Awkward

This was an easily avoidable situation, all things considered. Certainly, her heart was pounding and she felt as though she was about to faint, but that was just the shock of things—it passed quickly enough, and she regained her breathing. This intruder was rather fluid in his movements; maybe this was a routine thing for him, breaking into Tré’s house via the kitchen doorway. There was no hesitation in the way he spun around the moment his feet hit the tiles, or how he kicked the white-painted door shut again with one push of a Converse-clad foot.

Benny had three thoughts in about as many seconds: one, if she ducked down behind the island counter right then and there, she could probably avoid being seeing by the man; two, if this was one of Tré’s friends, it was probable that Tré would rather tell him about his houseguest himself, so it was perhaps for the best she not be seen; and three, she was rather clumsy and that was unfortunate. Of course, the third thought came rather abruptly; when she made to duck away, her ankle caught around the corner of the island and down she went. Before she even fully realized what had happened she was on the floor, her rear stinging and her hands still slung up over her head.

“Uh. Ouch…”

“Tré?” A curious face appeared over the edge of the counter, worried brown eyes wide and partially covered on one side by a bit of rather fluffy black hair. She recognized him, vague recollections of his face in music magazines and on television striking at her subconscious, and her face flushed even redder. “Oh…” he said, after a moment. “Why Tré, you’ve…shrunk.”

“Hah-hah,” she chuckled hollowly, already scrambling to her feet again. Her rear was aching and her ankle was beginning to sting, and without even realizing it she was rubbing at the former sorely. She couldn’t wait to see the bruising she got out of this one. Just one more to match with her face, she supposed. “Sorry. You, er…scared me.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Though his tone suggested wariness, he wasn’t speaking in a way that was at all unfriendly. He seemed more curious than anything, one hand scratching absentmindedly at a bit of chin stubble, and the other thumb stuck through one of the front belt loops from his dark jeans. He was cast mostly in shadow, courtesy of the only illumination in the room being from the dim light set above the stove. Yet his eyes still managed to glint slightly through the shadows, surprisingly light despite their color. She refrained from blurting out how much he was creeping her out right now, though barely.

“Uh. Tré isn’t here right now,” she said lamely. Then, realizing where her hands were, she jerked them away and stuck them into the pockets of her jeans. By now, it wouldn’t have surprised her if her face matched her hair in color.

“Oh…” It was actually kind of adorable, how genuinely disappointed this made him sound. “Well…damn.” He looked down for a second, lips set in a grim sort of frown, and then turned those eyes right back on her. “Uh. Just by the way, who are you?”

“It’s, uh…Benny.”

“Benny…?”

“Oh. Er, Gallo,” she managed to supply, this time with more force in her voice. Their handshake was short and somewhat stiff. She pulled away as quickly as she could, as though truly afraid of him. “I…know who you are. You’re in his band…Billie Joe, I know.” Though fully aware of just how idiotic she sounded, Benny just couldn’t stop her vague babbling. “I’m just…here. For a little while.”

“You’re…staying here? Like, as a guest?” She didn’t really appreciate the way one of his eyebrows rose, as though the idea itself was absolutely ludicrous. “So…you’re not a burglar?”

“What? No!”

“Oh. Well, that’s a relief, I guess,” he said, shrugging and scratching at the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to come right out and ask, but I also would have felt bad if I’d like, let you rob him and then get away with it. Bad friend shit, you know?”

“…Right.” She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and walk away, reminding herself that this man wasn’t Tré, and therefore wasn’t quite desensitized to such behaviors from her. “Um, I don’t know when he’s going to be back, or anything. Said he was going to a friend’s house, and that’s all I know, so…”

“So, how do you know Tré?” He was either ignoring her not-so-subtle attempts to make him leave, or honestly not even hearing them. The way he leaned forward against the table, fingertips now casually drumming against the cool granite surface, suggested more interest than she was comfortable with.

“Touring,” she said finally. “He was filling in for Pudding’s drummer, and I play…played…guitar for Betty and the Goop. I, uh, needed a place to stay afterward, so he’s letting me chill here for a while, s’all.”

“Betty and the Goop…” Billie repeated, the smile slipping away from his features as an expression of intense concentration moved to swiftly take its place. “Right, right…” Something seemed to click, and a firm frown was suddenly there. “Wait, how old are you?”

“Does that really matter?”

He gave her a strange look, but didn’t challenge her defensiveness. “Right.” Something had changed; the interest was gone, and yet something else was there to replace it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it—it was like he’d been excited before, but now he didn’t know if he should still be feeling that. His eyes only projected worry, though he was still forcing a calm, amiable appearance. That he was forcing it at all was the concerning thing, to Benny.

“Well, uh,” he said, shrugging slightly and pulling on his jacket’s sleeves, “sorry for scaring you, then. I’ll just go. He’s not answering his phone, so tell him I stopped by?”

“Yeah, sure.” She only stood there, arms crossed as though she was cold, as he smiled once and let himself out the same way he came in—ducking into the next room and slamming the door shut behind him. She wondered if that was a habit of his with every door that he went through.

She listened to him leave, heavy footfalls against the concrete in the garage pounding about until another door slammed. It was only then that she truly allowed herself to breath; her hands dropped to her sides and she leaned back against the stove, eyes closed and her face tilted up to the white-painted ceiling. If she held herself that way and stayed completely still, she could feel the way her heart slowed itself down in her chest, no longer threatening to break through her rib cage. He’d stood in her kitchen and talked to her for two minutes, at the most, and yet it had felt like hours. It was odd that the man had such an effect on her, but she understood it.

She speculated what Tré would have to say about it. From the start, it hadn’t seemed like he was really going to go out of his way to hide her, but to explain her presence in his house so soon probably wasn’t something he was that keen on, either. He’d already taken precautions to cut down on the probability of that having to happen, she knew—she wasn’t dumb, why else would he have driven to a diner that far away for breakfast, that first morning? He didn’t want to run into anyone he knew, so he wouldn’t have to introduce her.

She wondered if, when questioned about her by Billie, Tré would outright lie about her.

--

“There’s a teenager in Tré’s house.”

“Did you call the exterminator?”

“Funny.” Billie rolled his eyes, switching his cell phone from one ear to the other as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They’d just bought new barstools for the tall counter in his spacious kitchen, and the red leather was stiff and unyielding. He missed the old stools, with their worn-in green suede padding, but was loathe to say it out loud. Apparently, according to certain opinions, they hadn’t matched with the décor of the kitchen, and had to go. He’d finally relented after weeks of light pushing and prodding, but not enough to throw the old stools out—they were stowed away in the garage, hidden behind an old tarp. Now, more than ever, he gave thought to switching at least one of them out and seeing how long it would take his wife to notice.

“It’s none of your business,” was the aloof, almost song-like reminder that reached him from the sink, where his dark-haired wife was washing dishes, her back to him. Billie sighed, but otherwise didn’t respond to her.

“I’m serious,” he said into the phone. “Remember when he was talking about the tour, and he kept bringing up the guitarist for that support band that was with them? I’m pretty sure that’s the chick in his house right now.”

“What, like she’s living there now?”

“I dunno, I think she’s just staying there for a little while. I didn’t really get the full story out of her. She was freaked out as fuck just at the sight of me, though. And Tré still isn’t answering his phone, and he wasn’t there, so it’s not like I can just ask him.”

“Uh…huh.” The other voice didn’t sound particularly impressed with the situation. “Okay. And…why is this our business? I mean, if he’s getting laid, good for him—I mean, fuck, it’s about time—but I don’t really get the issue you have with it.”

“Dude, she’s a teenager.”

“You don’t know that. If she is…yeah, creepy as hell, but you don’t really know for sure, do you? She might just be one of those people who looks crazy young even when they’re older.”

“No, no, no! Remember? He kept saying ‘oh, yeah, there was this twenty-year-old girl in Betty and the Goop, and she was their guitarist, and blah, blah, blah.’ And I swear, she said she was that band’s guitarist.”

“Not to nitpick, here, but important detail – twenty-year-olds technically aren’t teenagers.”

“You’re horrible at encouraging my paranoia, Mike. Do you know that?” Billie groaned.

“Sorry.”

“Good for you, Mike,” said Adrienne loudly, offering her husband a look of mock-exasperation over her shoulder.

“Quiet, you.” Billie cocked an eyebrow at his wife in warning—to which she merely laughed—and spoke swiftly into the phone, “and I think I have a right to want to know what’s up, y’know?”

“What makes you think there’s anything else going on besides what she said?” Mike always had been the voice of reason, unfortunately. “I mean, it’s a little weird if she’s all young and shit, but she might just be a houseguest. Probably is. I mean, really, can you see Tré getting involved with someone that much younger than him?”

“Eh…” Billie slumped down in the stool, ignoring the way the vertical bars that made up the back pushed uncomfortably into his skin, even through his jacket and t-shirt. “I guess I didn’t really think about it that way. It is kind of a two-way street, like that…”

“Duh. And on the other hand, can you totally see Tré letting someone stay in his house when they needed it, just because that’s the kind of guy he is?”

Billie sighed. “Yes.”

“Well, then that’s probably your answer. Look, man…”

“Oh, here we go.”

“…I know how much you want him to be happy, because hell…I want that too, you know? But you can’t just assume that whenever he’s in contact with a female it means something important. He’ll find someone when he finds someone. In the meantime,” Mike laughed, “I don’t think you need to worry about him sleeping with twenty-year-olds, you know? I have to think that’s not really his style.”

--

‘I wonder if it would be morally wrong of me to jump him…’

It was the reoccurring thought of the morning, and one that Benny couldn’t quite push out of her mind. Whenever she tried to—whenever she felt bad about it—it still wasn’t gone completely; it lingered in the darker corners of her muddled mind, something to be toyed with even when her rational side was protesting, ‘No!’

She couldn’t help it. Tré almost looked cute the way he was sleeping, all curled up on the couch with his hair mussed and his arm thrown over the top half of his face. He breathed heavily, peacefully, and Humphrey seemed to find him as very comfortable. The mutt was curled up atop Tré’s legs, awake in Benny’s presence, eyes open and alert, but he was otherwise quite relaxed. She’d found them both that way earlier on in the morning, and even after letting the dog outside for a few minutes he ran back inside and went straight back to his master. And Tré, rather hungover if the slight stench of alcohol on his clothing was any indication of it, barely even moved when the dog hopped up on his legs again. She wondered if he was ever going to wake up.

She hadn’t heard him come in the night before. After Billie Joe Armstrong all but broke into the house, she fled back to “her” room and stayed there the rest of the night, eventually falling asleep despite her irritation and minor anxiety. When she woke up in the morning, she knew he was back only because of her discovery in the kitchen—groceries. Sort of.

Perhaps thinking of her, Tré had picked up some food and brought it back with him, though it was slim pickings. Mostly it was just Pop-Tarts and a couple boxes of microwaveable burritos, but she was feeling too hungry to be picky about it. Clearly, he wasn’t much of a grocery shopper, so she supposed she couldn’t have expected anything better.

That was how she spent a good chunk of her morning, munching on Pop-Tarts while she lounged around in Tré’s living room. She found herself edging closer and closer to him subconsciously, until she shared the couch with him—though it was innocent enough, she reasoned. The couch was very long, running the length of a wall and then turning a corner—did he have it custom made for this room, she wondered? Even when she sat in a tiny ball on one end, nibbling on her strawberry Pop-Tart, there were still five or six overstuffed cushions between them.

No, she decided. She couldn’t jump him. He wasn’t even awake, how weird would that be? That rationalization didn’t really take away the urge, of course, but it kept her from going through with it. It wasn’t what he wanted, anyway. She cringed to remember the morning after she’d arrived at his house, how she’d kissed him…he went along with it, sure, but for seconds only. He pulled away, and he said “no.” This was different than the tour had been, and she was still learning where she stood with him. This was his home, and rebellious tendencies or no, she had to show some respect here. Were old habits completely off the table now? She didn’t know, and was afraid to ask.

She had to stop thinking this way, she knew. He’d encouraged her desires on the tour (or at least accepted them), but things were…different, now. It was all for fun before, but her life had taken a decidedly less enjoyable turn since then. It was rare when she could make herself go for more than five minutes without worrying what lay ahead; where she was going to live, what she was going to do about the band, even how long she would be able to stay at Tré’s house before he would begin to “suggest” that she leave. (She knew him better than to think he’d just throw her out when he got tired of her being there, but he’d certainly fall back on passive-aggressiveness if he had to.)

She needed that distraction again. Far more than she had when all she had to put up with was Lucille being a bitch. Her problems were so much more real now, and she would give anything to have a way of making herself less afraid of her future. Yet she only had Tré for that, and he seemed unwilling to play the part of distraction in her life. He’d already pushed her away before, would he do so again? Maybe it was different now. She’d been upset that morning; she’d been crying, and so maybe Tré had felt like he was doing the right thing by stopping their kiss. What about now, after she’d had time to calm down a bit?

Maybe it would be better if she turned things around—let him seduce her, for once. She’d always gone to him on the tour, but assumed that was more because of her own impatience. He was the sort that seemed like he might like to play games, just because they amused him so, but she never had the tolerance for things like that. She would feel bad now, making the first move in his house. But if she let him start things off, she had the right not to feel quite so guilty about it…right?

It wasn’t fair, she thought in exasperation. At her deep sigh, the dog’s ears flipped up once, and then fell back down to the side of his head. He turned his head slightly, fuzzy chin resting against one of Tré’s knees, and gazed over at Benny with watery brown eyes. They always looked so sad, even when the dog was having the time of his life and chasing one of his many, many chewtoys around the backyard. Piercing, too, like he always knew what she was thinking and was just too nice to call her out on it. Benny instantly felt a little ashamed of herself, and buried the bottom half of her face in her knees.

Apparently, using the remote to turn the television on did the same for Tré. Though she kept the volume of the big-screen TV down as much as she could, she didn’t get more than a few minutes into the show before he began to stir. It was a quiet, uneventful sort of process. There was one groan when he opened his eyes and they were struck by morning light, and he moved slowly. Clearly, he’d had a bit too much to drink the night before, which she’d suspected anyway. He turned his head, his eyes taking in the television screen, and he watched for a little while until the show went to commercial.

“I didn’t know you liked soap operas,” he said finally.

“I just like to be reminded that some people have lives more fucked up than mine,” she answered, her voice muffled against her knees. “Even fictional ones.”

“Fair enough,” he mumbled, covering his face with his arm again.

“Hung over, are we?”

“Shut up, Benny.”

She couldn’t help herself; the laugh escaped before she could stop it. His lips, just barely visible beneath his arm, managed to twist themselves into a wry little smirk, and she instantly felt used. He knew how to play her, even if it was just to try and make her laugh. Why was he like that? Hung-over and probably miserable, yet still thinking of her. No one was that nice, or that funny, without wanting something in return. Though, on the other hand, she doubted that anyone was as constantly paranoid as her when faced with genuine friendliness, either.

So she did what she always did: she shook things up.

“By the way, your friend Billie says hi.”

It was a delayed reaction of the best kind. His fingers twitched and, guardedly, he asked, “Uh…what?”

“Yeah. He came over last night, but you weren’t here. Told me to tell you he stopped by, though. You weren’t answering your cell phone.”

Tré lifted his arm away from his paling face, and tilted his head up so he could see her over the dog. She could so easily see his dilemma, and it made her feel a little bad for riling him up like this. He knew he should probably be freaking out about this, and he wanted to question her further, but to do either might come off as insulting toward her.

“Great,” she thought she heard him mumble, and he dropped his head and arm down again. That was the end of that; he seemed to decide against interrogating her, or…doing much of anything about the situation. Maybe he was more hungover than she first thought.

“Um. Thanks for the Pop-Tarts, by the way…”

There was a longer pause this time, and away came the arm once more. “What Pop-Tarts?”

“The…ones on the counter, in the kitchen? You brought back food last night…?”

“I did?” His confusion was kind of adorable. “Huh.” He shrugged, and slumped down on the cushions again. “I gotta stop letting Phil mix my drinks…”

“Sounds like a hell of a party.”

“Usually is, with that crowd.”

She left him alone after that. His voice had gone to being a little cranky, and she knew he had to be fighting away a nasty headache by now. He might have fallen asleep again, and she wouldn’t have noticed, because it wasn’t for another hour or so that he gently pushed the dog off of his legs and stood up. He slouched out of the room and Humphrey, perhaps feeling a little rejected, jumped back up on the couch and sat down next to Benny, his chin resting against her thigh.

A few minutes later, following the distant sound of a toilet flushing and the opening and closing of several doors, his voice managed to reach her from the kitchen, both excited and confused.

“Hey! Burritos!”

--

“So, do you ever, like…grocery shop? Or is it all fast food with you?”

Not that she had a reason to complain, either way. Benny had never been picky with her food, and touring had only encouraged this; she’d always eaten when she could, whatever she could, never mind if it was all that healthy. After she moved out of her mother’s house and money became tight, she’d learned to just buy whatever was cheapest with which to survive—beggars couldn’t be choosers. And so, sitting opposite of Tré at his kitchen table, she hadn’t exactly been disappointed when he suggested they go eat lunch, only then to watch him throw a couple of the burritos in the microwave.

“Eh.” He shrugged, taking a sip from his glass of water (he didn’t have any soda, or really anything else to drink in the house). “I do, sometimes. I dunno, even when I’m home for a while, I still get stuck in the tour mindset. You know, why buy groceries if I might not be here to actually eat them, and all. Kind of a waste.”

“Oh.” She nodded, looking thoughtful. “So…it is all fast food with you.”

“And burritos and Pop-Tarts, apparently.”

“Cool,” said Benny, her mouth full of beans and cheese. Tré rolled his eyes and handed her a paper towel. “Thanks. It’s just, when I lived with my mom she was all about the health food, you know? You get sick of it after a while.”

“Nothing wrong with healthy food.”

“Rice cakes and broccoli do not make for a filling afternoon snack,” said Benny dryly.

“Eh…fair enough. Parents do that, though," he said wisely. "They usually just want what's best. I remember, my father made me join the Boy Scouts when I was a kid, so I could 'build more character,'" he chuckled. "Want another burrito?”

“No thanks,” she laughed. He shrugged again, muttering something that sounded like ‘fine, more for me,’ and got up, taking his crumb-laden plate with him to the microwave. “Pretty sure my stomach is going to be upset enough with me, for having just one.”

“See?” said Tré idly, already having another burrito unwrapped. “Your mom might have had a good thing going, making you eat stuff that didn’t do that to you.”

“Yeah, well, my mom isn’t here right now,” Benny sighed. She reclined back in her seat, bare feet pushing against the floor until only the hind legs of the chair touched upon the tiles. She moved back and forth slowly, her dreadlocks swinging behind her and hitting softly against the wooden backing of the chair whenever she came down again. Though he saw this from the corner of his eye, Tré refrained from commenting on it. She had to know that her hair drove him absolutely crazy, and part of him wasn’t even sure that she wasn’t making the disheveled strands move like that on purpose.

“Back in L.A.?”

“Yeah.” She spoke with only the slightest tinge of nostalgia. He wondered if it was meant for her mom, or just L.A. itself. He still had a hard time placing her in such a city, but reasoning that he didn’t know her as well as he might have liked anyway; maybe she fit right in, in that hustle-and-bustle place. “Whole family is, really. I dunno. I kinda miss ‘em. Sometimes,” she added with a small laugh.

“Call them?” It was only meant as a passing suggestion, merely said as though an afterthought. Her snort was unexpected as a response, but not as typical behavior from her. It was the words that followed which brought his thoughts straight back to her, sharply and quickly.

“Please. Let’s put that off for a while longer, yeah? By now she’s probably already figured out I’m not in the city. She talks to Sicily and gets him to pass along messages, you know. No phone for me, so he’s probably told her about the thing with Lucy. I am not looking forward to the conversation she and I are going to have about that.”

“…Your parents don’t know where you are right now, do they?”

“Probably not.” She pushed some loose strands of her knotted hair out of her eyes, unconcerned. She watched as his shoulders suddenly slumped, his head dipping down as he rested his hands against the countertop.

“Jeez, Benny,” she thought she heard him mumble quietly, and then those eerily blue eyes were turned upon her as a steely glare. “You need to tell your parents where you are. If they can’t reach you at your old place, and your roommates don’t know where you are…it’s not good.”

“They’re used to me taking off, sometimes,” said Benny stiffly. “Touring, and all that. It’s when they don’t get letters that they worry. Don’t freak out about this.”

“Benny, I don’t need to see your face on the news, or hear about any Missing Persons reports, all right?” he said firmly. Before she could object, he’d grabbed the phone from off the wall and was sliding it across the table to her. She withdrew her hands from the wooden surface quickly, as though mere skin-contact with the device would scald her. “I’ve already had the police knocking on my door because of you once, I don’t need it again.”

“I don’t want to.” It was a pathetic sort of statement, said quietly and without even a shred of confidence. She regarded the phone with actual fear, eyes wide and oh so brown, and her hands wringing together nervously in her lap.

“Oh, well, when you say it that way,” said Tré, rolling his eyes. He leaned over the table, stomach pushing against the edge, and took the phone into his hands again. Gently, carefully, he lifted one of her hands away from her lap and pressed the appliance into her palm. When his fingers slid away she retained her grip on it; loosely, but she didn’t drop it or slide it back across the table, as he expected that she might. She just looked at it unsurely, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip as her free hand pushed a couple of her dreadlocks away from her face. He was beginning to realize she did that compulsively whenever she was nervous, but pretending not to be. “Benny,” he said, this time more quietly, “call them.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“It’s not that it’s…it’s just…” He sighed. “Just make the call, Benny.”

“You’re not going to let me leave the room until I do, are you?”

“See?” He smiled. “You’re getting to know me so well.”

“Ass.” Though after only minimal hesitation, she started pressing at the light-up keys of the phone. With a shaking hand she lifted it up to the side of her face, though she was trying to hide it, and determinedly wouldn’t meet his eyes. She stared down at Humphrey instead, sitting next to the fridge and wagging his tag contentedly, clearly not at all phased by the gravity of her situation. Tré stayed where he was, elbows leaning on the table and his chin in his hands, certainly wanting to give her some privacy but also unwilling to leave the room lest she lie and only pretend to call.

He didn’t hear a greeting on the other end of the phone, only assuming there was one when Benny’s voice, cracking just slightly, forced a quiet, “Uh, Mom?”

He heard everything that came after, though. The voice on the phone was suddenly loud and indignant, both angry and horrified, and the expression of terror that instantly crossed Benny’s increasingly pale face told Tré that a certain someone was in trouble.

“—the hell have youbeen, Bernardette? I called your apartment and Sicily told me you werefighting, and then just disappeared—where the hellare you? None of your bandmates knew where you were, your father says you’re not at his house, your brother hasn’t heard from you—I just—oh mygod, you could have been dead in a ditch somewhere and no one would know about it—”

“Oh, god…” By now, Benny was holding the phone as far away from her ear as she could, and her forehead was resting against the surface of the table. “Fuck my life.”

That was about as much contact with Benny’s mom as Tré was willing to experience. She was on the phone, in his kitchen, and that was enough for him; he trusted that Benny wouldn’t just hang up on her and so he had no reservations about bolting. Though he reached over the table and placed a hand on one of the dreadlocked girl’s shoulders, giving it a reassuring squeeze, it was short-lived and he was just as quickly backing away, mumbling something about giving her some privacy.

It was impressive, really, that the woman’s on-phone shrieks didn’t fade from his hearing until he was well on his way down the hallway, heading for the living room. Within seconds Humphrey was trailing along behind him, his paws nearly catching on Tré’s heels as he walked. “Smart of you,” he said, nodding down at the mutt. “Though I’m with you on this one. She sounds kind of scary.”

They took refuge together in the living room, the TV turned up a little louder than usual, just in case. It seemed likely that the dog got more out of the show that was on than Tré did, though; the man couldn’t even begin to pay attention to the screen, he was so irritated. This was absolutely ridiculous, he decided. He felt a bit like a baby-sitter, telling Benny what was wrong and right, and making her do things that she should have already done on her own. Not that he didn’t understand where she was coming from, and he was trying to be sympathetic to her current situation, but she wasn’t making it easy. First she was brought to his doorstep by the police, then Billie stumbled upon her—and he still didn’t know what he was going to do about that—and now this? Immature as she could be, he didn’t think she would actually, purposefully not let her family know where she was.

There it was again, that guilt that he knew so well from the recent tour. He wondered, sometimes, why he allowed himself to be seduced by her time and time again, and why he’d encouraged it. He rarely went after her on those tiring nights, but was more than happy to play along with things when she came after him. On the rare occasion that she didn’t, he found himself disappointed by it. The sex was good, there was no denying that, but he was still trying to grasp as to why it had been worth it. He kind of felt like she needed someone to take care of her, not just a casual fuck, and that made him feel even more guilty—he knew she’d hate that thought. She tried so hard to be independent; the idea of relying on anyone to take care of her was probably horrifying to her.

Again, he pondered her arrival at his doorstep. He wasn’t completely sure he believed that she had nowhere else to go—if she tried hard enough, surely she could have found some place to stay in L.A., even if was just with a casual acquaintance—but even if that was a lie, he doubted it meant anything of importance. He simply worried that she would try to take things back to the way they were. He worried even more than he’d allow that to happen.

Not that he was truly adverse to the idea. It made him uneasy, though. He considered her an adult, and little by little her age bothered him less…he just didn’t see the point. They had no future together, and so were doing one another no favors by continuing their fruitless fun. It didn’t hurt anybody, he didn’t think, but something just didn’t strike him as right about it.

There was still a problem, however: he still wanted her. Perhaps not as a girlfriend or anything of the sort, but the urge was still there. That was just something he couldn’t help. He’d pushed her away before, aware of both her vulnerable state and his need not to take advantage of that, but what about now? She was a little more together—well, a lot more together—and if she tried it again he couldn’t commit himself to the thought that he would shirk away. But he wouldn’t make the first move. He refused to.

“I’m so fucked,” he sighed. Humphrey had no response besides the slight wagging of his tail. “Yeah. Thanks for the support,” he mumbled.

Benny joined him in the living room before long. He didn’t question how the conversation with her mother had gone. There was no need. He could see it plain as day on her darkened features and the way her hands remained clenched into tight fists. She sat down next to him on the couch, huffing angrily, and it wasn’t until the next commercial break that Tré even dared to speak to her.

“So. Uh—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Er…so it didn’t go well, huh.”

“I had to hang up,” she mumbled. “I’ll call her back when she’s had time to cool down.”

Right now, it seemed to Tré that Benny’s mom wasn’t the only one that needed a little time to “cool down,” after all. He didn’t push the subject, still grateful that she’d even called her mother at all, and after a little while she seemed to loosen up. Her hands went slack in her lap, at least, and the color slowly faded from her cheeks, leaving her again pale and slightly freckled. It helped that the dog jumped down from Tré’s other side and instead moved to hers. She petted him between the ears absentmindedly, and it appeared to calm her down so much more that Tré couldn’t even muster up the energy to be offended at his dog’s abandonment.

Some soap opera was playing on the television again. He couldn’t tell if it was the same show from before, all of the characters tended to look the same to him from any of the shows, but Benny actually seemed to be interested in it and so he left it on. The whole thing was mind-numbingly stupid to him—something about a murder, and someone not being a baby’s real father—but in that way it was also unintentionally hilarious.

Things took a turn very quickly when it cut away to another couple, though. It was typical soap opera nonsense, a warmly-lit room and trivial pillow talk between a couple only barely covered by a blanket, yet given his recent thoughts it made Tré a little uncomfortable. The characters’ words turned into kisses, and that turned into more—nothing explicit, as this was daytime television, but they were kind of pushing it. Tré could feel his cheeks glowing red slightly, and he couldn’t help but let his eyes glance over to the girl sitting next to him. She was fidgeting slightly, but he didn’t know if he should read into that too much. She was always at least a little fidgety.

The intimate scene ran on a little long. It was awkward, and it was almost too painful to bear. They sat in silence for more than half an hour, both pretending to be completely immersed in the television show, though neither really gave a damn about it nor were even following the story. Slowly, somehow without Benny even noticing, Tré had been edging closer to her, until their legs were lightly touching and their elbows brushed into one another.

She tried and failed to ignore this, barely managing to resist the sudden urge to tear the remote out of his hand and pounce on him. God, he smelled good. And it was weird, because it wasn’t like he ever wore cologne or anything—he just had a certain, constant smell to him, and she’d grown fond of it. Whatever he used for aftershave and the leftover fragrance from his shampoo; the scent he brought from outside whenever he came back in after running around the backyard with the dog, that somehow stuck with him throughout the day—even the slightest trace of the pot he sometimes smoked, that lingered. Together, it was just him; a natural fragrance that she knew no other guy had. And it was driving her crazy.

She goaded him, just as she had before. She put what little charm she owned and used into overdrive, purposefully pouting her lips just a little bit whenever she felt that he might be glancing her way; yawning and stretching her arms dramatically, raising her arms far above her head so that her shirt pulled up enough for him to see her hipbones; nibbling on the end of her finger and the nail there in a way that she assumed to be seductive. By now, she didn’t even care if she was being subtle about it.

It was affecting him, and that drove her on. It was the little things that tipped her off. He fidgeted, mostly; the light twitches of his fingers and the constant shifting of the arm touching her practically filling her with undeserved joy. He was nearly hers; she could almost taste his lips on her own, and every second that passed just made her crave them more. Why did he have to be so difficult? She’d never had to work this hard to woo a guy, before, and it irked her that she was reduced to doing so now. But it was worth it. Why, she had no idea; it just was.

She wanted Tré, she just didn’t want him. She had no use for a boyfriend, after all, merely craving more of what they’d had on tour. No attachments, and he was good for that. In fact, from what she remembered he was downright perfect for that. Oh, god, those hands; to think about them was to just barely resist looking at them longingly, wishing that they’d be put to better use on her than on the television remote…but she wouldn’t break. No, he was going to come to her this time. She’d instigated things on the tour. Now, it was his turn.

He was breaking. She was holding in a preemptive victory dance. A new program was playing on the television, another mindless sitcom, and he wasn’t even pretending to pay attention anymore. His eyes took in everything else in the room other than the TV and her, as though the curtains and ceiling were infinitely more fascinating that the redhead sitting next to him, or the actresses victimized by too much plastic surgery on the show. The laugh track punctuated the silence that otherwise filmed the room, though for the life of her, Benny had no idea what was so funny. Her eyes were on the screen, but her mind was somewhere else completely.

“So,” he said finally, the mood in the room shifting somewhat as the show moved to a commercial. He cleared his throat, the remote suddenly abandoned on the cushion next to him and his thumbs twiddling together on his lap. “Uh.” He paused, and then came that golden gesture—a hand shot to the back of his neck, and began to scratch at the skin there.

“Yeah?”

“…Wanna make out?”

He’d barely managed to finish the question before she was on him, knees knocking into his as her arms snaked their way around his neck. There was no foreplay to her kisses, even; there never had been, and he supposed he should be used to this by now, but it still caught him off guard. No warning to her straddling him, or to her tongue slipping past her lips, and his, in that usual forceful manner. And yet he didn’t complain—why would he, honestly? She was good at what she did, and he was more than happy to be her one-man audience of the time, despite his initial hesitance.

He should have known, of course, that their couch exploits wouldn’t stay innocent for long. It wasn’t enough to just feel her, to have her there atop him, kissing him and running her hands along his arm and back. It was enough to drive him mad, having here there, right there, and not taking advantage of the situation—she was there on his command, yet willingly! He may have instigated their situation but if she didn’t want more, she wouldn’t have pounced on him nearly before he’d had the chance to. He wasn’t blind, he’d seen how she would pose when she thought he was looking, had felt her move closer to him when he did the same. And deep down—or perhaps not so deep down—he knew that what they were doing now wasn’t really what she wanted, and it wouldn’t satiate her for very long.

He positively adored her sounds; those little ones she probably didn’t even realize that she made when he moved his hand along the soft skin of her inner thigh, and her small, hardly noticeable gasps whenever his calloused fingers pressed a little too firmly. She quivered to his touch, but in unyielding enjoyment, and he always knew when he was doing something right—she shivered as though she was cold, but she couldn’t fight away her smile. When his fingers slipped beneath the denim of her cut-off shorts she reacted as he’d hoped, and how she always did—she was distracted, her lips and tongue unable to move but her mouth still on his, her short and ragged gasps breathed into him, and echoing in his ears.

The buttons of his loose, plaid shirt couldn’t come undone quickly enough. Her fingers fumbled over every one, and she might have just started tearing at the fabric if he didn’t lend a hand of assistance. He could feel himself getting impatient when it didn’t help, and the frustration took hold—but first things first.

She’d regained the use of her lips, but there was only a small pause when he managed to murmur, “I don’t…I don’t have a condom on me…”

“Some Boy Scout you are.”

“Bedroom,” was his rather gruff answer, accompanied by what was supposed to be the quick and fluid motion of him gently lifting her off of him so he could slide off of the couch. Apparently, his brain was a little more muddled than he thought, and his limbs were rather rubbery. Tré attempted removing himself from the couch before she was really even off of him, and down they went, a mass of limbs and half-buttoned shirts and dreadlocks hitting the carpeting. She was giggling quite maniacally before he’d even realized what exactly happened, half lying atop of him and resting her forehead against his shoulder, her hair covering the most of her face and neck and leaving her shoulders there, all exposed and shaking mercilessly.

She was laughing at him! Already he could feel his indignation growing. He was far smoother than that, and he knew this to be a fact—albeit a shaky, rarely proven one—and though he’d never actually felt the need to demonstrate as such to her before…now he didn’t think he had much of a choice. His hands found her pencil-thin arms and he lifted her up, up, until they were both on their feet, and he was practically dragging her out of the living room and down the hallway; a stumbling bunch of gangly arms and legs and fiery hair that just would not stop laughing clinging to his arm as though for dear life.

It was easy to assume that they were trying to hit everything they possibly could, on their way down the hallway and past the various other rooms. Tré was somewhat sure that at one point, he heard the dog barking and the sound of something small and glass shattering against linoleum—he just didn’t care. As long as they both somehow made it to his bedroom without serious injury, the small damages didn’t really matter. Because now, he had something to prove.