InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Oh my God... I'm a Chav!"

Billie Lennox (_neon) wrote in cali_sl_rp,
@ 2008-10-18 20:55:00

Current mood:

curious

Who: Eddie & Billie
Where: Malibu; random bar

Billie was too pale to be mistaken for a native. The faint blush of sunburn creeping along her bare legs hinted at failed attempts to be just another bronzed beach bunny whose only religion involved worshiping the sun. Dark, almost chocolate brown roots peeked through the ropey strands of dyed blonde hair plastered wetly to her head. It read too much suicide girl, not enough California girl. She’d come in to seek refuge from the rain and wind beating down the pacific coastline, had dove into the bar through a curtain of it. She looked like a drowned rat, but didn’t seem to be aware of it. Leaning over the welcome mat, she grabbed fistfuls of her hair, twisting out the water before pushing it back from her face. Cutting across the room towards the bar, legs went a bit bow-legged as long, delicate fingers picked at the cotton shorts clinging to the inside of her thighs and the backs of them, her footfalls high and a bit exaggerated to quell the disgusting squish of her feet clinging to the foamy instep of her flip-flops. It would have been comical, but irritation flashed in her eyes, causing them to darken like the storm raging outside, and she dragged herself up on a barstool.

The oversized, Pepperdine University sweatshirt was doing more harm than good, but Billie refused to take it off. Instead, she yanked on the sleeves and wrung them out atop the bar. She noticed the way the rainwater moved south, running in rivulets towards the only other schmuck stupid enough to go out in this weather, saw them hit the edge of the cardboard coaster wedged beneath his glass, but didn’t apologize. Not when he looked up at her from beneath the bill of his Yankees hat and moved his drink away, not when the bartender rolled his eyes and slapped down a dry towel in a not-so-subtle hint to clean it up. “Fuck. Thanks, dude. I needed this”, whether it was done deliberately, Billie confused the intention of the small bar towel and quickly went to work. Picking it up, she twisted her body to the side to dry off her legs, then stood up and bent over; shaking her head back and forth wildly before wrapping the towel around the damp hair, turban style. Instead of sliding back onto her seat, she glanced back at Mr. Baseball, and walked to his side of the bar. Didn’t need an invite, but then again, a girl like herself never waited for one; and slid right down beside him, watched him grab the bottle of Jameson whiskey and tilt it down, pouring some into his empty glass. Just as he was about to polish off the last precious drops, her hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist.

“Whoooa there, mister. Are you really gonna finish that off, not even bother to offer me some, the only other person in this bar? I heard New Yorkers are rude, but that doesn’t mean you have to prove it.” The accent in her voice wasn’t local. East Coast lingered heavily, dragging certain vowels out, hinting at a hometown where loving the Red Sox wasn’t a choice – it was law, and wearing a Yankees hat like his in a neighborhood bar could be considered just cause for a few broken bones and some shiners to match. Billie reached forward with her other hand, tipping back the brim of his hat until she saw his eyes, so he could see the expectant look, the impish grin on her face. Remnants of smudged black liner clung to the corners of her hazel gaze and mascara made spider webs of her lashes. Even with the make-up, she looked young. Coulda been twenty-one, yes, but looked more like eighteen, tops.

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_grifter
2008-10-19 12:20 am UTC (link)

The steady flood of booze in his veins didn't roar as loudly as the streets outside, and he didn't try to match it. The rain trapped him inside the bar and he didn't mind much, figured he'd wait out the storm and make a break for it once it let up. But he chose whiskey over his typical two- or three-beer limit and hoped he'd be drunk before he realized it, before he could feel shame or disgust for it. He kept his hat pulled low so as not to catch his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar, made noncommittal grunts to the bartender's attempts at casual conversation. "Yankees didn't make it in the series this year." "No shit."

The white noise of storm sheared through the open door and Eddie glanced back over his shoulder, following the bartender's gaze to whatever unfortunate, weather-beaten soul had blown in off the streets. The girl brought the ocean with her, soaked with it so thoroughly that Eddie thought, if he could smell anything but the whiskey fumes on his breath, he'd be breathing in her salt-water scent. He picked up his glass as the bartender grumbled and swiped a dry towel over the bar, mopping up the girl's carelessness. Eddie caught her eye a split second before she got up off her barstool and thought, she comes over here and the first words outta her mouth are, "I'm an actress", I'm fuckin' outta here.

Was it just that he was half in the bag tonight, or did she have an irritating way of dropping her R's when she spoke? Worse than another goddamn actress in this town; there was no mistaking that particular offense to the English language. He snorted in disbelief, then jerked his head back at the unexpected reach of her hand, cruising past boundaries as if she couldn't read the road signs when she went for his hat. He tugged it back down firmly, shadowing his eyes, puffy and bruised from lack of sleep or too much to drink and not quite up to the task of refocusing in a sudden spill of light. "You fuckin' kidding me? What are you, freshman in college? Tommy, you gonna check her ID or what." He smirked, hovering out of her reach for his next sip of whiskey. He set it back down and waved a hand as if to dismiss her. "Long way from Harvard, aren't ya?" He dragged the word through the mud, dropping the r's in a vicious imitation of the Boston accent -- Hahh-vahhd.

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_neon
2008-10-19 01:01 am UTC (link)

When he yanked his hand back, she merely shrugged it off, not really surprised at the abrupt reaction. It was that way with most people. Billie made them uncomfortable and twitchy, like an allergy they couldn't find a remedy for. Reaching beneath her sweatshirt, out came a small canvas bag and she unzipped it, turning it upside down and shaking it roughly, its guts went spilling across the bar over into Mr. New York's personal space like unwelcome, mismatched pieces to a board game. Half-used tubes of lipstick knocked against uncapped ball point pens, sent them flying into a clear pink lighter that nearly went sailing off the pockmarked wood until her hand snatched it up. "Gotcha", said to herself as she continued to paw through her stuff, eyes narrowing in concentration, 'til she finally found the lone Marlboro.

If it looked like she was ignoring him it was because well, for the most part, she was. Billie expected some version of an acidic retort. Maybe a dig at her appearance, at an accent that no matter how hard she tried tranquilize it, got its teeth into the English language and gutted it through and through. But she didn't care, would gladly tell this schmuck to go -- pahk his cah -- any day. So when he delivered, all he got in return was part of a cool smirk curling around the cigarette she screwed between her lips, the lighter flaring up to catch the end of it. "Oh yeah, wise guy?" -- emphasis on the wise -- "What're you doing here? Sopranos went off the air like, over a year ego, so you're a little late for the extra auditions."

She took a long hit, exhaled slow, identical streams of smoke from her nostrils, and then promptly put the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. "Tommy knows better than to check my ID. He doesn't want to think I'm less than 18. Cause ya know, that shit's illegal." Reaching for the bottle, she tilted her head back, throat working to gulp down the rest of it. To Billie's credit, she didn't choke on it. Her eyes didn't well up with whiskey induced tears, didn't even cough as she set it back down. Instead, she moved her body closer to him, reaching over him to snatch up a nearly empty, foiled container of gum. Popping a piece in her mouth she wrinkled her nose, answering a question, he probably didn't give a fuck about. "Nicorette. Nasty stuff." Leaning back in the bar stool, she measured him in a long, slow glance. Took in the stubble, the shot of blood running through his eyes. "You're a mess. Lemme guess. Women troubles."

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_grifter
2008-10-19 02:15 am UTC (link)

Brows shot up as pieces of her life hit the bar and scattered near his elbow, obscene like secrets spilling out in front of strangers. Glancing at the mess made him feel like some sort of pervert, though the items were innocent, practical enough. His mouth twisted into a scowl, hunching over his drink again to discourage further interaction -- she shifted gears and decided to ignore him now? Fine. He'd survive. But once she finally came up with her nicotine fix, she was back in the game, countering his smart-ass comments with her own -- flicking them his way with the precision and weightlessness of throwing darts at a dartboard.

He found that he couldn't do a goddamn thing about her audacity except let out a long sigh, let her walk all over him in under two seconds flat. Motivation fled the scene somewhere between his first and last drink; all he could do was spread his hands, palms up, gesturing at the blatant lack of shame. "What the fuck is this. You see that?" He asked the bartender, who shrugged. He shot her a look, didn't lean or cooperate with her sudden reach across him when she went for the gum. Just sat there, seething quietly, trying not to let some ballsy fuckin' teenage waif crawl under his skin. Already he could feel the itch, though. Something familiar about it made him suddenly fear an addiction.

"Tom, can I get a Heineken?" He glanced at the girl again, the sopping sweatshirt hanging off of her frame, the rogue strands of hair that hadn't been swept up into the bar-towel beehive on her head. Looked like he gave it some thought, let a slow breath out through his nose, jerked his thumb at her. "Set her up, too." Bartender left them with two beers and moved along, judging the misplaced compassion on Eddie's part as a request for privacy. Eddie swallowed a gulp from his bottle and raised his eyebrows again. "Gee, thanks. You look like a million bucks yourself. Daddy cut you off or somethin'? Or is this some kinda... Spring Break castaway look you're going for here." Under the brim of the baseball cap, another smirk, but this time it looked more up to the challenge, getting a feel for the interaction. "What, you polish off my booze and now you know me or somethin'?"

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_neon
2008-10-19 02:46 am UTC (link)

Opening the canvas tote, she tipped it towards the edge of the bar, and one clean motion, her life was swept away, zipped up and tossed carelessly on top of the bar. Glancing over her shoulder at the window, all she saw was muddled images from outside; the world was drowning and here she was, stuck underwater in the middle of it all, with no oxygen tank or lifeline to drag her back to the surface. It made Billie sigh in a way that could only be described as overly dramatic, her eyes darting regretfully towards the dead, mashed up cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. Her jaw visibly clenched, then pulsed erratically as it viciously chewed away at the gum.

Everything about the guy was hostile. It was the 'leave me the fuck alone' stare he gave her every time their eyes accidentally collided, the way he was hunched beneath his flannel shirt. Billie could almost see the muscles around his neck and shoulders jumping around, coiled up, ready to spring and tear apart like rubber bands. So he was stressed, highly agitated and pissed off about something. Logic should have told her to lay off, quit nagging him, or at the very least politely put a buffer chair between them. But logic, in her mind was deeply flawed. It never did you any good, never made things any better. Or more fun. So she went with instinct, allowed the flare of heat in her stomach when he glanced her way to guide her.

The smile she gave him wasn't grateful, but surprised, and she patted down her sweatshirt, mumbling quietly. "I thought I had like, three dollars." To pay him back? Hardly. "Because I am really regretting putting that smoke out." The green bottle Tommy slid her was snatched up, thought her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Heineken. Hm. Mister, that explains sooo much." She toasted him even as he fired at will, and his comments caused a trickle of laughter to escape. "Spring Break. This your way of enticing me into a wet t-shirt contest? Don't bother, I don't have a t-shirt on underneath this." Another swig and then she did the unthinkable, repositioned herself to scoot even closer to him, eyes slanting to look at him again. The tip of her tongue escaped while she sized him up, going quiet for a few seconds.

"I know that you have amazing taste in whiskey, and shitty taste in beer. I know you well enough. And you didn't deny the woman troubles, so now I know that some girl has your nuts in a vice." A pause, as a brow quirked. "Or is it your heart? I know, so cliche, but I'm a sucker for doomed relationships. I just left one myself." Sighing again as she took another sip. "You ever been with someone, and the fucking is so good you claim temporary insanity?"

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_grifter
2008-10-19 03:37 am UTC (link)

"And would you lay off this 'Mister' shit? It's Eddie. You got a problem with Heineken, I don't know what to tell you. Take it or leave it." He felt some of the hostility melt off like a layer of ice when she laughed. Though the goal tonight was to drink enough to dull his senses, maybe turn his head into a vacant lot until morning, the next look over in her direction started up rusted machinery behind his bloodshot blue eyes. Details and body language registered on his radar again, and fuck, he could interpret, as though the instinct had never left him. It stayed with him after all, despite his attempts to leave it crippled and dying in the streets of New York. He read it in her laugh, in the way she crinkled her nose, in the wasted cigarette she left in the ashtray; her attention, however temporary, was genuine. Narrowing its scope on him. Beyond that, her motives eluded him, and he made the mistake of guessing that, at her age? She didn't have any.

He watched her eyes move over his face, feeling calm and confident that she wouldn't find answers or clues, if she had any idea of what she was looking for in the first place. His amazing taste in whiskey and shitty taste in beer? It could tell her a story, maybe, if she knew how to read it. Could tell her that shitty beer was just another way to slow himself down and keep the beverage consumption to a minimum. He took another sip and furrowed his brows beneath the ball cap, fielding her words as best he could in his condition... Hell, even sober, it would be some task. "Really. I'm talkin' to a self-proclaimed sucker for doomed relationships. Sounds like my kinda girl." He raised his bottle to her this time, then took a drink. The last observation floored him, and he gave her another disapproving look that all but asked, Where the fuck do you come up with this shit? "No. Can't say that I have. You uh, you wanna tell me what that's like?" He snorted softly and grinned, baiting her. Not actually expecting a play-by-play.

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_neon
2008-10-19 12:23 pm UTC (link)

When she leaned in towards him, she caught a whiff of everything. The scent of stale liquor mingled with his desperation to drink his troubles away, the need to forget whatever drove him here to begin with. It wasn't unattractive. If anything it was the opposite; the way he made it so crystal fucking clear he was in here for a very specific reason, but denied it in the same breath. She was center stage in her own life story, and just like the tragic hero, Billie's virtues were the source of her undoing. She could never build a solid home, because it was her own feet that constantly trampled and tore it apart. Eddie made her curiosity soar, caused a shiver to crab walk itself down her spine as she felt said 'virtue' fly off the charts.

His grin completely bowled her over. It was exquisite and sucked her down like quicksand. The beer bottle against her lips quelled another smile and for a few brief moments, she fantasized about making this man the starring role in her next failed relationship. Billie ignored the disapproving look he gave her, and forged ahead anyway; the way a kid sticks their hand in an off-limits cookie jar in front of a parent. Sure she may have her hand slapped, but she'd bet those missing three dollars (and then some), it'd be well worth it. Setting the bottled down, she delicately wiped at her mouth before resting her elbows on the bar.

"Well Mister Eddie, you're missing out, you really are. It's like -- ", she paused a disapproving look flashing in her eyes now as hand shot out, snatching the Yankees cap off his head before carelessly tossing it behind her. "Much better." Clearing her throat, Billie continued, wrinkling her nose, thinking of how to describe something that should never just be put into words. "It's like someone pushing all of your buttons at once, except they refuse to let up. They keep going and going and you wanna beg 'em to stop..." Pressing her lips together, Billie leaned into Eddie's space just enough to skirt the line between intimacy and discomfort, lowering her voice. "But you know you'd curl up and die if they did. You'd rather go crazy then stop feeling the way you do. And if the fucking is done right", a shrug. "Then you will. Temporarily of course."

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_grifter
2008-10-20 02:13 am UTC (link)

His mouth dropped open to choose a few words about the trajectory of the faded navy-blue cap over her shoulder, but she cut him off with her reevaluation. What exactly did she find "much better" about his appearance, sans ball cap? The flattened hat-hair? Or the pissed-off expression, now a total sum of its parts -- the way he held his mouth when he tasted ammunition, the kinetic energy coiled there in a tight spring of Brooklyn-edged verbosity. He hoped it had nothing to do with the light hitting him now, dragging his self-loathing out of the shadows it preferred and putting it on display. She may have been the only one in the audience, but she had a seat, front-row center, for the show.

The girl leaned in as close as she dared and Eddie kept still in his obvious discomfort, turning his face carefully to hers, only inches away. “And if the fucking is done right, then you will.” It was so beautifully vulgar, the way she shrugged her shoulders when those words hit the air. Like if there was a more delicate way to put it, she didn’t know, and wouldn’t opt for it anyway. The rain had revived the scent of her shampoo and he inhaled, felt that shame and disgust kick him in the ribs again, but he didn’t obey. Blue eyes narrowed a bit, almost crossed themselves, too close to focus properly on her features. He wanted an error in judgment, to slip just one notch lower than he’d already fallen, to close that last breath of space between their lips and steal the brutal honesty off her tongue. Wondered if it would burn more than the whiskey, or if it could possibly get him any drunker. His fingers curled around her chin and he plastered his mouth over hers, a kiss too heated to be executed with style or savvy. It fell off her lips as he pushed himself off of the barstool in the same motion, on his feet now, shooting her a look of pure accusation as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket and tossed a few creased bills on the bar to cover his tab.

“Quit serving alcohol to minors, Tommy.” His beloved Yankees cap was forgotten now as he tugged the hood of his jacket up over his head, turned and headed out the front door, hitching his shoulders up to fend off pounding beads of rain as he hit the pavement.

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_neon
2008-10-20 03:31 am UTC (link)

She could tell he was out of his element when she moved on in, crashing past his boundaries. She was close enough to see the flashes of anger going off his blue eyes like strobe lights, felt the warmth of his muscles coiling tighter and tighter in obvious discomfort. Even after she was done talking, Billie didn't move away; couldn't have even if she wanted to. The look in his eyes kept her glued in place, and when they narrowed to focus on her features, fire uncurled in her stomach, slow and deliberate. It made her forget about the rain beating down outside, the uncomfortable press of her bare flesh against the aged and cracked vinyl of the bar stool.

All of a sudden, the urge to touch him itched beneath her skin, to the point of desperation. She wanted to trace the lines of his mouth with her fingertips, needed to feel the scrape of his stubble against the pale skin of her cheek. Billie didn't look away when his fingers branded themselves against her chin, she welcomed the contact, but her breath hitched in her throat the second Eddie's mouth crashed against hers. He tasted exactly how she thought he would, kissed a bit better than she expected, but left far too soon, much too abruptly for her liking. She leaned back, cheeks puffing out to exhale slowly, silently telling her heart to slow down a few beats, and forced her head to stay in place. Last thing she wanted was for Eddie to see her, watching him walk away from her.

Billie waited as long as her nerves allowed, counted to five, then back down to one, only to repeat the cycle while unwrapping the towel from her hair. The sigh sounded almost defeated when she hopped off the stool, pausing to quickly snatch up the scattered, crumpled bills he threw down mere seconds ago. When she shoved through the door, sheets of rain made it hard to see, but her eyes quickly honed in on Eddie as he half walked, half ran to his car. "Hey!" If he heard her, he ignored her, so she took off after him, feet splashing through puddles, soaking her clothing once again. She finally caught up to him and latched onto his forearm, spun him around to face her. "I wasn't done." Billie didn't hesitate when she threw her arms around his neck to reel him in, or when she rose up on her toes to crush her body against his better. The kiss wasn't like their first. It was curious and passionate, and she took her time with it, treated it like two kids kissing for the first time, instead of two strangers caught in the middle of a storm. When she finally pulled away, it wasn't by much, and it was to press her wet forehead against his. "Now I am." Untangling her arms from his neck, Billie walked away, but paused to glance over her shoulder and yell at him.

"I wish you could see the look on your face, mister. I fucking love it. Just imagine if I had let you fuck me."

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