Awkward

With less than three hours before the show opening, Reese and Tré sat outside, waiting for their tour manager to find them. The two had narrowly managed to evade Kevin less than an hour before as he tried to lure them into yet another pre-show meet and greet, and they were sure it wouldn’t take him much longer to track them down again.

Looking for a place to get away from everything, especially the gaggle of young women some of the other guys had invited backstage, they’d ended up out behind the venue, cowering in a secluded spot just behind a large aluminum garbage container. The two sat leaned against the rusted chain-link fence, Reese smoking and Tré sipping cautiously at a too-warm bottle of ginger ale, as the hot sun warmed the skin on their exposed shins.

They were almost home now, just two shows away from the end of tour, and they craved the stable life, a home without wheels and silence devoid of screaming fans and screeching guitars, if only for a short while. It seemed as though the last week had dragged on without mercy. Most of the past few days had been spent driving west from Texas, and with no time (or as much money leftover) to pull into a hotel for a night quite as much, the guys had been cramped up in the small, hot van (the AC had conked out just as they entered Nevada), pressed uncomfortably close together and in stony silence. It wasn’t that they were upset or even remotely peeved with one another, it had just gotten to be too much. Too much Cliff. Too much Reese. Too much Tré. Too much Kevin. And, above all, too much Max. They simply needed space…and a little air.

Throwing a blue rubber ball against the dumpster, green paint chipping off as the two made contact, Reese cleared his throat and slid his eyes to peek at over at Tré. “So,” he started quietly, “now that the tour’s over, what’s going on with you and that tattooed chick?”

Tré paused, bringing the soda bottle away from his lips and swallowing the liquid as it burned in his throat. After a moment, he spoke, his voice tight. “What?”

What?” Reese mocked, shaking his head. He stood, turning to face the fence and staring out at the abandoned lot across the street. “Did you really think no one noticed? Dude, everyone’s been talking about you…about her. Especially that goth chick in her band. Damn, that girl’s got a mouth on her.”

“What?” Tré repeated. Beyond bewildered, he pulled himself up, mouth agape and eyes wide. Had people really been talking? Had they actually known? He and Benny had been so careful, meeting only when they stayed in motels and he’d managed to procure a room. He took great efforts to act normal with her when around other people. They’d never been “caught,” as far as he knew, and no one had ever said anything. Benny surely didn’t tell anyone, and he hadn’t spoken a word; the situation was awkward enough for him without having to explain to his friends and bandmates why he was screwing a girl nearly half his age. Nearly half his fucking age. “Oh shit.”

Reese chuckled grimly and nodded.

“Everyone knows?”

“Pretty much.”

--

“Oh my god, Tré. Are we really doing this again? We’ve been- ”

The look that crossed Tré's face as she almost said that word stopped Benny in her tracks. In this state, Tré would probably turn ten shades of red and then spend the next five minutes mumbling and fumbling over his own words to explain why “fucking” wasn’t the correct term for what they were doing and listing reasons she shouldn’t say things like that, the pansy he was. She took a moment to rephrase her words, forcing herself not to roll her eyes or sigh or do any of those other things that too plainly broadcasted her age. “We’ve been screwing around for weeks.”

“That’s not any better,” he mumbled lowly, still pacing the room and scratching at his neck so harshly the skin there had turned red and splotchy. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows.”

Benny stared at him as he made his way past her, stopping only when he’d reached the door before turning around and walking the path again. He kept mumbling to himself and ruffling his hair in that irritating way he did when he was nervous. It very much reminded her of the first time they’d slept together, of the days after. She could feel herself getting upset and stiffened, her arms folding tightly against her chest and her eyebrows furrowing.

“So what? What does it matter if ‘everyone knows?’”

“Benny, you’re twenty years old-”

“I know how old I am,” Benny interrupted.

“- and I’m thirty-seven.”

She sat on the bed of the hotel room, the old springs creaking beneath her. Tré just kept pacing the room.

“I really don’t see what the big deal is,” Benny started. “And lemme finish! What difference does it make if everyone knows now? The tour will be over in a few days and then that’s it. It’s not like we’re going to be together much longer anyway.”

That stopped him. “What?”

“I…We said…What?” Benny nibbled anxiously on her fingernail, waiting for Tré to elaborate, waiting for him to explain that expression on his face and the tone in his voice. When he didn’t, “Tre?”

He stood for a moment, watching cautiously as her eyes shifted from his face to the pattern on the room’s carpeting. For all her pretending, she was a still very much immature. He should have been more aware of that but he’d only zeroed in on the number, on the seventeen years between them. He knew she was young, too young for him, but he hadn’t thought about why exactly that was. It was becoming easier to see.

She looked different now, he noticed, younger; the way her chin rested against her knee and the clumps of twisted hair fell around her face, the brown of her eyes lost against the pale skin and scarlet locks; the freckles, dusty brown and splattered haphazardly across her arms; the t-shirt she wore, looser than normal, did nothing for her figure, hiding what little curves she may have had; and the shorts, the tiny shorts which on most girls would be considered sexy, simply looked plain - her legs lacked the silhouette and definition to be anything but gangly and more than a bit too thin.

She was pouting almost, with her head bowed and shoulders curved unhappily. Brooding. Brooding over not getting her way. And the way she’d interrupted him before, almost petulant in her protest. She never listened, not really. If she had, they wouldn’t even be in this situation. She’d insisted, persisted, that they get involved in this “relationship” even though she knew how uncomfortable it had made him. She had to have her way. Though Tré couldn’t really blame her for that. He was hesitant, yes, and had to be coaxed, but he was by no means an unwilling partner and he couldn’t honestly say that he hadn’t enjoyed it. He enjoyed it.

She fought with that bandmate of hers relentlessly. Tré had listened and nodded along as she complained those nights when she felt like talking, but he always thought the arguments between the two were petty. It said a lot, he thought, that none of her bandmates ever stuck up for her, no one had bothered to put Lucy in her place or stop her from trying to wind-up the younger girl (as trivial as the arguments may have been, it didn’t change the fact that Lucy was all around intolerable; someone should have said something). And she was always so easily wound-up, ready to lose her temper at the slightest infractions. A hot-head.

The hard-ass routine was wearing thin too, the “fuck and separate, no cuddling” rule, for one. She would rarely let him just hold her and when she had, she acted as though the idea was so ridiculous. It was nice for him, sure, but he could practically feel her rolling her eyes and simply waiting for it to be done. All so she could seem more adult. Because that’s what adults did, right? Fuck and walk away. No emotional attachments. Oh, she was so very grown-up, talking about sex and love like she knew anything about either.

Not to mention that notebook, the ratty old thing she carried in what Tré imagined to be an old thrift-shop knapsack. It was almost infuriating, the way she kept it around. Scribbling in it at every opportunity she got, writing down lyrics and music and notes to her mother like some sort of moody teenager.

She was a child, a stubborn rebelling twenty-year-old, and Tré was stupid to ever have thought any more of her. She wasn’t anything special, not by anyone’s standards.

Of course he shouldn’t worry about the rumors. The “relationship” was nothing more than a thing of convenience. Like she’d always said, it was just sex, though admittedly good sex, and it would be over with once the tour ended. And he was sort of glad for that, almost found himself feeling relieved.

“No, you’re right,” he conceded, walking towards her. “It’ll only be a few days before the end of tour.”

--

The last song ended and Tré jogged off stage, leaving behind the screaming audience, shirt and face drenched in sweat, arms pulsing and tired. That was it, the last show of the tour. It was finally over.

Once backstage he retreated to the confined space of the band’s dressing room and flopped onto the grubby brown couch; it groaned resentfully underneath him as he put his feet up and laid back. It was actually quiet here and with the silence, Tré could clearly make out the ringing in his own ears. He almost pulled a pillow over his head, an ill-fated attempt to drown out the irritating sound, but thought better of it at the last minute. Who knew where that pillow had been or who it had laid underneath before him?

It didn’t take long for the other bandmates to join him, bursting through the doors, laughing and playfully jostling each other with a few stray people trailing in behind them.

“Tré!” Cliff called, spotting him and offering a bottle of what looked like serious liquor, the brown-tinted liquid swooshing as Cliff stumbled forward. When Tré waved at him dismissively, he added, “‘S good, man.”

“I don’t care,” Tré mumbled, making room on the couch and laughing as Cliff plopped headfirst into the empty space next to him. “How’d you manage to get this drunk that fast?”

Cliff started to answer, lips pursed and read to mumble something probably idiotic, but paused when the door opened, banging loudly into the wall. Sauntering into the room, a slim brunette pinned to his side, Max acknowledged the other men with a lazy bragging smile, his hand slipping from the girl’s tiny waist to her skin-tight jean-clad bottom.

“Maximus!” Cliff shouted, unsuccessfully moving to stand.

Regally, Max spread his arms and bowed. “It is I.”

Tré watched as Max’s temporary girl scooted back into his arms once he was upright again. Her nimble fingers, painted a deep color, found the top of his grey plaid button-down shirt and she ran her fingertips across the inkings that covered his skin. She only fumbled with the buttons, thank God, undoing and redoing the top clasp as she leaned more and more into him. Max, in turn, skimmed his fingers underneath the band of her jeans and smiled even wider.

“Who’s that?” Reese asked. He half-expected Max to not even know her name, but he mumbled something sounding like Jolisa or Jessica or maybe Joanne and then continued his exploration of her backside.

“You gotta do that here, man?”

Tré barely heard Cliff’s slurred voice ask the question. He was far too busy focused on the girl, Janice or something, and what she was doing with her mouth. Half-disgusted, he watched as she pushed her tongue through the tunnel ring in Max’s stretched lobe, and on the end was a shiny barbell. Before anyone could object, Tré rose from his seat and raced out of the increasingly crowded room.

--

It didn’t take him long to find her. He hadn’t bothered to look in her band’s dressing room backstage, knowing she was unlikely to be there, and instead headed straight out of the venue. She was near a loading dock when he stumbled upon her, the one they’d used to bring in their equipment, though it was deserted now. Sitting on an abandoned dolly directly underneath a lamppost, notebook on her lap and pen in her hand with a plastic cup placed next to her, she looked uneasy; scratching her forearm, then twiddling her pen between her fingers; tugging on her hair and rubbing her thumb into her cheek; fidgeting.

“Hey,” a terrible opening to a conversation, but then again, Tré hadn’t wanted to talk, not really. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Writing,” she mumbled. She hadn’t bothered to look up when he spoke, but as she felt his body sit beside her, she moved a bit closer to him. “It’s cold,” she said defensively, though he hadn’t spoken against it, “What are you doing out here?”

Tré shrugged. “The guys…eh.”

Benny nodded, but said nothing else. As she scribbled into her notebook, she could feel Tré looking at her. It wasn’t something she hadn’t dealt with before, he had a tendency to watch her - observing everything she did and analyzing it, she suspected - but she wasn’t use to it. It still made her a bit uncomfortable to be scrutinized that way. She knew what he was doing, picking her apart in his mind and trying to figure her out. It was one of his most annoying habits.

She wondered briefly if he was there to talk, to talk about “us,” and prayed that he wasn’t. “Us” wasn’t something that needed any further discussion. She’d made it perfectly clear the night before that there wouldn’t even be an “us” once the tour ended, and they’d just finished their last performance. But then again, she’d thought she made it perfectly clear that there was never even an “us” to start with. This wasn’t supposed to be a relationship. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t.

“You’re getting goosebumps,” Tré whispered, unexpectedly kissing her exposed shoulder.

“It’s cold.”

She continued writing, ignoring the feel of Tré’s stubble against her skin and his arm around her shoulders. At least he’s warm, she told herself, willing her body not to pull away.

“Writing a letter?”

Again she nodded and before she could protest he was holding the notebook in his hand. Quickly turning to a clean page to preserve her privacy, Tré began scribbling in his sloppy too-big handwriting.

Exasperated, “What are you doing, Tré?” She was too tired to even muster up genuine anger or annoyance, her voice barely a whine.

When he passed the notebook back to her, placing it on her lap and the pen on top of it, she saw that he had written his address.

“Maybe you can write me a letter.”

And Benny almost smiled at that.