Characters are property of Stephenie Meyer.

Baby You Can Drive My Car

Chapter Nine - already?

We had four rooms booked, since there were eight of us in the touring party, and the other three rooms were on the same floor, the first of them adjacent to mine and Lauren's. Visiting the boys seemed like a grand idea for a couple of minutes, until I remembered that boys are fucking boring and smelly and stupid. I suddenly had a much better idea, and that was to set about having a little old-fashioned fun, Bella-style.

I had a full bottle of wine, and the best will in the world. It was about one am, I was already tanked up on bourbon, and the night was fucking mine. What to do?

Well, if in doubt, I always say, hit the hotel pool. So I did. I had to find the stairwell first, where I knew there was a stupid layout diagram of the fucking place because do you think they could just have signs everywhere saying "pool" for the dummies? No.

I got out there eventually, chugging wine as I went, and it was fenced of course, with a locked gate, which was conservative of the management. Plenty of drunk people like to jump in a swimming pool after a bucket of bourbon and a gutful of white burgundy, everybody knows that.

So I put my wine bottle down carefully, because I wouldn't have wanted to spill a drop, and prowled the perimeter fence. Next to the door leading back inside was another door that said Utility Room, and I wouldn't be the girl I am today if I hadn't noticed that the letters weren't painted on, they were stickers. I also wouldn't be the girl I am today if I hadn't decided UTILITY ROOM is a really boring fucking thing to put on a door. I peeled them off carefully, and rearranged them to say I OIL MY TROUT which was obviously much better.

And then I clambered with extreme grace over the fence, nearly ruining my prospects of motherhood on the way, and nearly disemboweling myself too. I would have to write the manager a letter complaining about how hard that fucking fence was to climb.

Even in the inebriated state I was in, I knew swimming in tight jeans was a bad idea. Anyway I wasn't sure where there might be a clothes dryer, other than perhaps in the trout-oiling room, so the jeans had to come off. And then I felt like a dick standing around in a tight t-shirt and panties, so the t-shirt came off too. I folded them very carefully, leaving them under a conveniently placed sunbathing chair, and dived in.

That stuff I'd said to Edward about my father having been an exhibition diver had all been utter crap, of course. I made a splash like someone throwing in a manatee and hurt my belly bad in the process, but I recovered and swam a couple of leisurely laps, performing a sort of side-stroke, doggy-paddle, imagining I was in a synchronized swimming event. I was doing great until I heard a voice at the pool gate saying, "Excuse me, are you a guest in the hotel?"

Crap and fuck. Who the hell? I looked around and some old dude in some uniform was standing there. A fucking night watch person. He shouldn't have left the front desk, surely? What if someone wanted to check in? What if the phone rang?

"Yes, I am, so I'm here legitimately, you don't need to worry," I said with dignity, and my hands over my breasts, just in case. It wasn't too well lit, but you never know. "I'm staying in room something-or-other, I can't remember. One of them, anyway. It's on one of the floors."

"The pool hours are from seven am til nine pm. All the rooms have notices in them saying so," he said sternly. "Didn't you notice the lights were off and the gate was locked?"

Well, duh, of course I'd noticed those things but I'd ignored them for their sheer inconvenience.

"You'll have to get out. The changing rooms are closed too, I'm sorry," he kept on, and I stayed right where I was. Did he really think I'd get out in front of him in the state of undress I was in?

Apparently. "Miss, if you don't get out of the pool right now I'll have to page security," he said.

"Well, shit," I said. "I'm not actually wearing my bikini top right now, so if you don't mind I'll wait until you've gone."

"No, I'm sorry but I have to insist that you get out right away, and I'll escort you back to your room. Where's your towel? I'll pass it to you," he said, and I was trying to work out whether he was a filthy old perv or just a poor embarrassed hotel staff person.

"I don't have a towel. Could you find one for me?" I asked, and he nodded, turning to the fucking trout-oil room, for fuck's sake. He had a key, and disappeared inside momentarily, coming back with a huge towel. It was easily big enough to wrap me and a pygmy elephant, with room still left to smuggle a great dane.

"Thank you," I mumbled as he dropped it near the pool steps and faced away.

"I don't suppose you know anything about what might have happened to the writing on that door over there, do you?" he asked over his shoulder as I splashed my way out.

"Not a thing. Whatever it is you're talking about," I said, towel draped artfully around me and ready for a toga party.

He inclined his head. "We have surveillance cameras you know. Don't do something like this again, miss. Sometimes duty staff have no sense of humor."

"Like you, buddy. Thanks for the heads-up," I thought, as I waltzed back along the hall without my clothes, damn, or my cardkey, damn, or my wine - the worst loss of all. I had to knock on the door and whisper-call to Lauren like a fucking loser to get her to let me in.

She opened the door all tousled hair and rumpled face, so she must have been asleep.

"Christ, Bella, what the fuck have you been doing?" she mumbled when she saw me. "Did you have a naked spa with Edward or something?"

Oh, my god. The words naked and Edward in the same sentence, with spa thrown in for good measure. Quiet, girl!

"Jesus, Lauren. Hush your fucking mouth!" I hissed. "No I fucking didn't! As fucking if!"

I swept past her and had a quick shower and dried my hair and found something to wear to bed, and she was out for the count again by the time I got out of the bathroom.

In the morning, Deadwood had something for me. An expression devoid of - well, expression - and my clothes from the previous night.

"These were given to me by a staff member this morning. Apparently they were found by the pool, with a half-empty wine bottle, at three am. Do you know how they got there?" he said.

"Nope." I couldn't muster a retort, because my head hurt.

"Bella, do you have any idea how dangerous it is to swim alone when you've been drinking?" he asked.

"Yup." Shut up, wise-ass. Throbbing here.

"Well, you probably need another five hours' sleep, but we don't have that luxury. You'll just have to hurry up and get ready - we've got a big day. Carlisle's arranged a live-to-air at a college radio station this afternoon, and you'll have a couple of phone interviews from the next hotel. You'd better shape up. Christ - do you need to be on a fucking twenty-four watch? Take an alka-seltzer and drink some water. If there are any more childish escapades like this, the sleeping arrangements will be changed and you will be sharing a room with me, so that I can keep an eye on you at all times. At all times. Are we clear?" he asked.

I was plainly still drunk, because I thought he just said if I was naughty again I could sleep with him. He wasn't just handing me a license to act up - he was issuing an invitation. New stated aim: TO MISBEHAVE.

I turned to stumble away, but he took my arm. "I'm not finished yet. I don't know if you understand quite how serious this could have been last night. Your room key was in the pocket of your jeans. Someone could have found it, and gotten into your room while you and Lauren were asleep. You could have been robbed, or attacked. Also, the night manager told me the security cameras had recorded footage of you vandalizing hotel property. He said he was prepared to overlook it, but you could have been charged with malicious mischief, which is an offense in this state. I managed to get him to delete the evidence, which of course was highly incriminating. Not to mention probably saleable. So Bella, you're going to have to promise me that you're not going to drink any more for the remainder of the tour."

What the fucking fuck?

"Are you out of your mind?" I blurted, hand over my eyes because the day seemed inordinately bright.

"No. I just want you out of trouble," he replied. He was wearing that green shirt again, with a few buttons undone. He was a lot taller than me. I glared right up into his eyes, but looking into them was uncomfortable so I dropped my gaze and glared right at his chest. He was fucking lucky I wasn't biting a hole out of him, making a fucking ridiculous suggestion like that.

"I refuse," I hissed to the reddish hair there, and it was indication of how sick I felt that I didn't stick my tongue into it.

"I can take this further if I have to," he warned and I stared up at him again. "You look terrible. You didn't get enough sleep. Your eyes are red and your skin looks blotchy and you don't need to do this to yourself. Party when you get home," he said.

"You fucking party when you get home," I snarled, not enjoying his description of my appearance, although I knew it was true. But I didn't only look like shit, I felt like shit.

"Oh, I will. But I'm not doing it now," he said, still waiting.

"I'll think about it," I mumbled, and I shut the door.

That day, when we did the live-to-air, our first ever, my voice cracked on several notes, my headache just wouldn't let up, and all I wanted to do was crawl into a hole.

"See that button next to the mic?" the friendly dj said after we'd played, once we were crowded around the desk for a chat with him, "We call it a cough button. If you're talking and you feel like you need to cough or whatever, just press it and you'll be muted momentarily, so it won't go out on air."

I needed a barf button.

"Sorry, food poisoning," I gulped to the bright-eyed young dj, who was all eager and happy. And not hungover. I had to actually run down the hall to throw up in the bathroom.

Deadwood was sitting in the reception foyer, reading a newspaper, and he was expressionless when I ran past, although on my way back he handed me a glass of water. Afterwards we went straight to the next hotel and I couldn't crash because I had phone interviews to do. If I hadn't felt so bad I would have fucking loved crapping on and on about myself to total strangers over the phone, but I lay on my side clutching my belly and I don't know how I got through it.

And then there was fucking soundcheck.

"God, Edward, I have to go back to the room and pass out," I pleaded to Edward, and his face softened.

"I'm sorry, Bella, there just isn't time. I can see how awful you're feeling, but you're on in just over an hour," he said quietly.

I sat in the bandroom, miserable as sin, and the Monsters turned up and Jasper came straight over.

"Hey, gorgeous, what's up? You look tired," he said, sitting next to me and putting an arm around my shoulders.

"Yeah, I am," I nodded abjectly. I'd been hungover before, of course, and there'd been plenty of times I hadn't had enough sleep before, but I'd always been at home, and I'd always had the opportunity to lie around and sleep it off. I hadn't had to sit in a fucking van the next day for hours and then do a show that night. This tour, as Carlisle had said, was the hardest we'd ever worked, and I could see now why he'd said I should keep myself in check. I felt like death, and I had to sing. I hadn't been able to eat all day, I was weak and shaky and I had to muster up some energy from somewhere to go out on stage and perform like I meant it.

"A drink, darlin'? What can I get you?" Jasper murmured, stroking my hair.

"Actually, Jazz, I'll have an orange juice. I'm going to lay off the alcohol for a while," I mumbled.

"Are you, pretty lady? Then I will too," Jasper said, getting us both juices and sitting down again. He raised his glass to me with a wink and a grin. "Race you to the bottom," he added.

I drained my glass, and saw through it that Edward was at the door. You would have thought he'd be pleased at my wisdom and maturity. You would have thought he'd be pleased I was obeying his autocratic dictate. You would have thought he'd be pleased that I hadn't spewed all over the band room floor and halfway down the fucking corridor until he was ankle-deep in the stuff. But, no. Jasper's arm was around me, and Edward wasn't fucking pleased at all.

"Rock minus ten," he said, coldly.

Jasper walked me out to side-of-stage and kissed my cheek, murmuring, "Have a good one, sweetheart," and the others were there waiting for me silently, knowing I was a wreck and no doubt praying I'd get through the fucking set without collapsing, and we went on.

My band are all fucking amazing, and they all played really well, and the energy and excitement in the room made the air crackle as the audience yelled and cheered and heaved around on the dance floor. It should have been great - but I felt like a broken marionette. It all sounded like it was coming from a long way away; I'd forgotten how to move, my arms felt wrong and my legs felt wrong, like the strings were attached to the wrong limbs, and when the puppet master pulled, I could only flail about with no real connection to the music or to the others. And no matter how wide I opened my mouth, how much I expanded my ribcage, I just couldn't manage to take in enough air to project my voice the way I was used to. It was the most horrible show I'd ever done and I couldn't wait for it to finish.

I love the fans and I love the air out above them, I love the lights and spaces between them, and I sing to the back of the room and to each and every person; I make eye contact and I reach out and I feel like I have tentacles of sound to touch everybody with and to wrap around them. Well, that's what it's usually like for me. But I let everybody down. My band, my crew, the audience, everyone. I just felt like a lump of woe.

We finished and I slumped into a chair backstage and closed my eyes. And then the people started coming in, wanting to talk, asking us to sign things, wanting cd's.

"Not yet, folks, clear the room please, we'll talk to you after the Monsters' set," Edward announced, and shepherded all of them out of there, and he came and squatted down next to me.

"How are you doing?" he asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. I looked at it, sitting there, lovely long fingers and large square palm, and he dropped it quickly.

"I've been worse," I said.

"Fuck. I wouldn't like to see that," he said. "Look, you really need to hang around for all the autograph hunters to come back - they'll be disappointed if you don't, but I might be able to find you a quiet place to lie down for the next hour and a half."

"Yes, please," I said, and he found some room somewhere with a couch in it, and I lay down, and I didn't actually sleep, but I was sort of in a half-awake doze, and it was certainly the most restful state I'd been in all day. By the time he came back I was feeling a lot better.

"Hey, Gog, about that unreasonable promise you tried to extract from me," I said. It was dark in there and he couldn't see me grinning.

"Mm-hmm?"

"You got it. But only because I think it's a good idea, not because of some bossy nazi with a fucking power complex, not to mention an oak tree stuffed up his ass, who wouldn't know a good time if one tickled him in the ribs."

I heard him snort at me as we walked back along towards the door to backstage.

Then, "Ah, Bella, what does Gog mean?" he asked curiously. God he was tall. How fucking sexy.

"Oh, nothing," I smirked. I was feeling a hell of a lot better. I put my hand very quickly to the side of his waist and tickled him in the ribs, and then I ran.

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Pop quiz: Who said "I aim to misbehave"?

If you answer correctly I will come and lick you. Actually, scratch that - it's no incentive. Yeuck.