I was used to the stares.

Coming from America, I was used to getting stared at here in England for my accent. I was used to getting stared at for my hair- dark brown, hipster as hell and tipped red down my entire front fringe. I was sued to the stares for my clothes, for my black framed glasses, for my cold stare that I gave everyone who stared too long. Stares after my show, before. Stares from passing "class act citizens" who were convinced I was a prostitute of some sort waiting out the front of my show with my non-tobacco cigarettes. (I was a former smoker and drug addict; it was my way of recovering)
I was used to getting stares for my lip piercings, my devil-may-care smirk, my terrible humour and good, happy attitude despite my looks and past.

But this was a whole other kind of staring.

It was like I could feel a pair of eyes burning in to me, as I walked across the crowded room towards America.

America Tanner was the most ironic person I knew.
She was canadia-british, despite her suggestive and kick-ass name, and my best friend. Her accent was a mix of American and British, due to her weird ass family.
America had chin length short black hair with a blue tip down the front, and snake bites in her lip that I'd always been jealous of. I wasn't a wimp or anything; I'd just never gotten around to getting anything rather than a normal black lip piercing.

"Hey," She said, and offered me a drink. I shook my head.
"I'm sober tonight." I told her, rolling my eyes, and she laughed.
"Since when? You know what, never mind. I don't wanna know, Caitlin. And hey, who said I was getting drunk? I'm just having one...or two. I'm thirsty." She beamed at me.

I shoved my hands in to my pockets, and pat them.
"Ah, Jesus," I muttered. "It's been almost, what- a year? And I'm still having the cravings. America why am I still having the cravings?"
She rolled her eyes. "Hey, I am too, calm down, Caitlin. Go have another one of those substitute non-tobacco whatcha-ma-call-its."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm out. We have to get more...ah, but later. Now we shall go man hunting!" I exclaimed, and America laughed.
"Ah, so many choices." She mused, and I grimaced.
"Yeah, but I'll bet half of these guys are looking for the exact same thing you are, America?"
She scrunched up her nose. "And what's so wrong with that?"
"Some of us are looking for a long term relationship." I muttered.
"Some of us are insane." She mused, taking another sip and setting down her drink before pointing to a guy across the room.
"That one." She said, and set off.
I grinned and shook my head after her.

America was one crazy bitch. She was poorly raised, I supposed, like I had been, not that that was a valid excuse anymore, I being an upstanding citizen of society.

I turned to watch the previous band go off stage while the people around them clapped, and the next band, "Bastard Cat", or something.

They came on, and I wasn't really looking so much at them as I was my feet before the music started.

Something about the beat of the song got me looking up though, and brought goose bumps to my skin. For some reason my eyes fell on the drummer, noticing his perfect rhythm and crucial beat to the song.
And he was cute.
Dark hair and lots of it, right now covering his bent head, as he was very focused on drumming.
He was wearing jeans, a black shirt, and a beanie.
He only looked up once, and when he did, I felt my heart thump violently.

Now, I was used to good looking guys, but not like this. Not guys who's very souls seemed to be crying out in angelic beauty...or maybe it was just his fantastic hair. Yeah, that was it.

America suddenly appeared at me side, drenched in vodka.
I couldn't help but burst out laughing, and she sniffed.
"Turns out he had a girlfriend," She said, and gave a rather delicate snort. "Jealous little bitch."
She suddenly noticed the now thanking and bowing band, and grinned.
"Are you staring?" She accused me, and at that moment the good looking drummer decided to look up and meet my gaze. I instantly looked away, blushing, and told her no.
"Hmm, he's cute," She mused.
"Is he?" I asked, but I was already starting to sort of hyperventilate. The last time...last time I had gotten close to someone...oh god I was starting again...
"Yep," She said, cutting off my thoughts. "And you clearly don't seem interested, so...If you don't mind, I believe I call shot gun on this one."

I tensed, and froze.

No, not the drummer. He seemed much too respectable to fall prey to someone like America. No, it wasn't fair. She would ruin him.

"Uhh...no." I said, and she raised an eyebrow. "No?"
I nodded. "No."
America folded her arms. "Why, 'no'?"
I sighed. "No, as in, no more tonight. We should go home."
America poked out her tongue. "Well, I'll go home, if you do me a favour,"

I nodded, and she continued.

"Stay here and do something fun."

I rolled my eyes and nodded anyway, deciding I'd just go home when she was gone, regardless of how mad and disappointed I'm sure she'd been. We'd only been in Nottingham three days, and already she was wiping out the male population.

As soon as she left, I ordered a drink, and skulled most of it, setting it down and scowling at the reflection in the empty glass. I was supposed to come here to recover. America wasn't much help.

I skulled two or three more drinks after that, one after the other.

"Hey," Said a voice by my ear.
It would have made me jump if not for how warm the breath was, and the goose bumps it left on my skin.
I glanced up, my breath catching in my throat for a second, my heart thumping. I felt undeserving, and disgusting, under his glare.

"Hey." I said, and smiled.
He didn't smile, and instead looked frustrated. HIs brows pulled together.
"Get up." He said, and my smiled dropped.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Get up." He said again, and held out a hand as if I might not know what they was. He had a British accent that suggested he was locally from Nottingham, and it was incredibly cute, but somehow muffled, as his face was shifting and jumping.

"Are you drunk?" He asked, and a part of me was ashamed. The other part was pissed off.
"What? Of course not! I'm sober tonight, thank you. I'm not an alcoholic."
"I didn't call you one," He said, voice flat, and extended his hand further, helping me up.
I wobbled on my legs, and everything shook and blurred.
I didn't want to admit it to this guy, but yes, I was very drunk.

"Do you have a ride?" He asked, and I thought.
"I have," I paused to hiccup. "I have a car."
He grimaced. "Alright," He said, nodding. "Come on, you can come with me."

"What? I most certainly cannot!" My voice was slightly slurred, but it still packed my naturally clear and forceful speech.
"I'll carry you if I have to." He muttered, and put one of my arms around his neck, helping me out to his car.

"What's your name?" He asked me in a grunt, helping me sit down. I whacked his hand away and did up my own seat belt.
"Caitlin." I said firmly, glaring. He glared back, but held out a hand nonetheless.
"Dean." He said, and then shook my hand shortly before going around to the other side of his car to drive me wherever.

"You don't even know where I live." I accused him, my eyes shutting as I settled back in to his warm car.

It smelled like him, I noted, though God knows how I knew that.
Mint, after shave- warm and homey, crisp, fresh.

"Don't need to." He muttered. "Now, go to sleep, Caitlin."
I frowned. "Don't be silly," I yawned. "I'm not going to sleep while I'm in the car with you..."

And then I fell asleep.