Hi there. Thank you for all your encouragement. I know I violated a pinky swear, and I am duly ashamed. But, here it is at long last (and at long length). I got a lot of wonderful reviews on that last chapter, for which I was sincerely grateful, so grateful I even tried to reply where I could. This chapter has been improved by the betaing efforts of the generous and lovely BlackFrancine. The remaining errors are my fault, or the fault of my wordprocessingfail. But they are fewer than usual.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of The Breakfast Club characters. I don't know who does, but I'm sure they're still making money on it, which I am not. I don't really feel like I own Rocket, either. He just sort of showed up one day.
Third verse, same as the first.
-Violent Femmes
Allison Reynolds looked long and out of place, a black smudge in a sea of pink. That was how she saw herself, anyway. She rolled over on her stomach and propped herself up on her arms to get a better view of Claire, who was talking about a boy and giggling. Claire Standish looked as if she was made to lie in pink fluff. She was sucking a pink lollipop, and Allison though she looked pretty. Too pretty to be Allison's friend.
Except now Allison could look pretty too. She had a red lollipop, and she was on a sleepover.
Life was weird.
"So, would you say you have him wrapped around your pinky finger, or do you need the full force of your hand to hold the leash?" Allison twisted a strand of her dark hair around her little finger, and then grabbed a clump of it in her hand and pulled, demonstrating.
Claire giggled again, then sighed breathily. "I don't know. Maybe I'm the one on the leash. I just—he just—ungh."
"Ungh?" Allison felt the smile on her own face and enjoyed it like a new kind of new pet.
"Definitely ungh."
"Like between your legs, ungh?" That was what Allison had been feeling about Andy lately, but she wasn't sure it was a good idea to say. She still wasn't sure what to say a lot of the time, and her old strategy of saying nothing at all, or saying the one thing she was sure she shouldn't say—well, she was kind of sick of it.
"Allison!" Claire blushed and buried her head in her pink fluffy pillows.
At first, Allison felt like she'd said the wrong thing and she felt like maybe she'd like to crawl under the rug with some Pixie Stix. She was a little nervous and this made it even more likely that she'd say the wrong thing. That had been less of a problem when she didn't speak.
But then she noticed that, actually, Claire didn't seem unhappy with her or even with the question, just a little wriggly. Sometimes, Allison knew, people needed to pretend that they didn't want to say or hear the things they really wanted to say or hear most of all. She decided this was probably one of those times because she'd watched Claire look at John in a very "ungh" way and she probably wasn't talking about that with Bethany or her other friends.
"Well?" she prodded, nudging Claire gently in the hip with her foot. The motion made the whole pink puffy bed rock slightly. It was the most ridiculous piece of furniture Allison had ever seen.
Claire sighed, rolled over on her back, and nodded, putting her hands up to her face. "Oh my God, yes. Total ungh. Right there." She sighed. "I hope that doesn't make me a total slut."
"I'm pretty sure what makes you a slut is taking money for it," said Allison after some deliberation. In a moment, she added, "But then, if you're taking money for it, there probably isn't much ungh."
Claire shuddered, then giggled, and then collapsed with a snort. "Well, there's plenty of ungh, and definitely no money." She rolled her eyes. "Like he could afford me anyway."
"Good point."
"And anyway, he doesn't get to feel it ungh between my legs."
Allison nodded vigorously. She was having girl talk, and she thought it was going really well. "I'm the same way. And I don't tell Andy, either, what it feels like—but I think I might show him."
For some reason, Claire blushed deeper. "Um, I'm—yeah. I, um, definitely I show him, too." The color of Claire's face almost matched the color of her hair, which was incredible. Then she blurted, "I mean John! Gah! I mean, not—"
Allison was deeply happy at the sight of Claire Standish being awkward and stammering. She found it cute and endearing. Allison hadn't ever really explored the possibility of being endeared before. It was nice. She even stopped thinking about what she was gong to say before she said it.
"It's OK, Claire. I'm pretty sure I believe you're not showing Andy how he makes you ungh between your legs."
Allison still talked like she was an oracle making a pronouncement half the time, but Claire had decided she liked that. Plus it was pretty funny to have an oracle in your bedroom talking about "ungh."
Claire smiled at Allison. "I'm glad we have that kind of friendship where you know I wouldn't ungh your boyfriend."
"Well, I'm pretty sure if you had wanted to ungh him, you know, before, you would have had the chance. From what it looked like."
Claire shook her head. "I never really unghed. Not for anyone. Not before John. And no one, ever, between—you know, there."
The two licked their lollipops in silence a moment.
Claire hoped Allison wasn't really worried there'd ever been any of that between Andy and her. Of course he'd kind of tried because they were in the same set and all the boys pretty much tried with all the available girls, just to see if something stuck. But it was never personal. It was more like playing Legos or something.
"I mean, I never even felt it before. Not there."
Allison nodded. "John is sexy."
Claire felt a strange combination of pride and anxiety at this statement.
"No offense," added Allison. "Just stating a fact."
Claire sighed. "I know. And I know you would never. It's just—it's a lot of competition. From girls who'd go a lot farther than I would."
"John Bender looks at you like you're the second coming of Christ, an ice cream sundae, and a porno flick all wrapped into one."
Claire's coloring matched her hair again. "Oh my God, I don't know what is more disturbing, the fact that you just said that or the fact that I want to believe it."
"Definitely the second one. I'm a freak-we expect that kind of thing from me. But you're a nice, normal girl who shouldn't be combining those ideas. It'll scar you." Allison licked her lollipop again. "But you can believe it, because I never lie."
"I thought you said you were a compulsive liar!"
"I was lying."
Claire hit Allison with a fluffy pillow, and Allison hit her back. They threw pillows at each other for a while until they were laughing so hard that they couldn't breathe. Then Claire lay her head in Allison's lap and Allison let her fingers run through the red strands. It looked pretty, and Allison thought she might like to draw it later, if she could just take a picture of it in her mind. She concentrated. She knew Bethany would be there soon, and she liked Bethany, but these moments with Claire were somehow different and she wanted to remember them just as they were.
"Know what's weird?" asked Claire.
Allison nodded. "Yeah, I'm kind of an expert."
"Duh. But that isn't what I meant. What's weird is, John Bender is definitely, like, my boyfriend now."
"So says your neck."
Claire felt her hand wander up to the mark on her neck. The touch of her own hand sent touch echoes rippling over and under the skin. She felt trails of his hands, his mouth. Her skin was tingling everywhere, and her breath still fluttered. She looked over to her door where John's old scarf now hung from the knob, and as she closed her eyes she felt its scratchy, worn surface as he wrapped it against her neck, and she smelled its smoky boy smell on her.
Just the thought of it made her crawl with want. It was like there were fingers between her legs stroking her with little trails of John Bender want. She was afraid to have anyone go there, but it didn't mean she didn't want it.
He'd spoken softly and quickly, his voice a little rough. "See, if I was a jock you'd have a nice coat to wear, but now you're stuck with a ratty old scarf. Careful what you wish for."
She'd tried to speak, she'd felt her lips and mouth working but no sound came out. It was as if the feeling inside Claire Standish was so enormous that it couldn't pass through even the admittedly not very small mouth allotted to it.
John had kept his hand on the scarf, staring at it on her neck. He brushed a finger over where the rough edge met her skin. This made Claire sigh shakily, which made John smile. "At least it doesn't have a number to ID the motherfucker who gave it to you."
In this way, he let her know wasn't marking her. In fact, he was covering his mark, shielding her from prying eyes. But he was making it seem like he wasn't doing that, so Claire wouldn't feel like she had to argue. Which was great, because she didn't want to. She didn't want to walk through the halls with an enormous hickey and have everyone wondering where it came from.
To be honest, she wasn't even quite ready to walk through the halls with John Bender as his girlfriend. She would have, if he'd asked. But he didn't ask. And Claire was relieved he didn't ask even at the same time that she was worried that he didn't want to walk through the halls with her, either.
It was all still a little confusing.
John's eyes weren't quite meeting hers as he'd wrapped his old scarf around her. It was like he didn't want to see what she thought of it, of him, of the grubbiness of his gesture.
So she grabbed the scarf she'd given him and pulled him to her and said into his mouth, "I like what you put on my neck, slow learner." Her mouth was as close as she could bring it to his mouth without touching, so that her breath was touching his lips but her lips weren't. She thought it was sexy.
She thought he thought so, too.
"Aw, Jesus, Claire," he'd said. "How'm I supposed to get out of here when you're gonna be like that?" He was doing the same thing, keeping his mouth close to her face without touching it. "Cut that out." But his voice was a little gravelly and scolding and pouty at the same time. His hands were down by her thighs, barely touching them.
"Don't wanna." Claire thought she might die of his sudden cuteness. "When I'm like what?"
"Sweet and hot as fuck. Oh, God, I gotta go," he'd breathed.
It sounded like it cost him something to leave her. She loved that.
"Me, too," she breathed.
But neither of them moved to leave. Claire brought her hips a little closer to his, though, and rocked back and forth. John rolled his eyes, and he breathed in sharply.
"I'll see you tomorrow night?" Claire asked, her eyes locked into his.
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
Then Claire took John's hand and pulled a pen from her pocket. "I hope you realize how much girlish pride I have to swallow to do this when you've never even asked for it," she murmured, writing her phone number on the back of his hand.
But when she looked up at John Bender's face, what she saw was an evil-looking smirk. "Sorry, what was that? You lost me at 'swallow.'"
And then Claire had to beat his arm with some personal belongings.
"Oh, my God, in your perverted, disgusting dreams."
"I told you about that one? Hey, ow, that hurt!"
"PERV!"
"As advertised, sweetheart," and for the first time, John's hand had darted out toward her crotch, and Claire had swatted it away, hard.
On her big, pink, fluffy bed, Claire wiggled her toes in happiness. Then she had a thought.
"Hey, Allison? Can I ask you something?"
Allison shrugged. "Course."
"Does—you know, what happened to you, what you told me—does that, like, I don't know, interfere?"
She felt Allison's lap stiffen under her head.
"With the ungh?" Her voice was suddenly without expression.
Claire nodded. She stretched, then propped herself up on one arm so she was facing Allison, who had moved to in the same position. Their eyes met.
Allison spoke slowly. "Not exactly. I mean, it doesn't interfere with my feeling it, but, I think it might make me—I don't know-a little gun shy. But I probably would be, anyway."
"Have you thought about telling Andy?"
Now it was Allison's turn to flop back on the bed. Claire watched as her eyes closed with a little wince. Claire worried she might have said the wrong thing, but she was pretty sure that if someone told you about something like that, it was really important to follow up. Like once it got spoken, you had to speak it back. Even if it was a little hard. And a lot awkward.
"I've thought about it," whispered Allison, "but I can't—make the words come out. And I don't want him to get, you know, all weird."
"Yeah."
"I kind of have the weird covered in our relationship."
Claire giggled in spite of herself, because it was really true. It was easy to get serious again, though. Because even though people at school joked about this kind of thing, people including her own boyfriend—although she'd noticed he'd stopped that—there just wasn't anything funny about sexual assault.
So she said, quiet but trying to be firm, "But I think, if it was me, I mean, if I felt about someone the way it looks like Andy feels, when he looks at you? I think, I'd probably want to know. I'd definitely want to know if there was something—like that. You know, especially if something I did might—trigger, or something, a memory, I mean."
"But see, that's just it, I'm afraid he won't want to touch me, then. Like he'll think I'm dirty or fragile." Allison sighed. "Or both," she whispered.
"I—he won't think you're dirty. And I think—he'll see what I see. That you were really strong."
"You think? Guys think different. They're, you know, kind of caveman-dumb about some stuff."
Claire couldn't really argue with that. She also knew she was caveman-dumb in some of the same ways, but this probably wasn't the time to bring it up.
Because here she was, Claire Standish, making a social interaction all about the other person. So she didn't say anything about herself in that way. Instead, she made an offer.
"Hey, I've known Andy for a while and I'm kind of, familiar or whatever. If you want, I could talk to him, just tell him what you told me, and then—you guys could talk. Or even not talk, yet, if you didn't want. And that way, he'd have some time to think about it and calm down and you wouldn't have to deal with the full force of the caveman-dumbness, if there was any. Which there would be. Because of course Andy will just want to kill whoever it was. That's how he'll feel-I know him. But it isn't really about that."
Allison settled back to facing Claire. "I'll think about it." They stared at each other for a moment. "I want to try on some of your clothes," Allison said. "Nothing pink," she added.
{{{{BC}}}}}
John Bender's head was swirling with red hair and lips shiny with fuck that was sexy and a goddamn motel key in his pocket. His boots kept walking. He'd check in on reality from time to time to find that the boots were in fact taking him in the direction of Rocket's garage. Which was good, since that was where his potential job was.
John was just glad that some part of him was taking him there, because his mind was taking him between Claire's legs, again and again. And between her lips. And in her hand. And back to the bruise on her neck he had put there as she moaned in his arms, under his mouth, under his teeth.
Because he had a motherfucking girlfriend.
Well, not like that was so new. The new part was that he had only one.
Except he felt like he still had about fifteen because the one he did have was so changeable. She was popular and bitchy and sweet and sexy and porn star and innocent, and then distant and close, at the same time.
Distant and close had really sucked, though.
The thought of it still gave him a little adrenalin rush, panic and anger and pain mixing. He couldn't fucking believe it, the way she could be right there, but not really right there. And she knew it. He was still reeling from it a little.
Apparently he was still reeling from it a lot, considering how he just stumbled over his own fucking boot. Also, he was pretty sure he'd reeled right into steady boyfriend status, and now he somehow had to break up with all those other girls he hadn't even really been with.
"You know how we were never really going out? Well, we can't anymore." That was gonna be excellent. He couldn't fucking wait to do that fourteen times or however many it was. Who even knew?
Whatever it took though. That was the clear message of the day. Whatever it took for her to be there, all there, with him, and just him. Just like that.
Just like that, but in a hotel room because Claire Standish rocked.
Of course, he'd still never managed to ask for her goddamn phone number, which he had meant to do, like, fifty times. Sure now he had it, but he was supposed to ask. She'd practically told him to, and he still couldn't even pull that much off in his new role as boyfriend to a Princess.
And of course, she still left the classroom first, making sure no one saw.
Of course, he saw that stuff.
He couldn't really say it didn't hurt a little. He couldn't really say she wasn't a little confusing with her mixed signals about him and them and sex and—
But on that topic, Claire was confusing in a way that would apparently make John Bender hard for the rest of his life.
He tried to think about Rocket's gut for a while. That helped.
And then there he was, at his new job. Which he'd decided not to mention to Claire, after all. He'd been all excited to tell her, and then all that stuff had gone down, and suddenly, he found himself doubting whether being a junior grease monkey was the kind of awesome fucking news a prom queen clapped her princess hands in glee for. Maybe it would be cooler if she just found out about it, or if he mentioned it absentmindedly like it wasn't such a big fucking deal that he had a crap job as a kind of under-mechanic.
It was a big motherfucking deal, but maybe it didn't look so good to advertise that.
John shook his head. "I swear to God," he muttered. He didn't know which way was up anymore.
He also noticed that the hours in the day were somehow longer than usual when he wasn't with Claire. He felt funny, like itchy. Which was weird, because he lived for weekends, usually. But slowly, he realized he'd seen Claire at least a couple of times during the day all week and, the last two days, he'd seen her at night, too. He'd gotten to touch her, look at her eyes, have her stroke his hair and make him feel like—well, really good in a variety of different ways when she wasn't making him feel like total shit. Which apparently he still preferred to not being with her at all.
And now he wasn't going to see her tonight or all day tomorrow. And that suddenly felt almost close to impossible. It felt so long. And it had only been two hours and he had more than twenty-four to go.
So he was plenty glad to have a job to go to. Detention the next day, though, would really suck. It would suck ass. It would suck balls. Actually, it would suck Dick.
John shuddered.
"Bender! Grab some coveralls and get under a truck!" The big voice was somewhat muffled. John judged it to be coming from behind the hood of a large Pontiac.
"Hello, to you, too, Rocket," he called out.
Everything in the garage was a little grubby and smelled like motor oil and rubber. But tool chests smeared with grease were lined neatly in the corner, spare parts lay on labeled shelves and John noted a line of cars-none too new-looking-behind the bays, waiting for work.
Rocket's voice boomed from behind the Pontiac again. "Save the small talk for when I'm not elbow deep in transmission, OK, kid? Gary'll set you up."
And Gary did. He and John knew each other from the pool hall and around, or times when John would stop by to give Rocket shit.
So John was, indeed, under a truck remembering how to do an oil change and happy as a clam when the phone rang and he heard Gary's voice say the words,
"Hey, Rocket, that Standish chick is on the phone for you again. Said she wants to firm things up."
It was lucky no one could see John's face. Because no employee should be looking at his boss like that on the first day of a new job, and John knew it.
On the phone for Rocket again?
Rocket cackled and John heard him make his way to the office, but once he was behind the glass wall, John couldn't hear what was being said. So he didn't get to hear what exactly the fuck Rocket and John's new girlfriend were firming up together.
It was killing him. So it was only fair he kill someone else in return. Whether it would be his girlfriend or his new boss, only time would tell. Maybe both at the same time-a two for one special.
Maybe they'd like that, seeing as how things like "both," "at the same time," and "with each other" seemed to be working just great for them, judging by the length of the phone call.
John tried to take a deep breath, but it turns out that this is a really bad idea when you're underneath a pick-up truck.
Through his spluttering, he heard Rocket laughing. He had stretched the phone cord extra long so that he could stand in the doorway. "What's that, sweetheart? Will I see John tonight?" Rocket was talking extra loud. "Who, Bender?"
Who the fuck else would she mean? John scooted out from underneath the truck and gave Rocket a look. If the dude wasn't paying him and hadn't put him up the night before, it would have been a lot worse than a look, that was for fucking sure.
Rocket just stretched, pushing his gut out from under his shirt a little farther than usual. His hand drifted down to stroke it, leaving a few greasy stripes among the black hair there.
"You never know, I might just see the mother—pardon, sweetheart, I might see the kid. Never know where he might turn up. Like a bad penny." And Rocket shot a look right back at John. "That's right, he can be tough to pin down." It wasn't a killing look, though. It was a funny cross between amused and maybe a little pissed off, and it made John as uncomfortable as hell. Because if he was even a little wrong about Rocket making a play for his girlfriend, John had no fucking business even looking at him a little off, because the dude was giving him a job and a place to crash when he needed both in the worst way.
"Sweetheart, don't you fret. I'm sure if anyone can do it, it'd be you."
Fuck.
If anyone could do what? And what the fuck reason would Claire have for calling Rocket's garage on a Friday night when she was supposed to be having a slumber party, with like, ice cream and movies and shit? The best case scenario was that she was trying to check up on him, after all of two hours, and that scenario was far from cool. Like she didn't trust him at all. After everything they'd said.
But otherwise … maybe she just liked playing dirty, after all, and the dirtier the better. Like Rocket was saying last night. He'd thought Rocket was just yanking his chain, but maybe he was playing him. Maybe they both were. That would explain a lot, actually.
In the back of his mind, the chant started up again, not so that John could really hear it, but more that it set a rhythm, a pulse point for his mood. Stupid, worthless, no good. . .
It never made any sense for a princess to really like a guy like John Bender, whatever the fuck she said and did with her cashmere and her undies and her . . .
Fuck.
John shook his head, trying to clear it of that voice and what it said. Maybe she was worried about him. Maybe she was just worried.
Rocket was an excellent guy. He was.
But he was also a kind of perverted guy who John had worked hard to convince that Claire was not his serious committed girlfriend and that everything was very cool and casual.
Fuck.
But Rocket was ugly as sin, and he was also an excellent guy. . .who was still on the motherfucking phone with John's girlfriend saying the word,
"Handcuffs?"
On the other hand, John might have to put a socket wrench through Rocket's skull.
"All right, sweetheart, I'll talk to you later. Yeah, if I see him I'll tell him. No, don't worry, I won't tell him that."
And with that, he went back into the office, hung up the phone, and reemerged, chuckling.
"So, your not-at-all-serious not-girlfriend says hi," Rocket said, all perfectly casual.
"So I gathered." John did his level best to sound casual, but it sounded more like a feral dog trying to get used to a leash.
"Oh, you gathered that. Well good for you. Did you gather how I didn't tell her you were here, seeing as how apparently you have some reasons for her not wanting her to know that?"
"Yeah, Bender," Gary chimed in, "got another girl meeting you after work? That'd be awkward, huh?"
Rocket snorted. John wasn't sure, but it might have shaken the parts shelves. Something rattled, anyway. "Not as awkward as when they meet you in front of her, eh, Johnny?"
"It's not like that," mumbled John. He hated when anyone called him Johnny. But he hoped, maybe, they'd just let this go and they could get back to work.
Gary wasn't about to let it go, though. John Bender's sometimes girlfriends were a matter of some envy among the older guys John hung out with who had more limited access to high school girls and much worse skin. "So who's it gonna be tonight, Bender? We got a brunette coming round? Seems like I saw you with a blonde last week, Rocket says this chick's a redhead, we got us some Snow White action this evening?" Gary rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "I'll take any spares, just so you know. Share the wealth, man."
He paused a moment.
"They gotta be over sixteen, though."
Rocket ran a hand through his hair, then rested it on his neck, rubbing under the long ponytail he was wearing. "Sixteen'll still get you jail time in Illinois, Gar. You're 21, aintcha?"
"You guys are disgusting," growled Bender.
The two other men almost fell down laughing. "Says you," panted Gary.
Faster than you would have thought possible, Rocket was in the office by the staff lockers, pulling out Bender's wallet from his coat pocket. The lockers didn't lock.
"Disgusting," Rocket nodded. "Ain't that the goddamn truth. But let's see what we got here."
And then he started counting pictures. "Seven, eight, nine—Hell, Bender, this one can't be more than fourteen!"
"It's an old fucking picture, all right?" John wanted to call Rocket an asshole, but he was his boss. This was hell.
"So which one of these is picking you up tonight?"
"No one's picking me up tonight, all right?"
"All right, all right, Mr. Touchypants."
Gary doubled over laughing at that one. John would have too, under different circumstances.
"Hey, Bender, how come my sweetheart isn't in here? I know she's not your girlfriend, and you're not at all serious about her, but I woulda thought she'd at least rate a wallet picture . . ."
"She's more my girlfriend than she is your sweetheart," whispered John, thrusting his hands in his coverall pockets to hide the fists they insisted on making.
"What was that, Johnny? Speak up for the old folks."
"Nothin'." Again with the Johnny. It had a tendency to turn that voice in the back of his head up a couple notches, just hearing someone else call him that. John Bender took a deep breath again, this time grease and dirt free. He could do this. He could hold a job for one fucking day, whatever else was going on or not going on. "I'm just sayin, she hasn't given me her picture. And she's not really one of those girls, anyway. I never said I wasn't ser—C'mon, Rocket."
Rocket looked at John a moment. His eyes narrowed. He liked the kid, but he liked the girl, too. And he knew, although he didn't know if John knew, that a girl like that was taking a hell of a risk on John Bender, and probably not for the reasons John thought. It wasn't because he was dirty, or poor, or any of those things. It was because he was angry and damaged and lovable at the same time, but he had no idea about the third thing, and that was going to fuck him up-hard and up the ass.
And the fact was, that if he wasn't careful, while he was busy not believing he was lovable, John Bender was going to shred her little loving heart.
But as Rocket looked at John Bender and saw the anger and the damage and the clenched fists poorly hidden in his pockets, he also saw the pleading in his eyes. And in this way, the big man became convinced again that the girl's heart wasn't the only one in line for the shredder.
There probably wasn't a lot he could do about it. Hearts shredded. It was what life did to them. But he'd do what he could. First off, get John to a place where he wasn't getting the shit kicked out of him by his asshole old man, which Rocket felt kind of like shit for not having noticed before. And second, see if he could get the kid to pony up a little more where that girl was concerned. But right now, looking at the strain in the kid's face, he decided to give John a break and bust his chops some more about the girl a little later.
"Alright, kids, another hour of grease, and then drinks on Rocket."
He noted how John barely nodded, and slid himself back under the truck.
Rocket shook his head and swallowed another chuckle. If John Bender thought Rocket didn't know how hard he was working to keep himself in check, kid was dead wrong. But it was a skill he needed a lot of work on.
Among other things. Like, it would never occur to the kid, apparently, to ask Rocket calmly what the girl had called about. Or to say something complicated and earth-shattering like, "Hey, lemme talk to her when you're done." Why do any of that when you could stew and ache and shred your heart?
Poor kid. But if Rocket just brought it up, he knew, kid would feel all embarrassed and not cop to having cared in the first place.
Rocket shook his head. If they ended up only partly shredded, it would be a beautiful fucking miracle.
Later found the three of them hunched over in a bar called Benny's. It was plenty dark, and John was happy with it. Usually they'd be at the pool hall, but John had begged off.
"I know so many girls there, they'll be looking for me, it's goddamn Friday. I'm always there on Friday. It's just—I can't do it tonight." The thought of the inevitable string of hurt or confused or pissed off eye-lined eyes made his stomach feel a little off.
Gary had shoved his head a little. "Man, you got problems, don't you?" He turned to Rocket. "Can I have some of this kid's fuckin' problems, please? Preferably the ones with a C-cup?"
Rocket shook his head. "I gotta feeling they're not all as cute as that redhead, am I right, Johnny?"
John shrugged. "Don't call me that, man. That's what—" he trailed off.
John didn't know why the fuck Claire had called Rocket. He'd managed to cool down some by playing back Claire's lips saying sweet things to him on the little video player of his mind. Things like "only you can do that," and "just you and just me." On another channel, he'd kept reminding himself that Rocket had always been a straight-up guy. But he was still not feeling great about it.
He wasn't feeling like he wanted to spill his guts about who called him Johnny and what it meant, how he heard that voice in his head enough already and it fucked with him all the time, tried to take anything good in his life and turn it to shit.
Basically, John Bender was white-knuckling it through the evening, trying to work on not fucking up his life on the off chance that he was wrong and that it wasn't totally fucked up already. Either this effort meant he was making progress, or that he was the biggest fucking idiot in the world.
Either way, he'd be getting so fucked up tonight that he wouldn't have to worry about why he didn't know which way was up. Because he'd be lying on the fucking floor with the world spinning around him. "Jack Daniels. Double. Straight up. Beer chaser."
"Whoa there, pace yourself, knucklehead."
"You here to yank my chain or drink, Rocket?" John grumbled.
"Well, I would've thought that was obvious. I'm here to do both, like always. Never woulda pegged me for subtle that way." And Rocket offered Gary a high five, which he took.
John noted that Rocket still hadn't even offered an explanation of why the hell Claire Standish should be calling him on a Friday night. Which meant either that it was perfectly innocent, which John couldn't really imagine how that could be, or Rocket was just using his newfound power as boss to test John and rub his face in it a little.
But he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking, that was for damn sure.
He drank the drinks as soon as they were set up, lighting a cigarette to chase the chaser.
About half an hour and a couple more rounds later, he was on his way to shitfaced but not so bad he couldn't read the number on the back of his hand. It seemed to him he could straighten shit out a little if he just heard her voice and she said stuff to him. He excused himself and went to the back, and before he knew it she was answering.
Her voice sounded all trembly and flirty and pretty and rich. And happy that he'd called. Could you fake that? She'd showed herself to be pretty good at faking today, right? But it hadn't worked. He hadn't been faked out. Or she hadn't. Whatever. He had known something was off and he had called her on it and she had come to him all sweet and soft and sexy again.
But now he couldn't see her or what was in her eyes.
John Bender ran his hand through his own hair and wished Claire was there to do it for him. He was always fucking wishing things about her. Be careful what you wish for, he'd told her. Was she still going to wish for him now that she had him?
His jealousy twisted in his gut with the beer and the bourbon and he remembered he hadn't eaten a damn thing since lunch, which he'd barely eaten because he was so worked up about the girl.
Claire was just talking away, telling him about the slumber party, how Bethany and Allison were braiding each other's hair, watching some black-and-white foreign films, and how Brian, lucky fuck that he was, was gonna show up in a few minutes.
Any kid in school would trade places with Brian about then, he figured.
Claire said as much. "Three girls and one guy, right? Jealous?"
She didn't know the half of it. Or maybe she did. Was she playing him? Then he realized he wasn't sure she'd said his name the whole conversation.
"Nah, just one girl one guy now," said John, slightly slurring. "Remember? I told you. Can you say the same?"
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Of course I can, I said it, remember?"
"Naah, I'm kinda drunk, y'know?"
"Um, yeah, I thought you might be. Are you OK to go home?"
"Thisa quiz?"
"What?"
"C'mon. No home talk. I got a long ways to go 'fore I worry about that. Don'change the subject. How it's just me. What we're talking about. You probably oughta say it again, me being drunk and forgetful. And say my fuckin' name."
"Wait—I think Brian's here, I should go."
"So you won't say it?" Fuck. Just a little fucking reassurance, was it so goddamn much? The twisting in his gut was fierce and burning. But she wouldn't fucking say it.
"OK. Shhay this. Who can make you fuckin' come, Claire? That won't embarrass you, right, Cherry? No one has to know what you're saying but me. One word answer. Who can make you come against a brick fuckin' wall, Princess?"
"Are you in public?" Her voice sounded nervous.
"Nah, there's no one can hear. Phone's in the back. Tell me who makes you come. No one you know comes here, trust me."
Trust him. She shouldn't. He wasn't trustworthy. Apparently neither was she.
He heard her cover the phone with her hand, her voice was muffled. "Just a second, I just—I'll be right back."
"Answer the question, Claire." John thought that phrase sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.
"Just a minute," she whispered.
And then she said,
"Only you, John. Only you can do that to me."
Then why are you calling Rocket on the phone?
"I wanna be doing it to you right now. What are you wearing?"
"John! I have company, come on," her voice sounded teasing, but there was a little something else there he couldn't quite identify.
"No, you come on. That's what we're talking about. Aren't you my girlfriend now, Claire? Don't you wanna learn?"
"Um, I said I did."
"Then answer the question, Claire, and touch the clothes as you tell me about them."
"Um, I'm wearing, um—it's silk, and it's a little shirt. And some sweats. Sorry."
"Go on"
"Well, I also have on underwear, they're pink, but they have—they have, Oh, John, you don't want to know this."
"Why the fuck am I not gonna wanna know it, Claire? I thought that was gonna be mine? Don't I get the tour of my new property?"
He was spitting her words back at her. They'd sounded kind of sweet when she'd said them. He was pretty sure they didn't sound very sweet right now, though.
"OK, but—John, it's not—they're not,"
"Answer the—"
"Fine," and she sniffled, "they're pink, and they have Care Bears on them, OK? And I just don't think I can do—"
And she broke off. And then John recognized the something else that was with the tease in her voice. And he recognized it as tears. And he closed his own eyes and hell if he wasn't fighting back some of his own. Because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had just fucked up in a big way.
And in the back of his head, a voice was still saying, "She can talk about handcuffs with him, but she can't talk a little underwear with you?"
But this time, he recognized the voice for who it was.
John Bender took a deep breath, suddenly more sober, but not sober enough to know how to fix it. "Babe, go back to your friends, OK? Just forget about this, OK?"
"I'm sorry, John." Her voice sounded small.
"I'm the one that's fucking sorry, Claire."
But he realized that must have come out wrong when he heard another sniffle.
"I'll do better next time, OK?" Her voice trembled. It sounded small.
"Cherry. I'm the—listen. I gotta go. I just—I gotta go."
Click.
John was way drunker the next time he called.
"Cher?"
"No, it's Allison. Are you drunk?"
"No fuckin' shit. Gimme Claire." John pounded the wall by the phone with the side of his fist.
"She's laughing too hard to come to the phone."
"Is she with a guy?" He pounded harder this time.
"Like, ten. It's crazy."
"Fuck you. Is Johnson there?"
"Yeah, he is. But he just got dared to kiss Bethany, so he can't really come to the phone."
John Bender could hear a lot of laughter coming from his girlfriend's house and in the dim way the whiskey and beer was letting him think, he wondered if it was at him.
"Is he kissing Claire, too?"
"Nah, she's still to busy with the other nine."
Allison giggled and this time John was pretty sure she was laughing at him. Bitch. It wasn't the time. He was fucking hurting and his head was spinning in two directions at once, plus the floor wasn't so steady either. "Gimme Claire! I wanna talk to Claire. C'mon, I gotta tell her something."
"No way."
"Fuck you. I'm her boyfriend now and shit. Din't she tell you? I gotta talk to her."
"Nope. You'll thank me later. Trust me."
John thought maybe he heard his name muffled somewhere in the background.
"DidshetellBethanyaboutme?"
"What?"
"You fuckin'heard me."
"Oops. I gotta go."
John heard another muffled laugh. He took a deep breath and tried to form the words really clearly to get the information he suddenly needed more than anything else. Except maybe another drink. "Allison, did she tell her friend about me? Did she cover up her fuckin' neck?"
"Listen to me. I gotta go. I just—I gotta go. Do I stutter?"
"Allison, fuck, I kinda hate you right about now." Why did everyone keep saying the same fucking thing, over and over? Things were supposed to be different.
"No, you don't, but you will for sure tomorrow if I put her on the phone with you right now."
John sighed and slumped into the wall. He slumped a little too hard and fell into the phone, dropping the receiver. After fumbling with it for a minute, swearing loudly, he managed to put it back up near his ear.
Sometimes stuff was harder than it looked.
"Allison? Ystillthere?"
"Yeah, I couldn't tear myself away from your eloquence. But I'm going now. I just didn't want to hang up on someone I care about without saying goodbye, because that would be rude and hurtful."
"Allison, c'mon, I'm s'fuckin crazy about her. What the fuck do I do?"
"I don't know, apparently you get hammered and make stupid phone- call decisions. Now leave our girly games alone. I just got dared to put on an entire outfit of pink clothes. I have to concentrate."
Click.
Fuck.
John stumbled back out to the bar with the dim idea that some more drinks would probably fix things up, but his companions seemed to have other plans. Gary and Rocket took one side each of John and shoved him into a table, putting a glass of water in front of him and telling him to drink.
"You been on the phone?"
John put his head in his hands. "Maybe."
"Idiot."
John nodded.
They sat in silence a few moments. John was working on getting the bar not to spin, which wasn't helping the spinning in his head nearly as much as he'd hoped. He'd thought it'd even the score or something, but no such luck.
"Bender."
He looked bleary-eyed toward Rocket without speaking.
"Bender, you got anything you wanna ask me?"
Stubborn, John shook his head.
"John, John, John." Now Rocket shook his head. "You sure?"
"C'mon, man, I think I just kinda fucked something up, I gotta think about it but everything keeps moving. I gotta figure what the fuck to do, and also not kill you and shit. So dy'mind?"
"You don't wanna maybe ask me why on earth your seventeen-year-old, totally casual not girlfriend is calling me on a Friday night?"
"'S'all official now. You fuckin—just me and her. So fuck off already. Boss."
Rocket raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath.
"You wanna know what my ultimate fantasy is, when I meet a pretty young rich girl who's obviously crazy about some kid I hang with? The fantasy that came true today?"
John felt things explode inside his head and lunged at Rocket, but Gary just held him back. Gary wasn't a small guy himself, and John was plenty drunk.
Rocket continued as if nothing had happened. "What I hope, in that fuckin' situation, what I hope in my dark, slimy heart of hearts, is that she will open her plump, pretty, pussy-saying pink lips…"
"I'm gonna end you, man."
". . . and tell her daddy to bring his fancy car to Rocket's Auto Repair and Body Shop. And that, my friend, is the dream that came true today," and he reached out and swatted John in the head, "Ya dumb punk, what the hell were you thinking? I mean, look at me!"
Gary chuckled as John buried his head in his hands a moment, then straightened slightly. He put his hands through his hair, looked at Rocket, and then put his head down.
In a minute, John's entire body was shaking with laughter.
"Hey, that's my line," drawled Rocket.
"Maybe he's having some kind of a fit," Gary suggested. "Hey, Bender, have some water."
John shook his head. "I lost my fuckin' mind." He took a big swig of water. "I swear to God, I can handle fourteen of them, but just the one girl's gonna be the end of me."
Rocket and Gary both clapped him on the shoulder. Then they launched into an impromptu version of "Chuck E's in love," but singing "Johnny" and swaying back in forth in the booth, concert style.
They looked appalling. John choked on his water, laughing.
"All right, all right. Very funny. But I was just a total prick to Claire, y'know. If you knew what the hell was going on, you coulda said something before, insteada just watching me squirm."
Nodding, Rocket sighed. "Sorry, man, I didn't know you ponied up. I thought you were still on the fence. I mean, you didn't tell her you were workin' at the shop, either, so I just figured you were trying to keep stuff separate for the other cuties. I was just tryin' to—give you a nudge in the right direction. Girl's a sweetheart. How bad'ya fuck up?"
John tried to go over it in his mind, but while he was more sober now than he'd been on the phone, he'd been drunk for a while. It was a little hazy.
"I'm kind of a nasty fuck. I think I mighta made her cry-and tell me about her underwear. I dunno, I tried to make her say shit. Then she must've been upset cause her friend wouldn't let her talk to me. "
Rocket let out a low whistle, and John slammed his hands on the table, rattling the glasses. "Christ, is it always like this? Because I feel sick half the time, and then my head fuckin' spins, and I wanna kill a lot more people than usual, which for me is saying something. And I'm much more of a prick to the girl I really dig than I am to anyone else."
"Candy," said Gary knowledgeably. "Give her candy."
"Did that this morning for last night's fuck-up."
"Flowers or a teddy."
John looked skeptical.
"Not underwear," said his friends in unison.
"Oh, and another thing. Try not fucking up."
Reviewers will get flowers or a teddy, but not underwear. And a teaser for the next chapter! Thanks for all who read. I totally love it that you read this fic even when I fail at update pace and pinky swear fulfillment.