Christie Road

The noise in the backstage hospitality room was beginning to build as people drifted in after the show to catch a glimpse of the band, talk to them, maybe take a few pictures. Everyone wanted something. And everywhere he turned, there was someone smiling and calling, "Billie! Billie Joe!"

Like a caged tiger, he paced nervously between the bar and the window, clutching his beer, almost tempted to climb out and run as he had done so often at home. But here there was no Christie Road, there were no lonely tracks welcoming him and his friends, and most of all, it was the eyes, so many eyes on him, watching every move, that made him want to scream.

It was different on stage. There, he was in his element, and he loved connecting with the audience through his music. The give and take of emotion charged him, made him feel truly alive, and it was the one time that he truly enjoyed being close to a surging throng of people. But when he didn't have the microphone to shield him, he felt vulnerable, almost naked.

He hoisted his lean body up into the windowsill and sat, one leg dangling outside. Cupping his hand around the end of his cigarette, he lit the tip and took a long drag, letting the smoke curl out through his nostrils. He closed his eyes to shut out the incessant flash of the cameras, and tried to ignore the beehive hum of voices that kept growing louder, but it was no use. Searching the room, he tried to catch the eyes of his best friend, but Mike was deep in conversation with someone Billie had never seen before.

Glancing out the window, he wondered if there were any way he could sneak out without being seen. They were only eight or so feet from the ground, and he'd jumped further than that before. Question was, where would he go from there? The van would be the first place they'd look for him, so that option was out.

Finally he flicked the cigarette butt out onto the pavement and dropped lightly onto the floor. Making his way through the milling crowd, he excused himself over and over again to people who just wanted "a minute" with him, and found himself alone at last in the hallway that led to the dressing rooms.

The room was dark, carpeted in deep green, and their duffle bags and clothes lay scattered over the backs of chairs and in wrinkled heaps on the floor. He swatted a pair of jeans and someone's baseball cap impatiently off the couch and sank onto the cushions, lifting his feet to rest on the sofa arm. He didn't bother to turn on the lights, and as he stretched out he folded one arm over his eyes and let his mind drift lazily.

Fatigue was beginning to set in. They had been on the road for five weeks, and the time spent in the van was the hardest part. It was impossible to get comfortable to sleep, and they couldn't afford a hotel every night, so insomnia was becoming a familiar feeling. He could always--always--get stoked for a performance, but in between it was getting harder and harder to think clearly and be civil to anyone, even Mike and Tre.

Minutes passed, silent save for the soft hum of the air through the vents, and his tired body began to relax for the first time in many days. He shifted slightly onto his side, knees bent as he rolled to bury his face in the back cushion of the couch. It made him feel warm and cocooned, and soon his mind was drifting into a quiet sleep.

A sliver of bright light shot like an arrow across the room, followed by the sound of distant voices. Billie stirred lightly, shrugging off the noise that he assumed to be either Mike or Tre returning to change clothes, and then settled back into his nap.

The sensation of being touched softly on his arm wasn't quite enough to bring him fully awake. In fact, it felt soothing, gentle, and he found the dream he had been having about losing his lyric notebook giving way to something decidedly more pleasant. A sigh of pleasure found its way to his lips as warm breath wafted across his earlobe, and he felt his body began to respond to the attention.

Suddenly he bolted awake, realizing where he was, and he twisted so quickly to see who was in the room with him that he almost fell off the sofa. Fear stabbed his heart and sent his pulse racing as a pale face backed away into the shadows, laughing softly. He struggled to sit up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his tattooed wrists. He could make out a female figure, with long blond hair, but it was too dark to make out the details of her face.

"Billie, it's me, Lani," the voice whispered, and her hand closed around his, stroking his knuckles with her thumb.

He blinked, his face a mask of confusion. "Who?" he said, and realized his mistake as soon as the words left his lips.

Her smile faded. "What do you mean, 'Who'? Who else would you be expecting?"

Had somebody filled his mouth with wet cotton? His tongue felt thick and slow. "I wasn't expecting anybody. Wh--how did you get here?" He frowned, trying to remember which faceless town they'd rolled into last. "What are you doing in San Diego?"

"Well," she purred, lowering her eyes, "when I didn't hear from you for such a long time, I finally called your sister, and she told me you'd left on tour. You know, you could have at least called to say goodbye," she chided.

Stifling a groan of exhaustion, he rubbed his hand across his face. "Lani, we didn't leave things on very good terms. I didn't really know what to say to you."

"You didn't need to say anything except that you were sorry," she said, lifting her large eyes to his. "You knew I'd forgive you."

His eyebrow lifted in disbelief at the unspoken accusation. "Forgive me for what?" he asked, his voice showing the irritation he felt. "Lani, you asked me to do something I couldn't do, and then stormed out when I was honest with you about it. What exactly do I owe you an apology for?"

"For leaving me behind, for one thing," she said. "Haven't you even thought about me all the time you've been gone? You never called, you never even told me where you were going."

He ignored the question. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here. San Diego's a long way from home."

"I've got my license now," she said, tapping her purse. "Mom and Dad let me drive out here to interview at UCSD for an internship this summer."

"That doesn't explain what you're doing in this room right now, does it?"

Another soft giggle bubbled up from her strawberry lips. "Billie, all I had to do was call Lookout and ask them where your next show would be. They were only too happy to tell me!"

"And your interview just happened to be today?"

"Sometimes you have to help fate along a little." She smiled prettily, her eyes wide and doe like, and with one pink-lacquered nail, she traced the line of his jaw so lightly it felt like butterfly wings. For a split second, he felt a stirring in his chest, a familiar swell of warmth that had always spread through him whenever she touched him. Then, just as quickly, the image of her face, twisted with anger, swam into his memory.

He calmly took her hand and pulled it away from his face. "Lani, you know you shouldn't be here. Your dad would throw a freak, and besides, we're leaving in an hour or so."

The sharp knock on the door startled them both. "Not now!" Billie said firmly.

"But I need my clothes!" Tre whined from outside.

"Fine, come in and get them and get the hell out," Billie answered.

"I can't, the door's locked!" the drummer pleaded.

Billie's eyes returned to Lani's face, and though it was hard to tell in the dimness of the room, he could have sworn she was blushing. He rose, his mouth a grim line, and crossed the room to unlock the door.

"I know you were hiding out in here, but--" Tre stopped, seeing the girl kneeling beside the couch. "Uh-oh," he mumbled, "I didn't know you had a chick with you. Sorry."

"Hi, Tre," Lani said sweetly.

He squinted, trying to see who had recognized him.

"It's Lani," Billie said, his tone flat. "Can you hurry up and get your stuff?"

"Oh--sure, no problem," Tre said, and he quickly gathered the pile of discarded clothing on the floor by the mirror. "I think that's it. I'll just change in the bathroom," he said sheepishly, stumbling out into the hall. "Don't mind me!"

"You do that," Billie said, and closed the door behind him. He turned back to Lani, and reached over to switch on the lamp. Sinking down into the chair furthest from her, he leaned his elbows on his knees and regarded her silently.

"You're making me nervous," she said in a tiny voice.

"I'm not the one showing up unannounced, sneaking up on you behind locked doors, now am I?" he answered.

"I didn't want anyone to walk in on us while we were talking."

"It didn't look to me like talking was what you had in mind," he said. The irony of it all amused him--a few short weeks ago, he would have jumped at the chance to have her here with him, but now he wanted nothing more than for her to go back home.

"It's a start," she said hopefully.

"It's not going to happen, Lani. Nothing' s changed. You need to understand that." There was steel in his spine, and resolve in his voice.

"Billie, I've missed you so much. I know you didn't really mean what you said, so I decided to give us another chance. You missed me, didn't you?" She crawled toward him, back arched forward seductively. "And I know it's got to be lonely, all this traveling and those long nights with just the guys. I could make it so much nicer for you. I wouldn't be any trouble at all." Her hand touched his leg, brushed soft circles around his kneecap. She rose to her knees, leaning over his lap, and her arms circled his neck, pulling him toward her.

Her face, so close to his that he could feel the butterfly brush of her lashes on his cheek, nuzzled his temple. Fingers trailed lightly down the column of his neck to rest on his collarbone, and he shivered when her lips found the warm pulse beneath his ear. There was no sound but the rush of breath and the whisper of skin against skin.

Damn her, she was right about one thing. He had been lonely.

Struggling to fight the rising heat that was threatening to consume him, Billie tried to will himself to pull away from her. This wasn't right, the time when it could have been right had passed. But he had been so lonely, and, oh God, the honeysuckle scent of her hair silky against his chest, and his traitorous hands lifting to touch the golden strands, flowing through them. Her huge blue eyes lifted to his, her glistening lips were parting, moving to meet his own, and he was starving for her, ravenous for her luscious mouth.

His fingers fit the curve of her jaw perfectly, pulling her close to capture her kiss, and her tongue filled his mouth with the taste of summer wine. There was no space between their bodies now, pressed together and melting with the mounting passion she kindled in him. She was the lush sweetness of ripe peaches, she was the spicy scent of myrrh, she was the pounding of the ocean, and he had her in his arms, rising against him, willing, wanting him...

"I love you, Billie," she murmured, head thrown back carelessly and eyes closed in abandon.

He froze, pulling slowly away from her, senses slowly coming back to him. The furious tide that had rushed in to engulf them began to ebb, his heart slowing into its normal loping rhythm, and he looked down at her as if he had seen her for the first time.

Love? Was that what she said?

His heart sank to his shoes. What had he and his stupid fucking hormones gotten themselves into?