To Love/Hate the Spotlight

Things became rather simple after that. My nineteenth birthday (my twenty-third to everyone else) came and went without much thoroughfare: We just went to some back hills bar and grill, at which I proudly had the maximum of two beers. There were no gifts per se, but for one day Tre was sworn to not call me anything of the bloodsucker persuasion and Billie rented us a motel room for what else.

The following weeks were like a busy vacation, at least for me. They worked and I tried to occupy myself when they did, mostly with that new blasted cell phone. I truly hate it, but it's so freakin' addictive. Hobbies kind of lost their luster.

"Hey could you keep it down in there?" Billie croaked from the bunk area.

Suppressing a sigh, I crumpled up an old sign and whipped it at Tre's head.

"Ow!" The drama king jerked around from his comfy spot on the couch and shot an incredulous look at me. "What was that for?"

Baring teeth, "Turn it down," I hissed. The volume on the TV went down the slightest as did my spark of anger.

As days had worn on, Billie seemed to get more and more busy: Constantly on the phone with their manager or taking long walks by himself. Most of the time he was laid up in bed, nursing a headache, so I just left him alone. I suggested that perhaps he was overdoing it and I learned that was the last time I'd ever do that again.

Mike was lounging in the recliner across from us, toying with his cell, like usual now. Before I could depend on him. Mike was turning out to be not quite as exhausted and more pleasant to be around. His and Billie Joe's late night "exchange" on the day I got lost was never mentioned by him, though I carefully led conversations into it, he cleverly avoided each bait and changed the subject. Otherwise, he'd relaxed though, no longer looking it at me like a morbidly curious thing trapped in a glass jar for his observation. We acted like friends again, instead of child and her keeper. Things unfortunately changed though: Both bands had gone out to dinner and boozing one night while I faked illness just to have some alone time. When they returned, Billie had gone straight to bed, brushing a kiss to my forehead and murmuring his head ached; Tre bounced to the TV set and flung himself at the couch; and Mike had walked in with a goofy grin, saying he met some girl named, Brittney. From that point onward you couldn't look at him without seeing him talking on his phone or texting or on the off times staring at nothing and smiling wistfully.

Just gag me with a spoon.

"Aren't you done yet?" The paper I had been staring at was ripped from under my grasp.

"Hey!"

Frank turned it over and over, frowning. "It's blank."

"Well, inspiration hasn't struck yet. Now give it back." He held it over his head when I lunged across the table.

"Ah, ah, ah. What do you say?"

"Frank..." I whined after another failed attempt but with a grin to match his own.

"Fine." He relented and handed it back. "Only cuz the begging is getting sad."

"No, you just find me irresistible and therefore unable to deny me." I batted my lashes.

"Yeah..." He hunched over his paper. "That's exactly it."

All I have to say is Thank God for Frank Iero. When everyone else was off doing their own thing, Frank was here, offering to watch a movie or help him harass neighboring drivers with crude signs like now or to just talk. The talking is usually the best, because I know there aren't any strings attached, no need to impress, sticking to the safe topics, and speaking without my ingrained sarcasm I know Frank rather not decode. It's... refreshing.

Black sharpie poised above my disappointingly blank paper, my mind wandered to other things, like my lack of sleep and by lack of sleep I mean my over abundance of dreams... Well, maybe not exactly dreams; them being so vivid and hard to break from that they had to of been real once. They were real, being memories. I just can't remember what they are after I wake, panting and sweating and even sometimes crying, but I could easily guess. It's not like my life had been roses and sunshine so far. It's just when I think this, a back-cracking yawn forces its way past my lips and I'm arching into the building pressure. A faint smirk caught my eye. "What?"

Frank glanced up through his fringe. "Hm, nothing." His arm curled around his own paper, blocking it from view

"What is that you're writing?" My eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Face arranged in all innocence, he slowly shook his head. Big brown puppy dog eyes. "Don't you trust me?"

"If you had nothing to hide, you wouldn't have said that." I smirked when for a few seconds he was caught off balance, but when he regained it, his posture marginally shifted to better protect the paper and his head titled in playful defiance.

"Aw, you wound me." He was too immersed in his act when his main defensive hand flitted over his heart to further emphasize his "pain," that I snatched it out from under his other hand's limp fingers. "Hey!" he cried, scrambling for it a bit too late.

A thick black arrow -that if held up to the window would have been pointing at yours truly to the drivers whizzing by- was scribbled at the top, and under it in bold capitals it read, THIS GIRL

"'This girl' what, Frank?" Eyebrow quirked in a sharp arch and a small grin played on my lips. My eyes flickered up to his resigned slump in the opposite bench seat to see an amusing pink flush streaking up his neck and coloring the tips of his ears. It was adorable in a boyish sense. Billie never blushed much, I think because he believes he has nothing to blush over which is appealing more times than not. Frank presented something new and different and made my insides warm in admiration.

What the----

The comparison blindsided me, and I watched through unfocused eyes as Frank gathered himself to reclaim the unfinished sign without much resistance from me.

Hastily folding it over, he mumbled, "I didn't get that far yet." The contemplative tension in his features melted after a beat and he smiled, still fairly pink. "Probably won't be flattering now given your utter lack of faith in me."

The Voice happily sniped a retaliation that made my grin broaden. "My apologies, Frank, by all means broadcast whatever you like about me to the good travelers of Mississippi; I won't interfere." My arms lifted, palms up, in acquiescence.. I continued on quickly before he could respond, if his widening grin was anything to go by. "Just like I'm sure you'll understand if I don't know, say accidentally let slip your cell phone number to every fan girl I come across till the end of tour."

A small trickle of pleasure wriggled throughout my system when his smile fell and a look of absolute horror paled his entire being. "You wouldn't."

Without thinking -too caught up in the light predatory thrill- I leaned over the narrow table- I immediately realized was coming too close to his face- and stared him down through lowered lashes. "Would I?" I purred, all but nuzzling his neck I later sickly reflected.

Startled brown eyes stretched perceptibly wider. His fading signs of embarrassment reemerged full force.

Oh shit.

I jerked back, even going as far as standing to move away, watching him, mortified of myself. Subconsciously taking tabs of the room's other occupants: Tre naturally had his back to us watching the screen and Mike was turned away, tending to a text message. Reluctantly my gaze settled back onto Frank, who looked gradually calmer since my retreat, which made me feel even guiltier.

What had to have been an eternity were only mere seconds, he opened his mouth to say something -probably that he didn't want to be friends anymore and my stomach was already plummeting at the thought- but I shakily blurted, "I'm so sorry."

Mouth still open, his brows pulled together and his head cocked to the side. Stop looking at me like I'm crazy! I'm not!

"Of course you aren't, dear."

I'm not.

"It's alr--"

But I didn't stick around to hear how I overstepped bounds I didn't consciously consider, because I hightailed it to the bunk area -snapping the curtain shut behind me- when I realized I couldn't very well jump from a moving vehicle... again. I hid in an empty bed -so as not to wake Billie- and waited for Frank to go away.

Mature, yes, I know.

Frank's POV:

Well that was... it was... what just happened exactly?

No Ones POV:

"Uh, hi, I have a prescription refilled under Way-- Githens, sorry. Githens."

The pharmacy tech nodded and shuffled away from the service window, disappearing behind aisles stocked full of bottles. Her bored sigh -as well concealed as it was- reflected his mood down to a T. It was too sunny out for one -not that he was retrogressing, Dr. Roth reassured him, he just wasn't used to it yet. He could stand the mad scramble for his sunglasses -it was almost like a game where the stakes were temporary blindness- and the stinging slap of heat on exposed, pale skin. But today with the lack of clouds and the buzz of Zekatas (that's when you know it's hot) and the fact he had to walk most places where the bus would be a waste of money, he was glad he didn't have a therapy appointment till Thursday, just so Dr. Roth wouldn't feel the need to up his Zoloft.

A stapled, white bag was unceremoniously dropped right in front of his drumming fingers on the counter top. "I need to see ID."

He already had it in hand, and he showed her too. He knew the procedure now, and he also knew the importance of having formal identification when you looked the way he did. She must have thought he was some addict sniffing for Oxycontin with his dark clothes, sickly complexion, and the bruised skin under his eyes. (Damn that new sleeping pill.) The fluorescent lighting was wholly unkind to him. His polite smiles were shaky shows of teeth at best, and that alone was off-putting to some people for obvious reasons.

"Zoloft and Trazadone?" Her eyes rolled up to meet his, witnessing his curt nod. Another sigh. "That'll be twenty eight, fifty."

He jumped to get the money out of his wallet -still breaking in the stiff leather- and handed it over. He didn't know all the social standards and protocol yet, but he knew enough to not dilly dally at registers or people will get mad at you.

With one last huff of air, the tech slid the two quarters across to him and might have grumbled something resembling, "Have a nice day." One more awkward smile later and he was navigating through CVS to the exit and calculating in his head whether he could drop the pills off at his apartment and still have enough time to hightail it to work. One week at the movie theater so far working concession and looking at the narrow time slot, he didn't want to risk it.

He made it on time and to the locker rooms without drawing much attention to himself, so it eased his mood slightly.

"Hey J!" was squealed down at the other end of the room, sending unpleasant shivers down his spine.

So much for only slightly.

His wince was hardly noticeable and his measured pace (don't wanna look jittery in front of anyone) sped up fractionally.

Frizzy ash blond hair bounced over from the corner of his eye. "Hi," he offered feebly, messing up the combination again.

"J, you didn't say hi to me when you came in," Rosie whined as she plopped down on the bench behind him, really too close behind him. He didn't have to look to know the too short, high school Junior was pouting, arms crossed, thin glossy bottom lip puffed out. He wondered if someone told her it was cute once since she abused it so often. He supposed he could see the appeal if he really tried but since she looked like something akin to a baby prostitute with her thick mascara, caked foundation, and dripping fruity lips on too young features, it was truly a lost cause; not to mention her voice sounded like a screeching cat and she probably thought the square root of four was rainbow [1] and for some damning reason she was absolutely infatuated with him.

"J, are you ignoring me?" Why'd she have to sound so---- happy?

"No," he grounded out, fingers fumbling with the dial. And another thing, he hated that she loved to call him J. He had a hard enough time getting used to Jason; he didn't need a nickname for it.

"Oh, okay good!" Her giggling was shrill. "Well then I forgive you for not saying hi and not giving me a hug--" Who said anything about a hug?! "--sooo how was your day?"

Her swinging legs brushed his calf and he casually shifted away, bending at an awkward angle to hunch over the lock. Her huff of disappointment was what he needed to grin and finally get the combo right.

But just to be polite, "Fine and yours?" No use making enemies at work.

Several sentences in and still on the morning's description of how she missed her bus but it was okay "Cuz Dad was home sick with the flu or something gross like that" so he drove her to school, that he was starting to realize it was a bad idea to have asked. It eventually became a background drone that when he finished tossing in his wallet and keys and was reaching for the bottom hem of his t-shirt to switch it out with the navy polo for the uniform, he remembered one very little, annoying detail.

"... uh, Rosie?" His soft voice barely caused a ripple through her recap of "A totally bogus lunch." Irritation carved sharp lines around his mouth. If he didn't think he'd get caught, he would rip her tongue out. Not like he was squeamish when it came to blood or anything to stop him otherwise. "Rosie?" he tried again, louder this time. But then again she would utilize sign language as one flailing arms wail for attention. His attention.

"So this guy in French class -did I tell you I speak French? Isn't it like the sexiest language ever- so he asked me out again but don't worry. I totally said no. I like someone else."

Good fucking god. "Rosie!"

"Yeah, J?" she cooed, batting her spider leg lashes. Did she try to be infuriating on purpose?

He spoke over his shoulder. "I -erm- I need to change---clothes."

Eyes flashing, she nodded. "Alright."

"Could you... get out?"

"Oh don't mind me. You won't even notice I'm here." If anything she scooted closer.

He opened his mouth to protest but then thought better of it: By the time he would actually get her to leave, he would be late clocking in. So with her lecherous grin she was doing a poor job to hide, he raced to yank off his shirt -exposed white back and shifting sinews- and pulled on the polo. Her sigh -one vastly different than that of the pharmacy tech- colored his cheeks a misleading pink. Thank God he wore black pants that fit in with the uniform.

"What's this?" His fingers working at his name tag slowed at the crinkle of paper. He turned to see her holding the prescription bag with a small frown.

"Pills." He snatched it from her and tossed it in the locker, them slammed the door shut.

"I know that, silly. What are they for?"

He restrained himself from bearing his fangs -which he's been very careful about revealing here but he just couldn't yet part from them- since that's something the old sick him would do. "Don't you have work to do?" he snapped.

"Is it drugs?" Her eyes twinkled, her mouth gaping, looking scandalized.

Idiot. "Legal ones and none of your business."

"Does Patrick know?"

"Considering he's the one that hired me, I would say so." And wasn't that an uncomfortable explanation.

"Then what are they--"

"Not your--"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"N-no..."

"Boyfriend?"

"What? No!"

"Single and loving it or single and miserable?"

"I'm going to go work now, Rosie." He brushed past her and headed for the door.

"But don't you wanna--" He flicked the door closed behind him, effectively cutting off her squeaky garble. Maybe the day could now improve with her working the ticket booth and him safely tucked away amongst buttery popcorn, sticky pop counters, and dripping Icee machines.

He would try calling Her old house again after work.