This odd little plot bunny has been bouncing around my head for a while. It's not spectacular or anything, but I needed to write something to keep from getting too rusty.

Don't Charge Me for the Crime

The stress of trying to crank out a last minute song for the album nearly drove Nick to mental breakdown. So you can understand why he didn't want to let it happen again. Not ever. Besides, he shouldn't go so long without writing. It was bad for him.

Saturday morning, after dropping Frankie off at practice, Nick left his stuff at the door and went straight for the piano. He sat on the bench, anxious for a melody to come.

Trailing his fingers along the cold keys used to feel good—soothing even. Now the black and white bars looked back at him lifelessly. He felt nothing--no spark of inspiration. No tug of emotion. Nothing.

And that epitomized his real fear: that he was sixteen and had already bled dry his creative genius. His last few songs were all about the same things—unattainable love, bittersweet breakups… Had he already crossed the line into cliché? What if he'd written his last hit? Or worse, what if the music never spoke to him again?

It was unreasonable, this panic that welled inside him. He probably just needed sleep. He hadn't gotten a good night's rest in weeks. Yeah, that must be it.

Plopping himself on the couch, pillow lodged comfortably under one arm, he closed his eyes. Everything would be better when he woke up.

But Joe came bustling into the room soon after, grabbing his shades off the coffee table. "Don't forget you have to pick up Stella at nine. She'll you kill if you're late."

Darn. He'd forgotten about that. And after the day he'd put Stella through yesterday—what with the whole jacket fiasco— he didn't want to push his luck.

.

"my friend calls me at nine o-clock
says, 'get the car it's time to rock.'
never heard [her] speak this way"

Nick waited outside Bloomingdales, parking within walking distance of the glass doors. He moved his seat back so he could nap while waiting. Stella and early bird designer sales could allow for a sizeable respite. He leaned back, welcoming the darkness.

.

"i grab the keys and hit the road
it's all a flash but who would know
how the story would unfold?"

The BLARE of the ALARM made Nick jump in his seat, hitting his head on the steering wheel. "Ouch," he said, rubbing his temple.

It took him a second to process what was happening.

Was that Stella running towards him with all those bags in her hand? Well that would only make sense, right? I mean he was here to pick her up after all. But her clothes—definitely different than usual.

Sure, Stella was always put together; but today she looked like a poster-girl for an old movie. Her hair was shorter—an inverted blonde bob, curling in little waves near her eye-line. And she was wearing four inch pumps. That was unusual. And her dress. Wow. Nick had never seen anything like it--navy and white satin. Something out of a time machine-- the 1930's or 40's—that vee-d at the neck, revealing curves Nick had never noticed before.

But, wait, why were all those men chasing her?

He sat up straighter in his seat, about to get out of the car when she stopped him, eyes wide.

"What are you doin' babe? Grab the keys. We gotta hit the road!"

Babe? Was this a joke?

Nick didn't wait around to find out. He jammed the key in the ignition, hearing a much louder purr of the engine than usual. And then he noticed something he probably should have picked up on a lot earlier. This was not his car. Not by any means.

His beamer was nice—sensible and sleek. But this thing—this rust bucket-- was out of an antique road show. One of those old cars from gangster movies and the like.

What the—

"Baby we don't have all day. Those thugs are on the chase. And they're not too happy." She said the last bit with such a smile on her face and it worried Nick more than anything else. Which was saying a lot.

For whatever reason, he complied. Slamming the old car into reverse, he sped out of that parking lot like nobody's business. Tires SCREECHing and everything.

"Whoohoo!" Stella said, squeezing his shoulder tightly. "Nicely done pretty boy. I knew I kept you around for a reason."

"Stella, why are those guys chasing you?"

She smirked. "Oh the usual. Though I think I hit a nerve when I took the Jimmy Choo's. And the copper's wallet."

"Whoa, whoa. Took? As in stole?!" Nick felt a heart attack coming on.

His gaze zeroed in on her bags.

.
"friend gets in the car with bags
filled to the top with loads of cash
throws [her] pistol on the dash"

She pulled out a pair of red stilettos, the Jimmy Choos, and put them on her feet. But Nick was more concerned with the green paper still stuffed inside the shopping bag like tissue wrapping. That's right. You guessed it: stacks and stacks of pure cash. And they weren't small bills either. Twenties, Fifties. Hundreds.

Stella reached into the bag once again, withdrawing an ancient looking revolver and tossed it on the dashboard.

Nick gasped at the sight. He took both hands off the wheel to run them through his hair in agony. "Wha—what do you think you're doing? Have you gone crazy?!"

Stella grabbed the wheel, steadying the car on the road. "No crazier than usual, honey-bear. What's with you today? You love this part."

.
"i start to freak and scream so loud…
that's when [s]he gets in my head—"

His voice shook. "Is this payback for the jacket I destroyed? Some kind of sick joke? 'Cause I'm not laughing, Stella."

He took the wheel again, staring at the road intently. Wishing it would disappear with the rest of this nightmare.

He could feel her evaluative gaze as he shifted into fourth.

"It's a good thing we're near the hideout. You need a wakeup call daddy-o."

A hideout? That couldn't be good.

"Whoa, kid. You're gonna miss it. Under the bridge and down the creek, remember?"

Nick didn't remember. He didn't want to remember, but he drove where she said anyway.

Finally, they came to an abandoned garage, looking more like a shack than anything else. But there wasn't anyone around and that was the most important thing.

Nick put the car in park, expecting them to get out. He could walk away now. He'd be on foot, but he could walk. And then maybe he'd call for help. 9-1-1 or something. He didn't want Stella getting hurt—but she was bound to if someone didn't stop her. She needed medication. And possibly a psych ward.

He looked over, but she hadn't left the car. Instead, she raises one eyebrow and smirks, scooting closer in the seat.

Oh no.

He has his hand on the gear stick, and she trails her index finger along his thumb, around his hand, and up his arm.

He swallows, trying to push down the chills that sprout at her touch.

This was not good.

"Stella, what are you--?"

But he couldn't finish the question. Her fingers whisp against the skin on his neck and then rest on his cheek. He'd been distracted (clearly) and didn't notice her other hand reaching to grab his shirt collar. With one tug, he was in her space.

To his horror, when she kisses him he doesn't resist. He could taste her bright red lipstick—chalky and peppery—like paprika and stardust. But with bite. And not just figuratively.

A small part of Nick's mind groans, realizing full well what a teenage boy he is. He'd just aided and abided a fugitive of the law and stormed off in an old jalopy from who-knows-where, straight into some abandoned shack—but the only thing he could concentrate on was a rushing sensation in his head and a certain hot kiss.

This was not good at all.

.

"you could live just like a king
with everything you'd ever need
all the dreams of every man"

He gasps for air and she giggles. Giggles! But the sound is so much like the Stella he knows and remembers that it makes his head spin even more and then her mouth goes in for another kiss and he's gone. Again.

It occurs to him that his brother would kill him if he found out. Joe'd bury him in the back yard and hope their mother never took up gardening. But even that thought fades after one more reach for air because then he's the one deepening the kiss. He was a dead man anyway, right?

.

"now i see the flashing lights
there goes my future and my life"

He doesn't hear the sirens, not at first. There's a soundtrack playing in his mind—mostly bass. Dun-da-doom. Dun-da-doom.

But eventually he does pick up on the flashing red and blue lights.

.

"throws me out of the car
says you know me well
i'm not going to jail!"

Before he can blink twice, he catches her smirk and with one double motion she's shoved him out of the car and onto the dirty ground.

The engine turns in a loud roar and the whole vehicle speeds off in a blaze of glory, kicking up a cloud of dust.

In old movies it's called the kiss off--the final goodbye, as in exile or death.

.

"don't charge me for the crime"

.

The TAPPING on the window wakes him up. "Huh?"

She waves at him on the other side of his tinted window, carrying her Bloomingdale's bag. He jumps at the sight, despite himself.

She gives him a look, but doesn't ask about his nervousness. "Pop the trunk will you? You wouldn't believe the deals I got. Dolce & Gabbanna—sixty percent off! Oh yeah."

In a minute she's sitting in the front seat. He's scooted as far away as possible, refusing to meet her gaze for fear he'd start blushing up a storm. Because she'd make him explain that, and right now he couldn't.

"Sorry I made you wait, Nick. I got distracted. I think time exists on a different level in Bloomingdales."

"Don't worry about it, Stell," he says, unable to stop his voice from squeaking as he puts the car in reverse. The beat of that song -Dun-da-doom. Dun-da-doom- echoes in his mind and his skin feels warm all over again.

.

Note: I know I'm insane. I really do. But there was this moment in "That Ding You Do" where Stella's all crazy and trying to text the air in front of Nick. That scene, and a few in "Complete Repeat" actually have me shipping Nick/Stella. At least a little anyway. And Bonny & Clyde have been on my brain ever since I heard "Don't Charge Me for the Crime."

Like it? Hate it? Just plain confused? Let me know. ;)