When Three Becomes Two

Billie’s PoV

Letting the public know that Tre was dead, that Green Day was over and done, seemed to finalize the whole thing. And now that the world knew, it was time to get on with life. We’d come home, go to the funeral, and after that we’d have to start new lives. There would be no clinging on to memories, living in the past, becoming a vegetable held down in my own grief.

For the time being, I couldn’t do that. It had been roughly a week since the death, meaning it was still too fresh in my mind. So I decided that I needed a little help forgetting my troubles.

So as another day of the press hounding the hotel hallways and simply staring at the TV, as the sun faded to a blood red hue and singed the horizon, I decided it was easier to go to a bar, have some shots, and have some time away from Mike’s scrutinizing gaze.

I had only been to LA a few times before, when we had no time to do much other than play at shows…shows that never would happen again…

Forcing my mind away from the thoughts, I had grabbed my car keys, murmured an excuse to Mike, and headed out the door past the anxious paparazzi. Now I drove through the streets, searching for a bar where I wouldn’t get recognized, somewhere very quiet.

I didn’t take long to find it. Lazy Luke’s, the flickering blue neon sign proclaimed. It looked extremely dingy, like it had not been cleaned in a year or two. Perfect.

Four hours later, I sat with my eyes rolling slightly, shot glass in my hand. I was the only one there, besides the bartender. The alcohol had done its job—I felt as though I had been cut off, like Tre’s death had no reason to affect me in the first place, nor Mike’s concern for me. Who cared?

Just then, a young woman in her early twenties—I think—sat down next to me. She was very pretty. Very pretty. Her white-blond hair waved down to her shoulder blades, and her pale blue eyes were rimmed by heavy eyelashes. Her pink-frosted lips matched her dress, elegantly emphasizing each of her curves.

Oh, yes…

I turned towards her, desperate for conversation—and something else.

“Hey there.” I smiled a little. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, and that Adie would be furious if she found out, but the intoxication drowned out my doubts and gave me a rush of giddy recklessness.

“Hi—Oooh! Aren’t you Billie Joe Armstrong?”

For the briefest moment, my conscience surfaced again. Even before I met Adie, I never, took the incentive with people who already knew who I was…but again, I ignored it.

“Yes, I am.” I said proudly.

“I heard your poor drummer, what’s-his-name, was dead! That’s so sad! I feel so sorry for you!” Her lips curved into a half-smile, showing so many pearly teeth. “Can I do anything for you to make you feel better?” She giggled.

This woman sympathized with me…she must really feel my pain…this woman must be my friend…I’d take anything right now…

“Uh-huh.” I groaned.

From that point on, I only remembered a handful of images, a rush of sound...

I remembered having a hand around my waist, stopping me from falling over, and that hand had long, piercing fingernails…

I remembered being led through a house, upstairs and into a bedroom, and feeling an all too familiar rush of adrenaline…

I remembered hearing a voice talking to me, instructing me, as I lay on a bed I’d never seen in my life, and allowing the pain of the week’s events to be lost in one single alcohol-driven moment…

And then the next thing I knew, I lay on the bed with the women I had met in the bar the night before, with her wrapped in an embrace, as the sun came up behind the lavender curtains. I also groggily realized I had no clothes on…

And then the shock of what had happened the night before hit me. I had slept with a woman I didn’t know, who manipulated me, not because she really loved me, but because she knew me as the ‘hot’ frontman of Green Day, nothing more than a sex object to be used at will. I had been weakened by the death of my best friend, and this—this woman had used that to her advantage.

With a moan of disgust for what I had done, I slipped out of bed. The woman did not wake up. Finding my clothes at the foot of the bed, I began dressing, muttering every swear word I knew. As I looked around the room, her identity was confirmed. There were posters in her room, not of Green Day, but of me, and only me. There was one Green Day poster, but with Mike and Tre’s faces crossed out and a circle around my own. After dressing, I found a CD collection and flipped through it. It was filled with nothing but mindless pop music—and American Idiot.

I grimly realized this girl was not even a fan—only going with the trend of American Idiot. And that wasn’t all…

A day planner caught my I eye. I grabbed it and flipped through to the night before. There, under Night: Wait for parents to leave, pick up fake ID from Jason, go to bar.

Fake ID? But that must mean…She wasn’t even legal?!? I had sex with a teenie fan, something I had sworn never to do?

The woman—no, girl—started to stir. I ran out the door and sprinted down the hallway, just as I heard a slurred, “Hey!”

I frantically ran, ran out of the house, down the street, away until I found the main road. And as I hailed a cab, and sat there as I sped away back towards the hotel, the one thing I thought was, Adie is going to kill me…