Goldie (harringrove week day two: Carol Perkins’ curling iron)
--
The first time Carol and Billy met she spit a wad of gum in his hair.
It had been hilarious. Hot, even, when Billy dug his fingers through Steve’s diet coke and pulled away with two ice cubes, working the gooey lump from his pretty blonde curls like this wasn’t his first rodeo.
With a devilish, impressed smirk he declared, “I like that girl,”
Steve tried not to stare at Billy’s fingers as they fiddled with the strawberry gum. “She’s a piranha.”
“We’re gonna fuck,” Billy said, plain and simple, and popped Carol’s gum into his mouth with a pleased hum.
Tommy H., was panicked about the whole thing, especially when all Carol could talk about after that first catfight was Billy Hargrove. Malibu Barbie. The Surfer Boy, Firefly from Hell.
She always said it with a flush to her cheeks. A snap of her gum, like if she chewed hard enough she could taste him on each new stick.
Steve had never seen a friendship birthed from that kind of rivalry, except maybe their own, but Billy seemed to have that kind of affect on people. Especially girls.
It drove him crazy.
The way Billy never had to try to get everyone’s eyes on him, raking over him desperate to map every curve and valley that swam through their dirtiest dreams. And Steve had been that way once, too, but.
Billy was different.
Effortlessly alluring and beautiful.
Steve did backflips to try and get his attention. To keep that fiery blue on him, and Carol was the first to notice.
“He’s a bitch,” She told Steve one night, last month, after he drank a little too much trying to beat Billy’s keg stand and then drank a little more to forget the memory of Billy kissing Heather Duke.
Carol held Steve’s hair for him, that night, muttering, “He’s a slutty little fucking shitty fucker bitch.”
“He looks like Goldilocks,” Steve had whined, ”He’s so beautiful, I love him,” and everything went black.
Carol doesn’t feel the way she used to about Malibu Barbie. They’re friends, now, which makes things a hell of a lot more difficult for Steve. And, obviously, it’s about him. Everything’s about him.
Things come back around.
Steve feels better than he did last year. More in control. It’s Hawkin’s High’s annual Who’s Who Halloween bash, and even Keith made the cut this year, dressed at C-3P0, which is a testament how dire the situation is now that Steve’s graduated, but it’s not a coincidence.
None of it is a coincidence.
The Camaro rolls to a thundering stop out front and Billy steps out in a fucking Goldilocks costume, and--
Steve sucks a glob of flat beer up his windpipe and down his nose, because Carol’s laughing.
Steve glares at her, snatching the napkin she offers with her lips coiled like a stale licorice whip. “What did you say to him?” He snarls.
Billy’s surrounded by girls. And guys. Just a whole crowd of drunk, horny country bumpkins who can’t think with his thighs encased in white nylon like that, and.
“Did you tell him?” Steve demands.
“Tell him what?”
“You know what I’m talking about,”
“I dunno what you mean, Stevie,” Carol bats her eyelashes at him, witch hat falling to the side. She snaps a piece of gum Steve doesn’t remember her chewing.
The sea of assholes part, and Billy spots them, and. “Harrington!” He calls, happy and loose.
Steve grips the witch bitch next to him, “He’s wearing lip gloss,”
“I helped.”
“Perks, he’s wearing mascara--”
“He’s Goldilocks,” Carol tells him smugly. She falls quiet, stepping aside to let Steve look his fill “Isn’t he a Betty?” She asks, and.
And.
Steve’s never been so hard in his life. He doesn’t register the people around Billy, or the way everyone’s tugging on his curls and watching his ass as he walks toward the porch, because it doesn’t matter.
Billy’s a vision.
Everything Steve never knew he desired, rolled into one funny, smart, beautiful package.
Billy laughs, giving Lonnie Clark a high five and the cup of his bodice straining deliciously against his chest. He fiddles with his headband when Heather Duke tries to play keep-away. Says goodbye to his Fanclub as he tries to get closer. Billy looks at Steve with worried, impatient eyes. Waves, with a little, “Gimmie a sec, I wanna talk to Steve,” to the girl who won’t step off, and that’s it.
A line of the hottest people in Hawkins could be on their knees, mouths open, waiting to suck Billy’s dick right now and Steve wouldn’t be jealous.
Because Billy wants to see him.
He’s making a beeline for the front porch, eyes scanning Steve from head to toe. His hips sway in that little yellow skirt, and despite the nylon Steve can see something moving.
Something straining, a little.
“Holy hell,” Steve rasps. He can’t breathe. His lungs don’t work, his throat is swollen shut.
“See something you like, Hair Bear?” Carol scrapes his cheek with her nails and Steve finishes his drink, tossing the cup onto the lawn to grab Carol Perkins and tickle the shit out of her.
Carol swats at him, giggling all bright and panicked. “I can feel your hard on, you freak!”
“Carol,” Steve hisses, and then Billy’s there.
“Hey, hey, leave my girl alone!” He chuckles, and. Pressing close to get his arms around Perkins, Billy manhandles their very own Evil Cheerleader to the side her so Steve can’t finish what he started.
Without 90 pounds of meddling redhead in the way, Billy stares at him. His eyes burn from the furry neckline of Steve’s costume, all the way down to his sneakers and back again.
Billy smirks, tongue wagging between his cherry red lips. “What the fuck are you supposed to be, Harrington?”
“Carol picked it out,” Steve puffs his chest, suddenly defensive, when Billy frowns at him. “I’m a teddy bear.”
“Bullshit,” Carol howls, smoking a joint someone handed her on their way into the house. “He’s mama bear!”
Billy’s eyes widen. He looks down at himself, cataloguing the vee of his hips, before scowling. “Perkins, you little shithole.”
“What’d I do?”
“Yeah, Hargrove, what’d she do?” Steve deadpans, only a little guilty for liking the angry pink flush that covers Billy’s tits.
It’s not very often the guy gets upset, not where anyone can see.
Billy’s eyes flash for a moment and then it’s gone, replaced with sharp humor as he slings an arm around Carol’s shoulders. “Nothing, teapot,” He kisses her forehead, never once taking his eyes off Steve. “You just wanted Mama and Daddy to get along, right?”
“Right,” Carol whimpers pathetically, smirking up at Steve from the protective pit of Billy’s arm.
Billy’s tongue wags. Steve wants to suck it. Bite it off, maybe, “Don’t worry, Perks, Mommy and Daddy are just fine.” Billy lightly pats her ass, with a little, “Ain’t that right, mommy?”
And it’s just unfortunate.
Absolutely heinous that Steve’s dick, graciously hidden by the fur suit Carol had to wrestle him into, fills out.
It chubs. Throbs. Weeps, a little, When Billy takes the joint that’s handed to him and says, “Come find me later, Mommy.” Before disappearing through the front door.
--
Steve does a couple of keg stands. Takes a shot off Veronica Lee. Smokes a blunt with Keith in the backyard and loses track of Goldilocks, somewhere between wishing he could pull Billy upstairs now and forgetting that he’s supposed to.
Steve’s playing with Carol’s cat when someone pats his shoulder.
“’Mm busy,” Steve tells them, giggling when the cat nibbles softly at his index finger. “If you wanna play with Arugula, you better hop the fuck in line and then die in line waiting because I’m playing with Arugula, we’re best friends and she loves me and I’m not moving, you fucker--”
The hand on his shoulder starts rubbing, fingers toying with the curls at the base of Steve’s neck.
He swallows, resolute. “She’s so soft, she’s like a cloud of marshmallows and cotton and cotton landy--”
“Candy, pretty boy.”
Steve cranes his head, laughing when it lands on Billy’s shoulder and he’s right there, pressed tight against him, watching with plush, smiling lips as Steve pets Arugula.
“Billy!” Steve shouts. “I’ve been missing you so much.”
Billy leans away a little, and then comes back again, grinning down at the head on his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, we were supposed to go someplace, right?”
Billy combs the hair off Steve’s forehead. “Yeah, upstairs. I’ve been looking all over for you, where have you been?”
“Here,” Steve says, gasping when Arugula climbs into his lap. She’s an angel. She’s Steve’s best friend. He cries out, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Please don’t make me go. I don’t wanna go. You can’t make me, you’re gonna have to kill me.”
“Jesus Christ, how much have you had?”
“Enough to forget that I’m allergic to cats.”
Billy freezes. “How allergic,” He demands.
When Steve doesn’t say anything, Billy crawls to the front. “Steve--” He begins heavily, and Steve clutches Arugula to his chest, worried that Billy’s going to try and snatch her away.
Billy frowns, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with something secret, not quite mixed in so it’s grainy and raw.
He climbs to his feet, hand outstretched for Steve to take. When he doesn’t, Billy grins. “C’mon, pretty boy,”
Steve shakes his head. “I wanna stay here with Arugula.”
“You can come back to Arugula, you just have to take some allergy medicine so you don’t, fucking, die or something.”
Steve shakes his head, and the cat hops out of his arms.
He glances around, shocked.
Billy’s smiling. “See, baby, she wants to go shit in her box.”
That makes sense. Steve nods, like, “I think I might need to shit in my own box, soon.”
Billy laughs. Steve wants to catch it in his hands, keep it in a jar next to his bed. “I can take you to the bathroom,” Billy says, holding out his hand. “Do you trust me?”
Steve considers it and takes Billy’s hand, squawking out a laugh when he goes easy like an untethered air balloon, knocking into Billy’s chest.
“Woah, I gotcha,” Billy says gently, and Steve loves him.
“I love you,” Steve says. When Billy’s cheeks get all pink, Steve touches them, squishes them between two fingers. “I love you so much, you’re so pretty.”
“Thanks.”
“You hair is curlier than usual,” Steve says, confused. “How?”
Billy shrugs, clearly embarrassed. “Carol helped me curl it.”
Steve wraps one around his finger and watches it bounce free. “Pretty,” He says, smiling at Billy’s open, confused mouth. “I’m gonna throw up,” He declares.
--
Steve rinses his mouth in the sink and stares at Carol’s curling iron, wrapped and corded in its little basket.
He’s floating. Billy’s hand is between his shoulder blades rubbing soft, smooth circles, and.
Steve doesn’t remember how he got here.
Billy’s telling him a story about California because Steve retched for so long his stomach liner is probably at the water plant, now, but his head feels more clear.
He wipes his mouth. Watches Billy’s in the mirror. Knows, with ringing clarity, what he wants. Has always wanted. Billy laughs at something and Steve’s heart cracks open.
“You’re so different than I thought you’d be,” Steve says says.
Billy stops cold in his tracks.
Steve. Can’t feel his lips. His face. “You’re the best person I’ve ever known, Billy,” He says, “You’re so good. You’re perfect.”
Billy snorts, cheeks bright red. “You’re drunk.”
“Yeah.” Steve admits. “Can I kiss you.”
Billy stares at him. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Finally, after a million years, he blinks. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“I can’t kiss you when you’re drunk, Steve.”
Steve tuns, hips pressed tightly against the marble sink. “Why not?”
“Because,” Billy starts. He fiddles with the hem of his skirt, refusing to look up. To face it. “Because I’m dressed like Goldilocks. Because you’re wired and it wouldn’t be right. It’d be me, taking advantage of someone I love, and you might regret it.”
Steve frowns. “I won’t.”
“But you might,” Billy tells the linoleum. “And when I kiss you for the first time I want it to be because we couldn’t stop it. Because it was killing us not to. Because we want it so bad the sun might light us on fire.”
Steve takes one step forward. Then another, and another still until Billy’s looking at him, his jaw nestled in Steve’s palm.
He holds steady. Keeps those eyes on him.
“You sleeping over tonight?” Steve asks, knowing Carol had asked them both.
Billy nods. Wets his lips.
“Tomorrow,” Steve tells him.