so it was only for show—after the laughs and cheers died down they were right back on the stage, getting their equipment together and clearing it out. Benny tromped along behind Sicily, feeling a little glum. Someday, she thought wistfully, they’d be a “big band” and other people would handle their equipment.

Tré had disappeared from the side of the stage near the end of their performance, but he was back and helping drag extra equipment to the stage as soon as her band’s set was over. He stayed long enough to help Oliver get the most of his kit on a wheeled dolly. Benny turned her back on him for only a few minutes, but when she tried to turn her attention back to him it was to no avail; he’d disappeared once more.

“I think he’s scared of you,” said Oliver, looking amused as he jerked a thumb in the general direction of stage right, and the backstage area connected to it.

“Lucille told me that he seduced you.” Zachary paused, a length of coated wiring wrapped around one muscular arm. “What, is he skipping out on you now? Do you need me to beat him up?”

“Oh, jeez, Zach,” Benny laughed. “No, and the ‘seducing’ thing was the other way around. Besides…you’re a big dude, but you couldn’t even take Sicily that one time, and he’s a stick.”

“I am not!”

She put him out of her mind, at least for the time being. She was tired and still drenched in sweat, and right now she was more concerned with getting the equipment back to the van and taking a shower than she was the whereabouts of Tré Cool.

She needn’t have worried, anyway. He found her, which really just confirmed the hypothesis that Benny’s mother had always told her; that when you stopped looking for something, then, and only then, would it appear to you. Pushing a dolly backstage, his arm shot out from the dark and grabbed hers. Gently, and he didn’t pull her to him, but it was enough to stop her in her tracks and cause her to blink fervently until her eyes adjusted to the moderate darkness and she realized it was him.

“Um,” he said, clearly not nervous at all, “wait for me after Pudding’s set? Er, like way after. When we get to the motel?”

And Benny, so startled at this new development, could only offer a mumbled sound that might have been a “yes,” and a small nod that accompanied it. He smiled, his sudden jubilance not quite reaching the anxiety in his eyes, and brushed past her, letting his fingers slide down her arm along the natural curve and until he was too far away to reach her anymore. She shuddered, a reaction she didn’t think the touch of a man had ever warranted from her, and went on her way.

She was excited, though also a little scared. It was rare that the men in her life called the shots, in whatever way, and she wondered what he was getting at now. Had he really rethought her suggestion? Maybe he just wanted to turn her down once and for all; cut down her proposal and leave no room for doubt. This seemed most likely to her, but she told herself otherwise. He was a distraction. He was a good distraction. And right now, she needed something—or someone—in her life like that.

She primped. She wasn’t proud of it, but she made sure she looked at least halfway decent after she managed to get a shower at the venue, and found some clothing buried within the clustered confines of the van that didn’t smell that bad.

“Starfucker,” Lucille hissed once at Benny’s turned back, as they sat in the back of the van together. Kenneth, their “part-time” tour manager, sat in the driver’s seat, and was pointedly ignoring both of the girls. Their band went through tour managers like normal people went through shoes, but Kenneth had at least been with them long enough to realize that when the bickering started between the two girls, there was nothing he could do to stop it and so there wasn’t even any use in trying. “Nice lip color. What’s the name, ‘slut red?’”

“Too red?” Benny turned to face the other girl, cherry-red lips puckered.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Oh. Well, you can have this back, then.” Benny shrugged, dropping the tube of lipstick into Lucille’s lap. “I stole it from your bag.”

Lucille scowled, though was red-faced enough to simply pocket the tube and not retaliate. In the front seat, Benny was sure she heard a small snicker from Kenneth, but it quickly turned into a slight cough.

It seemed like ages before everyone was finally piled into the cramped little van, and they were on the highway. They’d driven for a few hours earlier that morning just to reach the venues, and now had a couple hours of driving ahead of them before they would reach their next motel destination. Benny wasn’t used to this kind of rotation, but their next venue was just over the state line and so it had been decided to get as close as they could to it that night, so they’d have less driving to do the next day. It was irritating, since now there was no use in sleeping on the way since they’d be there somewhat soon, but she doubted she’d be able to sleep anyway, all things considered.

It was good news, she found out, that prompted another motel stay. Usually they just slept in their vans, or worked with their travel schedules enough so that they drove all night and could sleep meanwhile. Yet somehow, miraculously, they had enough money left in the tour budget to warrant more hotel rooms and other small luxuries. It was rather exciting, honestly, as no one in either band could ever remember being ahead of the budget; they almost didn’t know how to handle it, otherwise they might have tried to find something more interesting to do with the money.

She waited for him when they arrived. Stood to the side with her little duffel bag as everyone else hustled and bustled around, leaning against one of the outside walls and trying not to look hopeful. Everyone paired up and got their room keys—another luxury, only having to share a room with one other, for once—and when she didn’t speak up, no one offered her a place as their temporary roommate. She didn’t mind, finding herself somewhat accustomed to being the afterthought of the band.

It wasn’t until the parking lot was nearly cleared out that he dared to seek her out. He did so casually, sauntering up to the sidewalk she stood upon and leaning back against the wall casually, his arms crossed. He didn’t speak until the last person had vacated the area, leaving them alone amidst the flickering streetlamps peppered throughout the parking lot, and the many bugs that perforated the humid, though chilled air. It was still technically winter, after all, though she was thankful they were further south than they had been in the previous weeks.

“Well?” she asked finally, pushing away from the wall and settling a hand on her hip. “You gonna keep me in suspense, or what?”

He rolled his eyes, latched his hand to her elbow, and pulled her gently in the direction of one of the motel room doors.

“Oh,” she said, not sounding particularly impressed. “Well then.”

--

“You know we should probably keep this...quiet, right? Just to ourselves...no one else."

“Aw, come on. I was all ready to take you home and introduce you to the ‘rents, too. Well, damn.”

He was beginning to believe that she just liked to cause a fuss, no matter what it was about. He didn’t mind it; it was all lighthearted, and she rarely said anything to him that he deemed worthy of taking seriously anyway. In a way, he kind of liked that about her, and he liked having that temporary influence in his life. The more time he spent with her, the more accustomed he became to her quirks and foibles, and the more he began to view her as a friend, and not just someone he happened to be sleeping with.

She made that easy on him, at least. She didn’t want anything serious, and once he got over that the guilt began to ebb away. When he thought about it, what did he even have to feel guilty about anyway? Her age was a little unnerving, but this was mostly her idea; he just went along with it. She was legal, she was an adult, and she was capable of making adult decisions. She never acted as though his age was a possible deterrent in what they were doing, and so he shelved his reluctance and his fears as well. It was only fair.

She was capable of becoming his friend, though. He thought she would distance herself from him in this regard; know him in bed, leave before he woke—which she usually did—and not have much to do with him until they hooked up again. But she didn’t. It was remarkable, really, that she could act more or less as she did before when he was around. He no longer stole kisses—was that even his right, anymore? Not that it ever had been before, he supposed—and the play-flirting mostly stopped, but she was still a presence in his day-to-day routine. He didn’t know what the issue was with her band, or why she didn’t seem to like spending time with them when they weren’t onstage, but he decided not to press the matter since he quite liked hanging out with her anyway.

She was a private person…about most things. She didn’t hide details of her life from him, but she didn’t give them unless he specifically asked. He sometimes felt as though his constant, nervous babbling about his life and his friends and everything “back home” might irritate her, but she never said as such. Maybe there just wasn’t anything to hide, after all. She spoke briefly about pleasant, though divorced, parents, an older sibling she was on relatively good terms with, a mediocre job she sometimes worked when she wasn’t on tour. (“Just ‘cause we got signed don’t mean we’re makin’ bank, you know? We can pay our bills, but that’s about it.”) Nothing about her life interested her, or so she played it off as such. Or if it did interest her, she didn’t find any reason why it should also interest him.

There was one shining moment that she let her emotions get the better of her, and if she honestly couldn’t help it he wouldn’t hold that against her. He knew she argued with the other girl in her band, Lucille; hell, everyone on tour knew that they fought, a lack of privacy on tour easily giving way to their screams and hurled insults when they occurred. He found her after one of their fights, sitting on the ground next to one of the tour vans and crying her eyes out, but as soon as he made his presence known with a comforting gesture of an arm around her shoulder, her tears dried up and she was—on the outside, at least—perfectly fine. He didn’t press the matter, but kept a wary eye out for Lucille after that.

Friend or not, she still made her efforts to distance herself from him. It was the little things that let him know that even if or when they became close, it would never be anything more than a loose friendship he once had on some tour. He wondered if she would even bother to keep contact with him when they went their separate ways, after the bands played their last show together in Los Angeles. Probably not, but he figured he wouldn’t mind it if she did.

She didn’t cuddle. Tré tried not to let on how disappointed he was by this. He was a cuddler. It was just how he was. But no, she seemed to find the very act as something to be repulsed by. Whenever they finished, she was the first to jump out of the bed and into the shower. Those were lonely moments for him, lying in the bed in that typically darkened hotel room, staring at the ceiling while the sounds of the shower running and her slight humming – she hummed when she showered, it was rather endearing – floated back to him, along with just a bit of the steam that managed to escape past a usually somewhat ajar bathroom door.

It was just sex. He was beginning to realize that. They were friends, and just friends, and that was all the sex was between them, then. Physical pleasure, with no emotional attachment. Sometimes he liked to trick himself into thinking otherwise, though. He didn’t think he really wanted anything more from her, but just a moment to pretend otherwise…just a few minutes afterward, feeling that she was there and basking in the afterglow…that would be nice. Quite honestly, he missed that feeling.

She stayed in the room with him, at least. She would crawl back into bed, being careful to stay on “her” side, and mutter a tired, “Night,” before she would be still and quiet. Sometimes Tré left her there so he could shower, too, but otherwise he put it off until morning. She looked peaceful when she slept; such a change from the vibrant and slightly obnoxious person that she truly was during the waking hours, and he was always afraid that even the slightest shift in the mattress, or the gentlest tug of the bedspread would wake her up again. Getting back into bed after he showered was usually torture; he was so sure he’d wake her. He shouldn’t have worried, he eventually figured out. The girl slept like a rock.

He tried, once, to cuddle with her afterward. She didn’t put up much of a fight, but made her discomfort known within a few minutes with her clear mumble of, “I really need to shower.” He let her go, pretending as though he hadn’t even realized what he was doing.

It was kind of a subconscious thing, though. He reached for her after every time, but she was usually quicker than him. Once, finally, she just gave up, realizing what he was after. “You’re such a woman,” she’d sighed, though it was meant with – and taken as – slight endearment. That was a nice few minutes, lying with her as their breathing finally slowed and their hearts returned to their normal beats. Her arm was across his chest and, unintentionally, her fingertips tickled at his ribs. He fell asleep far more quickly than usual, fully comfortable. When he woke up, she was back on her side of the bed, and a quick glance to the alarm clock on the nightstand next to him told him that it had been barely twenty minutes since he’d gone to sleep.

She had her boundaries, but at the same time, she didn’t. She put up a wall between them, to be broken down only when she meant it to be. Sometimes, it was just a simple question that did so; out of the blue and asked with sincerity, yet so often targeted on the more serious subjects.

“Got any kids?” she asked him, once. He found it only slightly exasperation-worthy that she would sleep with an older man multiple times and then wait so long to ask that particular question, but he didn’t mind answering.

“No,” he said, and it wasn’t beyond her to notice the tinge of regret in his voice. “Someday, though. I’m hoping, anyway. I always thought it’d be kind of cool to have a few little Trés running around, and all.”

“Neat,” she said, nodding her head. Her next words surprised him: “Kids are pretty cool. I want like, three. Two girls and a boy. Not till I’m about forty, though.”

“Why forty?”

“Gotta live my life, you know?” She shrugged. “I dunno, after you have kids your life tends to revolve around them. Other things, stuff that might have been important to you before, are put on the backburner. I wanna live my life for a while before I start living it for little versions of me.”

Tré decided to ignore the little nagging voice in his head that was reminding him he only had a few more years to go before he actually was forty. She would get to live her lifetime over again before she even reached that point. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “that’s not always the case. Having kids is a huge thing, no doubt, but…well, I mean, look at some of my friends. Billie and Mike both have kids, and it hasn’t stopped them from being in Green Day, or any other band, or from touring…you just have to learn to balance stuff like that out.”

“Eh…” She shrugged, already disinterested with the subject. He watched in distaste as a cigarette met her lips and was set alight at the tip. “I’m not very motherly anyway,” she admitted, expelling a stream of smoke—away from him, at least—and settling back on a pillow. “Maybe by the time I’m forty, I will be,” she laughed.

“Can I baby-sit your kids? I will be fascinated to see how they turn out.”

“Fuck you, my kids will be awesome.”

If they turned out anything like their mother, Tré thought, then she was going to have a hell of a time raising them. This thought amused him. He always thought that he’d have pretty weird kids. He was more than all right with that, too; he was actually kind thrilled at the prospect.

Then, glumly, came another thought. First he had to find a girl to have those kids with. And that kind of girl wasn’t a twenty-year-old guitarist that spent as much time screaming profanities at her own bandmate than she did speaking normally to anyone else. He didn’t yearn for the end of the tour, but when it came about, it would do so with relief. It was startling realization.

He liked her, he had no complaints whatsoever about the sex…but it was getting to be too much. He was ready to try to settle down once more, and that wasn’t going to happen when he was involved with something so casual. And Benny…oh, Benny. She was no slut, and if he was to believe what she said about the subject, before him there hadn’t been anyone else in nearly a year, but she didn’t need someone like him. She needed an outlet, and she needed to find that outlet in someone that was just like her. And Tré, he already knew, was nothing like her.

When the tour ended, it would be the best thing for both of them.