Only One Bed 2/?
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Heather had been making eyes at Billy all week, kept bringing up the fourth of July party at the quarry and trailing off with a hopeful inflection in her voice, but so far he’d been playing dumb—or coy?
He wasn’t against hooking up with her, especially since, given her track record, it wouldn’t be anything more than that. And Eddie would be manning the bar, likely wouldn’t be free till midnight, so… yeah, he was leaning toward going, but it was fun letting her work for it.
“C’mon, Billy,” she said, making one last pitch as they headed to the parking lot after their opening shift on Thursday. “Everyone else is going. Stacy and Matt and Jackie… even Steve is going, and he needs us, Billy—this’ll be his first party post-breakup—”
“Break-up?” he repeated, stopping dead in his tracks a split second before the Straight Monitor in his head barked at him to keep moving.
“You didn’t hear?” She widened her eyes, the requisite sympathy undercut by titillation. “Nancy dumped him last week. Didn’t you wonder why he’s been so glum?”
“No,” Billy lied.
She giggled. “Then again, he’s always grouchy around you.”
Billy’s willingness to hook up with her dropped by about 30%.
“Yeah, well—feeling’s mutual,” he muttered.
She shook her head. “Don’t you think it’s time to put all the high school drama behind us?” she asked, as though she hadn’t been glorying in gossip mere moments ago. “Come to the party and—bury the hatchet or whatever!”
“Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes, then clarified, when she squealed and hugged him sideways, hopping in place, “I’ll go, I mean—not that I’ll… he’s still a dick.”
“Of course,” she said, in the tone of someone humoring a child. “But you’ll come?”
“Yeah.” He sighed, gently shrugged her off his arm to dig out his keys. “Want me to pick you up?”
“I’m all set for getting there,” she said, then sidled up to him as he reached for the door, key in hand, and murmured in his ear. “But I’d be up for a ride home?”
“Guess we’ll see where the night takes us,” he replied, voice low, and smirked when she couldn’t quite repress a shiver.
~~~
Eddie would’ve razzed him big time for how damn long he took primping in front of the mirror the next evening, but lucky for Billy, Eddie was downstairs pouring beer for assorted locals and bikers and local bikers.
He was in the jeans that Eddie referred to as an ass magnet—meaning both that they were for getting ass and ensuring all eyes were glued to his ass—and a white short-sleeved button-down, mostly unbuttoned, tucked in at the waist. Brown belt, brown boots with a slight heel to induce a certain swagger in his step. Nothing earth-shattering—his usual getup—but the white looked nice against his tan.
It was his hair that had been giving him grief, stubbornly refusing to cohere into curls instead of unsightly frizz, until, in a fit of frustration, he’d tied it up in a messy… bun… thing. And then, angling his chin this way and that in the mirror, struck by the sweeping curve of his neck, his jaw—sort of… elegant but… vulnerable?—he’d pawed through the vanity drawer, fished out the earring—the one with the metal spike hanging from a row of beads—and threaded it through his lobe.
Had watched it swing as he shifted his head, riveted awhile.
“Holy shit,” Eddie hollered, when Billy swung by on his way out. His gaze raked him head to toe, nothing short of delighted. “You should wear a warning, boy!”
And Billy internally paused, tripped up yet again by the vast difference between here and Cherry Lane.
“You like?” he purred, leaning cross-armed on the bar. The place was busy, but no one was currently vying for service. Eddie wiped his hands on a dishrag and mirrored him.
“Babe, if it wouldn’t mess up your pretty outfit, I’d be taking fifteen and taking you with me.”
“Smooth,” Billy pronounced, awarding credit where credit was due.
“That was, right?” Eddie hunched, peered around like phantoms lurked nearby. “I don’t know how, but when I’m working the taps, I’m a total Don Juan.”
Billy hummed, speculative. “Is that why bartenders are so sexy?”
“It’s that tap magic. Bar magic.”
“And definitely not the drunkenness.”
Eddie’s whole face lit with divine inspiration, and Billy knew a pun was imminent. “Beauty,” he intoned. “Is in the eye of the beer-holder.”
Billy thunked his head to the wood and groaned.
“How sexy am I now?” Eddie demanded.
“Significantly less,” he insisted, muffled, hiding a mile-wide smile, and heard Eddie scoff. Billy straightened, about to shove off toward the exit, when Eddie leaned forward, extending a hand, and Billy stilled.
Fingertips were warm at his sternum. Billy ducked his chin, watched as Eddie gently flipped his pendant so that Mary looked out. Their eyes locked, and Eddie stroked the back of his fingers across the skin below the necklace, conjured goosebumps easy as breathing. He withdrew, cut his gaze to a jowly patron approaching the bar.
“Have fun, man,” Eddie said, grin soft, and Billy nodded, resisted rubbing where Ed had touched, pressing it in.
~~~
The booze was flowing, bonfire high, by the time Billy rolled up to the chaos of cars at Sattler’s Quarry. Wisely parking at a distance in case he wanted a quick escape, he hoofed it down the dirt road toward the dancing shadows and silhouettes. Springsteen was growl-howling about his country of birth, and not in a complimentary way—but Billy guessed most in attendance hadn’t listened to the lyrics all that closely.
“There you are!” cried Heather, waving a beer from her perch atop one of the mismatched picnic tables carted in by enterprising delinquents past. “Finally!”
He dug a beer out of the cooler at her feet, cracked the tab, and knew by about his second pull that he wouldn’t be fucking Heather that night—she’d clearly been laying in the groundwork with Matt in Billy’s absence, and that was fine by him.
“Any close calls?” he asked the group at large, referring to the cliff, and half-listened to the impassioned recounting of so-and-so almost plummeting to his death.
Half-listened because the other half was straining toward the neighboring cluster of bodies, where Harrington was loud and swaying. Billy had clocked the guy’s whereabouts the second he arrived and hated himself for it. Refused to look his way, even as his ear followed that voice weaving through the air.
As the night wore on, he circulated among the shifting, raucous groups, catching up with old buddies from the basketball team, flirting with old flings who hadn’t taken his roaming attention too personally. Along toward eleven, someone set off fireworks—the puffy, sparky kind you could buy off road-side stands, nothing too awe-inspiring. Billy had kept a weather eye out from a distance, anticipating bone-headed injuries, but fortunately didn’t need to bring his lifeguard training to bear.
Hadn’t lost track of Harrington the whole time, which is how they never crossed paths, buffered by the repelling forcefield of Billy’s hyperawareness.
That was what people hadn’t realized, but Billy knew with certainty: that he and Harrington were magnets—no tight jeans necessary, Ed, because the magnets were in them. Were them. They were. And unless Billy kept his magnet flipped at all times, his negative pole aimed at Harrington’s, he’d go flying. Crash right into him and never want to part.
Or, inevitably: crash and keep crashing until he’d broken himself to pieces, because Billy was a realist, and Harrington was—Harrington.
So he knew it was a bad idea to go investigate when he heard the commotion by Carver’s big shiny Jeep Cherokee—Harrington’s last registered location. Knew he shouldn’t, that whatever conflict was unfolding, Harrington would be fine. But—his feet were already moving, heedless of the alarm blaring Danger, Will Robinson.
“Jason—STOP,” Chrissy cried, her pint-size form hidden by the huddle of figures all standing loose and yet tense—like the halting shift of winds before a storm. “You’re both drunk and stupid—just quit it!”
Carver did not quit it, based on his reply; the guy being likewise a pip-squeak, Billy couldn’t see him in the crowd, either. “What, I’m s’posed to take what he said lying down?”
“Yeah,” answered Harrington, obviously wasted off his face. “Or take it bending over—up to you.”
Knowing fighting words when he heard them, Billy launched himself through the inner ring of bodies in time to see Carver land a punch. Chrissy darted in front of her slavering boyfriend, arms out to stymie further blows, but Carver was too far gone to notice and clobbered her on the backswing. Chrissy went down like a bag of bricks, knelt whimpering on the ground.
“Get him out of here!” Billy shouted, grabbing Harrington by the scruff of his douchey polo—more to keep him upright than anything, since he’d made no move to defend himself. Carver’s cronies—Chance and Andy—hauled him away, and Billy reached a toward Chrissy.
“Here,” he said. “Can you stand?”
Chrissy let him lever her to her feet again as she wiped at tear-streaked cheeks with her wrist.
“Chrissy,” slurred Harrington. His glassy doe eyes were round and contrite. “’M so sorry, Chrissy—didn’t mean to—”
“Shut the fuck up, Harrington,” Billy snapped, pulling them both toward the bonfire, where waited a herd of coolers, and hopefully some ice. Harrington stumbled and then righted himself, head ducked like a naughty puppy, Billy’s fist unrelenting in his collar.
He sat Chrissy on a closed cooler and, in a moment of inspiration, kicked Harrington’s feet out from under him. The oof as he collapsed onto his ass was damn satisfying. Crouching, Billy dug up a nice icy chunk and held it out to Chrissy.
“Wrap this in your bandana and hold it where he clipped you.”
“Thanks,” she said, sniffling, and did as she was told, lifting the improvised cold-pack to her cheekbone.
“And you,” he said, yanking his other patient upright. Harrington groaned, palm pressed to his left eye. “You gonna hurl?”
“…No,” Harrington grumbled, after a quick, assessing pause.
“Then here,” Billy announced, shoving a clump of ice under his nose. “And you can freeze your eyeball solid for all I care, but if you’ve got any braincells left, I’d wrap it in your shirt or something.”
Several mincing silhouettes came rushing up to his triage station.
“Oh, my god—Chrissy!” said one—he thought her name was Judy. Maybe Trudy. “We heard what happened! Are you okay?”
“Jason just ralphed in some bushes—so gross,” cried another—Jen. Or Jess?
“He’s gonna feel so bad when he realizes what—”
“I think I want to go home,” Chrissy said, her hushed words somehow cutting through the noise.
There was an awkward pause while the assembled girls waited for someone else to volunteer to leave the party early. Such friends.
Billy closed the cooler lid.
“I’ll drive you,” he said, low. After all, Eddie would never forgive him if he let someone three sheets to the wind sail his precious Chrissy anywhere. “You, too,” he added, sharp, poking Harrington’s shoulder.
“Fine.”
“Fine,” Billy parroted, and corralled him upward ungently. Chrissy stood, aimed a quavering smile his way, and followed him to the car.
~~~
Somehow, they heaved Harrington into the cramped backseat of the Camaro. Chrissy sat prim in passenger and secured her seatbelt, because of course she did. In deference to her finer sensibilities, he stuck one of Max’s pop mixes in the tape deck and turned the volume low.
Peeling onto the dirt road, he snuck a glance at Harrington slumped against the sliver of window.
“You blow chunks in my car, Harrington, and I will kill you.”
“Fuck off.” Mumbled and mutinous.
“Nice,” Billy replied, faux-enthused, and Chrissy giggled quietly, her elbow propped on the door, still holding the icepack to her face. He glanced over just as another tear oozed down her cheek, and she swiped at it with a huff.
“Don’t know why I can’t stop—crying,” she said, abashed. “Doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“It’s just ‘cause he caught ya near the eye,” Billy explained. “It’s gonna smart awhile.”
She smiled, tremulous and grateful. “You know all this from—your job? Eddie said—” She stopped, flushing, as though unsure whether her frequent chats with one Edward Munson were safe to acknowledge out loud.
“Yep,” Billy confirmed, skating past her awkwardness. “Certified life-saver.”
“You’re… good at it,” she offered.
“What even happened?” he asked, flicking his gaze at Harrington in the rearview.
She sighed, annoyed. “It was mostly Jason being a—big jerk,” she proclaimed, puffing out her chest like she’d just used some strong language there and was damn proud of it. Billy bit his lip, stifling an amused grin. “He kept bringing up college when he knows that—” Not at all subtly, she threw a look at the drunk in the back and continued in a whisper. “When he knows that not everyone is—going and might not wanna talk about it.”
Billy raised his brows, seeing where this was going. “So Harrington said something dickish right back, and then…?”
Chrissy nodded. “Jason was really—needling him, though. About Nancy, too. You know how he gets.”
Billy did. Which begged the question:
“Why are you with him, again?” he asked. “No offense. You just seem like…” They coasted to a stop at a red light, and he looked her up and down. Chrissy stared back at him, curious to hear what she seemed. “The opposite of a big jerk.”
Her lips quirked, shyly pleased. She was just—so fucking cute. And sweet. And kind. No wonder Ed adored her. Billy swallowed hard, mentally bid farewell to his and Eddie’s—thing.
“Not for nothing, but…” He blinked away a sudden burn, stared at the red light. It turned green, and they were moving. “I know a certain guy who’s also the opposite of a jerk. Who really likes you.”
He didn’t look at her—didn’t want her to feel too… put on the spot, or whatever.
“Just—putting it out there,” he said. “As someone who’s figuring out that who I was in high school isn’t actually… who I am.”
When she spoke, her voice was wobbly. “I’m leaving. End of August.”
“I know.” He chewed on that, then shrugged. “And you’ll have to figure out who you are out there, too.” Let out a cynical snort, wry smile. “Like I did when they dragged me here.”
Chrissy was quiet the rest of the way to Harrington’s, but it wasn’t a cold quiet—more contemplative. He pulled up to the curb outside the McMansion that had hosted many a rager over the years and climbed out to lever his seat forward.
Harrington was still slumped sideways, looking worse for wear, but cobbled together enough coordination so that Billy wasn’t dragging dead weight up the walkway.
The place was locked, naturally.
“Harrington,” he said, propping him against the door. “Where are your keys?”
When all that produced was a breathy laugh, Billy made the fatal error of glaring at him—and their eyes met. Harrington’s were half closed, his head tilted back so the moon licked the line of his throat. There was a glint in his eyes—a sharpness that Billy hadn’t expected, that stole his air.
“Back pocket,” Harrington said, and then—made no move to get them.
Billy wasn’t built to resist so blatant an invitation, however ill-advised. Slowly, he slid the hand gripping Harrington’s side down, down, around. Over the speedbump of his belt, until he brushed the lip of a pocket. He hadn’t blinked, lost in the slivers of dark iris—wasn’t breathing, either, though his heart was pounding like a drum.
It was like he said—they were magnets. Billy stepped close, slipped his fingers in. Cupped the curve of his ass, cinched them flush, and there it was—Harrington’s dick hard as a post, right there, right where Billy was throbbing, separated by layers of denim and cotton that did little to mute the heat.
“Knew it,” said Harrington, one corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smirk. His lips parted again, and the shape was mean.
Billy jerked the keys free, fumbled with the deadbolt—got it right on the first try, somehow—and turned the knob. The door swung inward, and Harrington was dumped onto his pampered derrière for the second time that evening.
“You know fuck all,” Billy said. “Drink water before you crawl to bed, asshole.”
Chrissy was watching him, jaw agape, as he stomped back to the car—was still goggling at him when they pulled onto the main road.
“You live off of Mulberry, right?” he asked, faking calm.
“Did you—what just—?”
“Harrington’s one of those big jerks we talked about.” It came out tight, words squished past a clogged windpipe. “And I’ve been trying to swear off those, you know? Cold turkey. Zero tolerance. Just say no.”
“Are you… okay?” asked the girl who was gonna take his one non-jerk away from him.
“Mm-hmm.” Blinked away more burn. Breathed in, easy-easy, out easy-easy.
He was being dumb. Eddie wasn’t gonna—go anywhere, just because he had a girlfriend. He’d still be Eddie. Goofy, open-hearted Eddie. And maybe Chrissy didn’t even want to date him, maybe they were being presumptuous, maybe—
Oh, who was he kidding. If Chrissy saw even half of what Billy saw in Eddie, of course she’d want to date him—how could she not?
Because Eddie was just—he was a good person. Like, at his core. And he deserved a good person. Someone who made him happy. Like Chrissy.
By the time they drove past the laundromat, he’d talked himself around to looking on the bright side of things. Eddie was his friend. Would still be his friend. And so he drove, Chrissy indicating through murmurs and pointed fingers where to turn, until he parked in the driveway of a stately colonial.
They sat in silence. Chrissy unbuckled her seat belt and hesitated only a moment before she touched Billy’s arm. Her fingers were soft and warm.
“You sure you’re okay?” The way she asked it—like she really wanted to know the answer, and cared, threatened to undo all that hard work to regain his composure. He gulped the painful lump as it bloomed again. “You seem upset.”
Billy huffed a laugh, shook his head. “It’s nothing, just…” He closed his eyes, like that would help, and when she ran her hand down his forearm, soothing, the words came pouring out. “I think I just forgot. How nice it is when someone’s… nice to you? When someone… makes you feel good. And how it’s kinda key. To have that.”
Chrissy squeezed his arm, and he opened his eyes to find she had been infected by the waterworks.
“I think I’d forgotten, too,” she whispered.
Billy sucked his lips between his teeth and raised his brows, a silent who woulda thunk it?
She let out a giggle, faint and stuttery, tugged on his wrist, and before he knew it, she’d swindled him into a hug.
And look at that. It was nice. It made him feel good. So he mustered the will to speak once more. Seal his fate. Nail in the coffin. Other melodramatic metaphors.
“Come see him play on Tuesday?"
She withdrew enough to scan his face, and nodded.
~~~
He waited till the front door closed behind her, then backed out of the driveway, wove his way through the circuitous neighborhood.
Pulled into the parking lot of the laundromat.
Then crossed his arms over the steering wheel and had a nice, good cry.
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