Vegas Boys

If my life had been some overly-dramatic romantic comedy, Brendon probably would have been spilling his guts about how much we were made for each other and how happy he was I picked him as we slid into the beat-up car he’d bought from his grandma a year ago. But my life was not a movie, it was simply my life, and so, as he jammed the key in the ignition and coaxed the car to life, all Brendon said was, "It’s ten o’clock."

"What an astute observation, Sherlock."

"No," laughed Brendon, "I mean it’s early. As in, we can’t go home yet."

"I don’t think my dad would have a problem with me coming home early."

"Well, I would," he said seriously. "I mean, while I’ve got you here, I might as well hold you captive for as long as possible, right?"

I raised my eyebrows at him, studying his face as we left the school parking lot behind--but, with all the make-up it was covered with, it was a lost cause.

"What is your costume, anyway?" I asked.

Brendon laughed. "I don’t really know. I found this suit and gloves out in my garage, and then after band practice Ryan did my make-up. I did have a big furry top hat, but I got hot, so I took it off."

"You’re always hot, sweetheart." I winked at him, struggling to suppress a giggle.

He grinned, puffing out his chest cheekily--the buttons in his jacket seemed to strain under the force. "Yeah, I know, right?"

We carried on a random conversation I probably couldn’t have explained to you even at the time for another ten or fifteen minutes before I looked around and didn’t recognize my darkened surroundings. "Where are we going?" I asked suddenly.

"Seven Eleven," replied Brendon exasperatedly, as if it should have been obvious. "Where else?"

It wasn’t until he had already parked the car out in front of the Seven Eleven and we had almost reached the automatic doors that I remembered our costumes and stopped in my tracks.

Under all his make-up, Brendon frowned at me. "What?"

I raised my eyebrows at him and gestured down at my Sally outfit.

"So?"

"So, we look like freaks!" I said emphatically.

"Hey, this is Vegas," he laughed. "We’re used to freaks here. Plus, it’s Halloween. You’re supposed to look weird."

So we went inside and got some Slurpees, and I was surprised to find that no one even seemed to notice us--not even when Brendon batted his painted-on eyelashes at the burly, extensively-tatooedforeigner at the register.

We were laughing as we got back into his car, and we just sat there for a long time, sucking on our Slurpees. After a while, Brendon said apologetically, "I would turn on the car, so we could have some tunage, but it would probably die…"

"That’s okay," I laughed. "I’d rather be tunage-less than car-less."

He nodded in agreement, then started and said excitedly, "Or, I know! I’ll be the music!"

I rolled my eyes at him. "Oh, God…"

"No, seriously." He saw the look on my face and laughed. "What do you want to hear?"

"I don’t know." I was trying not to look at him so I wouldn’t laugh--I didn’t really want to encourage this.

"If you don’t tell me something, I’ll pick for you," he insisted.

"Brendon--"

"Hello there--"

"Brendon!"

He just raised his voice to sing over me: "The angel from my nightmare…the shadow in the background of the morgue…"

I stopped protesting and just listened for a minute. At first, he’d really just been shouting, playfully; he hadn’t been serious. As he went on, his voice rang out strong and clear with a hint of vibrato--his true singing voice.

"The unsuspecting victim…of darkness in the valley, we can live like Jack and Sally if we want…" He paused and grinned at me, curled up in the passenger’s seat of his car with a blue Slurpee, in my outfit.

"And you can always find me…"

"And we’ll have Halloween on Christmas," I chimed in, a little embarrassed because my own voice paled in comparison to his. "And in the night, we’ll wish this never ends…we’ll wish this never ends…"

We both stopped singing, as if following some silent cue, and Brendon put down his Slurpee as he gave me a soft little smile. We just sat there looking at each other for a long time before I finally scraped up the guts to say, "You have a really pretty voice."

He laughed a little--it was a pleasant sound, but a humorless one. "You have a really pretty face."

I blushed at that, and was glad it was dark as I looked down in my lap.

It was quiet for a little while longer. Then Brendon cleared his throat and said uncertainly, "Um…Kelsey?"

I looked up at him again. "Yeah?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and I noticed, in the sickly glow of the lit-up Seven Eleven sign, that he looked kind of embarrassed. "Did you…I mean, did you mean what you said…back there in the parking lot?"

"…What do you mean?" I asked, frowning in confusion.

"I mean, when you said…when you called me your boyfriend." He’d been avoiding my gaze sheepishly, but as he said this last part, his dark eyes locked with mine and there was an intensity there, a pleading question.

For a split second I wondered why he had waited so long to ask--but as time passed and I got to know him more, I would realize with time that this was just Brendon’s way: he liked to precede all things serious with some joke time. But then I was replying, earnestly, without even having to think, "Yes. Of course I meant it."

He just blinked at me with those long lashes--the real ones and the painted-on ones. His expression was of blank shock. "Really?"

I half-laughed. "Yeah, really."

And then, before I even knew what was happening, he was leaning towards me and cupping my face in his still-gloved hands, and then his lips were on mine and my heart was up in my throat and my stomach was down near my pelvis somewhere, and butterflies were overrunning the rest of my insides. It seemed like we were kissing for a long time--and yet, when he finally pulled away, it had ended too soon.

We sat there staring blankly at each other for another minute and then I felt a shy smile creeping across my face at the same time I noticed his. Then Brendon bit his lip and laughed, his dark eyes smiling at me affectionately.

"What?" I demanded, laughing because his smile was contagious.

He grinned wryly and shifted closer to me. "You taste like blueberries."

"Blueberries?" I raised my eyebrows sarcastically at him, rattling the bright blue contents of the plastic cup in my hand. "Really?"

I had hardly uttered the words when he leaned over and kissed me again, our knees bumping together and his gloves, which he had taken off since the first time he kissed me, falling to the dirty car floor. He broke off the kiss again and smiled, pushing a strand of my temporarily-dyed-black hair behind one ear.

"Yep," said Brendon seriously, "definitely blueberries."

-----

By the time we had finished our Slurpees and our very first make-out session, I had less than twenty minutes left before curfew, and Brendon finally relented and started driving towards home. My heart was thudding so violently in my chest that I wondered more than once if it was drowning out the dumb N*Sync song on the radio. I had never felt so blithely overjoyed in my life--and to think that I’d been fighting this for so long, that I could have had this four whole months ago, and refused.

But I was too happy to be upset, even with myself, for very long. All it took was a glance at Brendon to send the butterflies in my stomach into an enthusiastic round of gymnastics, and a moment later my heart and stomach and other vital organs would join in. I literally felt weightless--I thought, that night, that I could do anything, that nothing could ever hurt me--least of all Brendon.

When we finally got to our neighborhood, we had driven around the block in a circle four times before I noticed. Brendon grinned sheepishly and squeezed my hand, explaining, "Well, we’ve still got six minutes left, and I don’t want to give you up yet."

I had to fight not to smile at him too much--my face was starting to hurt.

We drove around the block three more times, and then, at 10:58, Brendon finally sighed his resignation and pulled into my driveway. He was still holding my hand, and I wondered for a moment if he would ever let go.

"Well…" he started, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly with his free hand. "Even though we just hung out in my car out in front of the Seven Eleven, this was the best night I’ve had in a while. And when I say ‘a while,’ I mean about eighteen years. And, as Ryan so delicately pointed out when you met him, I’m not even eighteen yet."

I laughed. "I had a really good time too. And I’m glad you’re not mad at me." My cheeks suddenly burned and I mentally berated myself for reminding him to hold something against me--How stupid can you get, Kelsey?

But Brendon was still his old happy-go-lucky self, and he laughed it off. "I could never be mad at you," he said seriously.

I smiled shyly at him as he leaned over and kissed my lips, then again on my cheeks, and my nose. Reluctantly, I opened the car door and started to get out--it took a while, because he kept adding afterthought kisses, and how was I supposed to walk away from that?

"Do you want me to walk you in?" asked Brendon concernedly, leaning over into the passenger’s seat when I was finally out of the car.

"No, that’s okay. Call me."

He saluted. "Will do."

I rolled my eyes at him. "You’re a dork."

"But I’m your dork." He smiled cheesily at me as I said goodbye and shut the car door.

As I reached the front door, I turned and watched his car pull out of my driveway…and back up, and turn right back into his driveway, which was only separated from mine by about two feet of grass. He parked the car and got out, laughing. "I forgot I live right next door to you!"

I rolled my eyes at him, again, and turned to go inside. As I pushed my front door open, he called, "Goodnight, Kelsey."

I smiled affectionately at him. "Goodnight, Brendon."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

"I’ll see you tomorrow."

"Okay."

"…Kelsey?"

I glanced back at him questioningly. "Yes?"

"Goodnight."

I just smiled at him and went inside.