Vegas Boys

Two weeks passed, and Christmas was fast approaching. I was happier than I had been since I had arrived in Vegas--maybe even happier than I had ever been.

School was going well: the popular kids I used to hang out with had long since grown bored of gossiping about me and Brendon and now ignored us, at least, and classes were winding down to a close as Winter Break inched nearer.

Panic! was going well: they had written almost an album's worth of songs, Spencer told me one day, and I was coming to band practices again--I was convinced that they sounded better every time.

Things between my parents and I were going well. Dad seemed to like and trust Brendon more and more every day; he was loosening up on my curfew, and I was allowed to leave the house without his express permission during daylight hours now. I hadn't heard from Mom in a couple of weeks, but that was probably for the best; every time I spoke to her, it seemed like all she had to say were bad things about Brendon, and my resentment just built up more with every phone call. I needed some time away from her, to let my anger cool so I could forgive and forget.

And, most importantly, things between Brendon and I were going beyond well. After that strange Friday, when Spencer and Brendon had fought at lunch, because apparently Brendon was hiding things from me--ever since that night, when he had been so happy for no apparent reason, the worry and evasiveness had stopped. He was still reluctant to talk about the band, but I attributed that to modesty, or maybe lasting hurt left over from all the fights he'd had with his parents over the band. But he was never bitter or angry with me anymore, and he no longer dwelled on dark thoughts of the future. He seemed completely self-assured and just in love with life all of a sudden. He was the old Brendon again...and then some.

It seemed like everything had just fallen perfectly into place for me. I didn't understand how or why things came to be the way they were--I was just grateful for it. I was so grateful--for Dad, for Vegas. For Brendon.

-----

I swore as I got out of the car and made my way up the front walk to Brendon's apartment, hugging my heavy winter coat close against the below-freezing December air. I was in such a hurry to unlock the door and get inside that I dropped the key he'd given me twice before I finally managed to force it in the keyhole and open the door.

The apartment was still and quiet for once, and for a moment, as I shut the front door behind me, I felt out-of-place: Brendon kept at least his stereo and his TV on at all times--he was never one for silence. For a moment, my heart pounded in my ears, and I felt panic begin to roar to life inside of me as I feared the worst.

I'd been doing that a lot lately--entertaining horrible fantasies about what would happen to me if I ever lost Brendon, if he was ever hurt or killed or if he ever left. It was paranoid and ridiculous, and I sometimes thought I was truly going insane.

He meant too much. It was dangerous.

But, as I said before, I'd been having these strange bursts of hopeless fear for a few weeks now, so I was practiced at ridding myself of them. As soon as I came to my senses, it was clear to me why the apartment was quiet, anyway: the living room and kitchen area were pretty trashed--empty cups, broken guitar picks, and lots of dirty CDs and cassettes littered the entire room. Panic! at the Disco had been here.

Ryan had developed some kind of obsession with the band lately, and he had them all practicing at crazy hours, basically during any free time the four of them had together. It was obvious that Ryan was extremely intelligent and responsible--probably more so than all the other band members--so I didn't think too much about the "obsession" his bandmates told me about...at least until he dropped out of college.

Like Brendon's parents had been, Ryan's dad was extremely upset over his son's decision against school. But, like Brendon as well, Ryan would not be swayed; he was convinced that what he was doing was right, and was determined to stay his course.

Anyway, the band had most likely been here late last night to practice (they only practiced in Brendon's apartment on weekends, because the other tenants were either out getting drunk or already too drunk to notice much of anything, so none of them complained about the noise.) Brendon had called me last night, right after dinner, and had promised to come pick me up at my house at noon and take me out to lunch with him. As two o'clock came and went, and there was still no sign of Brendon, I figured I should go check on him myself.

I finally found him just where I knew I would: lying on his bed amongst a tangle of sheets, fast asleep.

I had walked into his bedroom with every intention of waking him up and making him take me out to eat like he'd promised to, but as I watched him sleep, I noticed that there were dark circles under his eyes and lines around his mouth that hadn't been there before. I knew he'd been under a lot of pressure lately, and that he must be exhausted, and he looked so peaceful that I couldn't bring myself to disturb him.

So, instead, I shut the door to his room, so as not to wake him up, and started rummaging around in his kitchen cabinets for something to eat. I found a box of flour (left over from when Ryan had come over last week and I had decided to teach the two of them how to bake cookies from scratch), and eggs and milk and butter, so I decided to make pancakes, even though it was almost three o'clock by now.

I turned on the little radio that sat back on the counter real low, and hummed along to Hootie and the Blowfish as I poured the batter onto the skillet. As the pancakes bubbled and sizzled, I looked around Brendon's kitchen bemusedly.

There were random odds and ends everywhere: pretty rocks he'd found on the ground at the park, novelty items (like a toilet-shaped ash tray--which Brendon never used, because he didn't smoke) he'd picked up who knows where, movies and CDs he'd "borrowed" from friends and never returned--and pictures. Lots of pictures.

Most of them were of him and his friends in stupid outfits, doing stupid things--Brendon was making one of his ridiculous faces in every single one he was in. There was one of Spencer pretending to be some kind of thug rapper, with aluminum foil on his teeth; there was another of Ryan with a bunch of sparkly pink and purple butterfly clips in his hair, with some kid I'd never met before hovering in the background with a glittery pink play tutu on his head.

And then there were a few pictures of us together, which I couldn't help but smile at. There was a Polaroid he had taken in my backyard, of me sitting on the little wooden board-and-rope swing we'd decided to put up in the tree one Saturday when we were bored. I was too lazy to put on any make-up that day, and my hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail with loose strands escaping to hang down about my face, and I had made Brendon promise to get rid of it because I hated that picture. But here it was, tacked up on his refrigerator door with some shitty Beavis and Butthead magnet.

I frowned at this as I started flipping the pancakes, but then forgot my irritation almost immediately as a pair of warm arms snaked their way around my waist from behind.

Before I could even jump or gasp in surprise, Brendon kissed my neck gently and whispered in my ear, "You came over and made me pancakes without even being asked? Maybe I should stay up way too late and forget to set my alarm more often."

I struggled not to giggle at the way his lips tickled my ear when he spoke, focusing instead on flipping the rest of the pancakes--he had distracted me for a moment, and now two of them were semi-blackened on one side. "What makes you so sure these are for you?" I managed as he began to trail kisses along my jawline.

"The fact that you love me and you wouldn't make my favorite breakfast food without letting me have some," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Well, I might not let you have any just to spite you for forgetting about me," I half-joked.

"I didn't forget about you," he insisted, wrapping his arms around me tighter and rocking me back and forth slightly. "I just passed out before I could set my alarm last night, so I didn't wake up in time to come get you like I said I would."

I rolled my eyes, but concern for him outweighed my annoyance. "When did you go to sleep?"

"Uh...I dunno," he mumbled, trying to seem nonchalant and failing. "About five or six."

"In the morning?!"

Brendon just grinned sheepishly as I wriggled out of his grasp and turned my back on the pancakes to fold my arms across my chest and glare disapprovingly at him. "...Yeah," he admitted.

"Brendon, you have to work today," I reminded him sternly.

"Yeah, but not until, like, five o'clock." He paused just long enough to note that I was biting my lip, like I always did when I was concerned, and then a huge smile lit up his whole face. "You can't seriously be worried about me."

"No..." I lied, avoiding his gaze. "I'm not worried, I just..." I racked my brain for a good way to deny the fact that I was obsessing over him, and then, fortunately, remembered the pancakes. He laughed at me as I turned around and flipped them again, turning off the heat on the skillet and grabbing a plate from the cabinet.

"What?" I demanded irritably.

Brendon just shook his head as his laughter finally faded into a knowing grin. "You. You're so hilarious."

I just cocked an eyebrow at him and started heaping the pancakes onto a plate.

"I mean, you're the sweetest girl I know, and yet you always try your best to seem heartless." He shook his head again. "It's like a supermodel going around in a fatsuit all the time. It's crazy."

I just stood there with the plate of pancakes in my hand for a moment, staring at him. All at once, I realized that he saw right through me, that there was no reason to even try and pretend like I didn't know what he was talking about. So I just leaned back against the counter and bit my lip again, muttering sarcastically, "I think it's called a defense mechanism."

"Really?" Brendon half-laughed, his dark eyes sparkling with amused affection. "And what exactly are you defending yourself against?"

You, came my glum internal answer, but of course I dared not voice it out loud. Instead, I just stared down at the half-burnt pancakes on the plate in my hand, ashamed. Ashamed to be so afraid of him.

He must have realized his mistake, because he was suddenly silent and when I snuck a glance at him, I saw that all the laughter had left his face--his jaw was set firmly and his dark eyebrows were pulled together over brown eyes that weren't smiling, for once. But before I could even think of anything to say or do to fix it, he moved forward and took the plate of pancakes out of my hands, setting them on the counter and pulling me into his arms.

I buried my face in his shoulder and quickly blinked away the tears before he could see them. It was so frustrating, these feelings I couldn't control--the fear my mother had instilled in me, the fear I couldn't escape, no matter how sure I was that Brendon would never hurt me. It was always there, lurking in the back of my mind, a nagging voice I could never dispel. Even when Brendon proved time and time again that he was the only one who truly cared about and understood me, I still couldn't allow myself to trust him. I still couldn't allow myself to trust a Vegas boy.

And he knew this. I knew he knew it--I knew he could see it in my eyes. But still, he never gave up on me.

I managed to stop crying as he rubbed my back and kissed the top of my head. "You know what?" he mumbled into my hair, and it was crazy how much the hint of amusement in his voice made my heart swell.

"What?" I asked quietly.

"I'm not really hungry anymore." He pulled away from me just enough to smile down at me and kiss me gently, and then he bent down and scooped me up in his arms, carrying me bridal-style into his bedroom.