Christie Road
Yelling at Brick Walls
Billie sat in stunned silence as he watched the door swing shut. Wounded by Lani's reaction, he expected to feel pain, humiliation, remorse--something, for Christ's sake, but not this novocaine numbness that fogged his mind.
He had been nervous when he picked her up earlier, knowing they would have to have this conversation, and fully aware that he would come out sounding like the bad guy. Now, as he replayed the words that had gone horribly wrong, the crushing sensation in his chest began to ease as the guilt gave way to a sense of injustice.
What was he supposed to do? Put the band completely on hold for her? He cared about her, that wasn't even a question. She was sweet and gentle, and made his knees weak with her soft voice and innocent eyes. But they'd only been seeing each other a few weeks. How much should he be obligated to her after such a short time?
This wasn't a hobby, dammit. It was his life, his career, his dream!
He wasn't even conscious that he was breathing harder now. As the waitress passed by, he caught her attention, took the bill she handed him, returned it with two twenties. Grabbing his jacket, he headed toward the exit, head down and seeing very little around him. Emotions were battling inside his head, and all he could feel was the familiar sensation of a pressure cooker inside his chest beginning to sputter and shake.
By the time he slid behind the wheel of his car, his face was tight-lipped and grim. Words he had wanted--no, needed--to say were piling up behind his eyes. Why did she have to leave without giving him a chance to explain his side of it? It seemed as if his feelings were of no consequence to her at all. Couldn't she stop thinking of herself long enough to at least be happy for him for one fucking second? And exactly what was it she expected from him? Was he supposed to come along like some fucking shining knight on a white horse and rescue her from her miserable existence, riding off into the sunset to Neverland?
When the car's tires squealed to a stop in his driveway, he was mildly surprised at where he was. He'd driven home in a near stupor of growing anger.
BAM! The car door slammed shut much harder than he intended. He stalked toward the front door, and likely would have knocked it nearly off its hinges, but at the last minute, he veered off toward the right, skirting the house and heading for the woods.
For Christie Road.
The snarling thing that emerged at the tracks barely resembled Billie Joe. Face red and damp with sweat, veins standing out on his neck and forehead, fists wadded so tightly that his nails dug red crescents into his palms, he burst through the last of the undergrowth, and when he saw he was alone, he lifted his head and bellowed his rage to the sky.
He wouldn't let her make him feel guilty for wanting this. She could accept it and trust him, or not, her choice. He'd never done a thing to make her doubt him, but if she wanted to get her panties in a wad, then so be it. All he'd ever wanted was to make music and find someone to love, and just when he thought he might be close to both, she'd snatched herself away from him, and as far as he could see, it was for nothing but selfish reasons.
The dirty rocks in the ballast beside the track found their way into his hands before he realized what he was doing. Cocking his muscled arm back beside his head, he hurled a sharp piece of granite as hard as he could toward the woods. The thwocking sound it made bouncing off the tree was satisfying, and he palmed another, larger one. This time, a huge chunk of bark went spinning off to the side.
In a blind fury of rage, he launched one after the other, his arm rocketing out at speed that would have made Pedro Martinez proud. The poor tree never flinched, despite its growing nakedness, and even dropped a few pine cones to appease its assailant.
"Oww!"
The blood rushing in his ears wasn't loud enough to drown out the voice coming from the trees. Billie's arm dropped, and he took a few tentative steps toward the woods, shading his eyes as he peered into the shadows. Nothing moved, nothing looked out of place...
The tiny, mewling sound could have been an animal, but for the very human exclamation before it. No, someone was definitely whimpering.
He edged closer, cautiously, and parted the weeds, looking around behind every tree trunk. Finally, several yards in (he didn't know he could throw that hard!), he saw a small, crumpled figure on the ground beneath a tangled cluster of ivy. Slowly, he got closer, and squatted down to see better.
The head lifted, and a pair of crystal blue eyes, red-rimmed with pain and exhaustion, met his.
He gasped, and almost fell over backwards. "Jesus, Jasmine! Are you okay?" he said, holding out his hand to help her up. Her thin fingers were swallowed up in his, and as she wobbled to her feet, he saw a trickle of blood that made its way lazily down her forehead and beside her left eye. She seemed not to be fully aware that she was bleeding.
"Fu--I mean, shoot!" he caught himself, still feeling that surge of big-brother protectiveness for her. "I--I'm so sorry! I didn't know you were there! Let me see how bad it is." He bent her head down so he could look at her wound, and her coal-black hair was tangled and greasy under his fingers.
The cut wasn't very deep, just a nick really, but what concerned him was the lump that was forming underneath it. She seemed okay, considering that she had been missing for almost four days, but it was hard to tell how much was hunger and fatigue, and how much was shock from the impact of the rock.
She winced when he took out his bandanna and dabbed at the blood, trying to clean it as best he could. "God, I'm so sorry, " he murmured, cursing himself silently. When would he ever stop hurting people with his fits of temper? "I didn't expect to see you out here. Where have you been? Are you--are you okay?" It had to be the stupidest question he'd asked in a long time.
Jasmine looked up at him blankly, confirming the obvious. "I heard you yelling. I thought you were hurt or something," she said matter-of-factly.
The irony of it all hit him like a ton of bricks. This girl, this tough, brave, resourceful girl of thirteen years, who, for all he knew, had been living like an animal for half a week, was worried about him.
Made you wonder, he thought.
He had been nervous when he picked her up earlier, knowing they would have to have this conversation, and fully aware that he would come out sounding like the bad guy. Now, as he replayed the words that had gone horribly wrong, the crushing sensation in his chest began to ease as the guilt gave way to a sense of injustice.
What was he supposed to do? Put the band completely on hold for her? He cared about her, that wasn't even a question. She was sweet and gentle, and made his knees weak with her soft voice and innocent eyes. But they'd only been seeing each other a few weeks. How much should he be obligated to her after such a short time?
This wasn't a hobby, dammit. It was his life, his career, his dream!
He wasn't even conscious that he was breathing harder now. As the waitress passed by, he caught her attention, took the bill she handed him, returned it with two twenties. Grabbing his jacket, he headed toward the exit, head down and seeing very little around him. Emotions were battling inside his head, and all he could feel was the familiar sensation of a pressure cooker inside his chest beginning to sputter and shake.
By the time he slid behind the wheel of his car, his face was tight-lipped and grim. Words he had wanted--no, needed--to say were piling up behind his eyes. Why did she have to leave without giving him a chance to explain his side of it? It seemed as if his feelings were of no consequence to her at all. Couldn't she stop thinking of herself long enough to at least be happy for him for one fucking second? And exactly what was it she expected from him? Was he supposed to come along like some fucking shining knight on a white horse and rescue her from her miserable existence, riding off into the sunset to Neverland?
When the car's tires squealed to a stop in his driveway, he was mildly surprised at where he was. He'd driven home in a near stupor of growing anger.
BAM! The car door slammed shut much harder than he intended. He stalked toward the front door, and likely would have knocked it nearly off its hinges, but at the last minute, he veered off toward the right, skirting the house and heading for the woods.
For Christie Road.
The snarling thing that emerged at the tracks barely resembled Billie Joe. Face red and damp with sweat, veins standing out on his neck and forehead, fists wadded so tightly that his nails dug red crescents into his palms, he burst through the last of the undergrowth, and when he saw he was alone, he lifted his head and bellowed his rage to the sky.
He wouldn't let her make him feel guilty for wanting this. She could accept it and trust him, or not, her choice. He'd never done a thing to make her doubt him, but if she wanted to get her panties in a wad, then so be it. All he'd ever wanted was to make music and find someone to love, and just when he thought he might be close to both, she'd snatched herself away from him, and as far as he could see, it was for nothing but selfish reasons.
The dirty rocks in the ballast beside the track found their way into his hands before he realized what he was doing. Cocking his muscled arm back beside his head, he hurled a sharp piece of granite as hard as he could toward the woods. The thwocking sound it made bouncing off the tree was satisfying, and he palmed another, larger one. This time, a huge chunk of bark went spinning off to the side.
In a blind fury of rage, he launched one after the other, his arm rocketing out at speed that would have made Pedro Martinez proud. The poor tree never flinched, despite its growing nakedness, and even dropped a few pine cones to appease its assailant.
"Oww!"
The blood rushing in his ears wasn't loud enough to drown out the voice coming from the trees. Billie's arm dropped, and he took a few tentative steps toward the woods, shading his eyes as he peered into the shadows. Nothing moved, nothing looked out of place...
The tiny, mewling sound could have been an animal, but for the very human exclamation before it. No, someone was definitely whimpering.
He edged closer, cautiously, and parted the weeds, looking around behind every tree trunk. Finally, several yards in (he didn't know he could throw that hard!), he saw a small, crumpled figure on the ground beneath a tangled cluster of ivy. Slowly, he got closer, and squatted down to see better.
The head lifted, and a pair of crystal blue eyes, red-rimmed with pain and exhaustion, met his.
He gasped, and almost fell over backwards. "Jesus, Jasmine! Are you okay?" he said, holding out his hand to help her up. Her thin fingers were swallowed up in his, and as she wobbled to her feet, he saw a trickle of blood that made its way lazily down her forehead and beside her left eye. She seemed not to be fully aware that she was bleeding.
"Fu--I mean, shoot!" he caught himself, still feeling that surge of big-brother protectiveness for her. "I--I'm so sorry! I didn't know you were there! Let me see how bad it is." He bent her head down so he could look at her wound, and her coal-black hair was tangled and greasy under his fingers.
The cut wasn't very deep, just a nick really, but what concerned him was the lump that was forming underneath it. She seemed okay, considering that she had been missing for almost four days, but it was hard to tell how much was hunger and fatigue, and how much was shock from the impact of the rock.
She winced when he took out his bandanna and dabbed at the blood, trying to clean it as best he could. "God, I'm so sorry, " he murmured, cursing himself silently. When would he ever stop hurting people with his fits of temper? "I didn't expect to see you out here. Where have you been? Are you--are you okay?" It had to be the stupidest question he'd asked in a long time.
Jasmine looked up at him blankly, confirming the obvious. "I heard you yelling. I thought you were hurt or something," she said matter-of-factly.
The irony of it all hit him like a ton of bricks. This girl, this tough, brave, resourceful girl of thirteen years, who, for all he knew, had been living like an animal for half a week, was worried about him.
Made you wonder, he thought.