Chapter 3: Dancers Wait Until The Mirror Breaks

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see him sitting there, squatting with his back against the building, sucking on a cigarette and twirling the wavy black strands of hair around his fingers, when I get off work, but strangely, I am surprised. And I suppose I'm a little nervous about it, too. I have no idea what this guy wants from me; who knows what kind of a psycho he could be? I mean, he tracked me down at work, for Christ's sake! I bet he's a creepy psycho stalker. I bet he is.

But, fuck it. Carpe Diem, right? You gotta take risks in life in order to be happy. Or something. Besides, it seems to me more like he has just been thinking about it a lot; after all, at Tom's, he was the one who left first without inquiring about my identity at all. Maybe, probably, he just decided later that he's actually really interested in me. Or…

Something.

He grins when he sees me, and flicks away the cigarette as he rises to his feet. He's still wearing that leather jacket.

"I'm glad you didn't try to sneak out the back way, or something," he says, walking toward me. "That would have damaged my pride."

"So you were worried?"

"Yeah, you do seem like a little bitch who would do something like that."

"Thanks, and that really turns my opinion in your favor."

I'm grinning. Holy shit, I'm so flirting with him right now.

"Well, shall we go, then?" he suggests, his eyes sliding halfway closed as he gestures toward the parking lot.

"Yeah, I guess I'll follow you," I say, pulling my keys out of my pocket. I start toward the staff lot, where my F250 is parked. "Which is your car?"

"Nuh-uh, no way." I feel his hand on my shoulder, jerking me back to face him. His black eyes are glittering with some sort of emotion, but I can't decide whether it's mischief or excitement. Or both. "I'll give you a ride."

"No. I'll take my truck. I don't want to be completely in your mercy."

His smile turns wry. "Well, but that's the point. And if by 'truck,' you mean that piece of shit over there," he points toward my 250 in the lot, "there's no way I'm going to be seen with you if you drive that."

"And how are you going to be seen with me? If all we're going to do is fuck—"

The door slides open and I quickly cut off my words, willing my face not to become red as I turn to face Chloe stepping out of the building. She looks at me curiously, and then glances over at my suitor.

"Oh! So you did know each other," she exclaims, halfway covering her mouth with her hand. "And here I thought he was just being a heckling customer."

I try not to glare at Chloe. I really do. It's not her fault that she's annoying, and a bit daft. She's one of those pretty girls whose looks alone got her through school.

"Ah, now, isn't this cute?"

Oh, god, for shame. I never knew anyone so irritating and likeable at the same time. I really do not enjoy being around him. And he seemed so cool at Tom's that night. He looks ready to start flirting with her.

"What?" Chloe asks, blushing slightly.

"My name's Andy Rodriguez. It's a pleasure to meet a beautiful young lady such as yourself, Miss."

Andy. What a way to find out your lover's name—as he's hitting on someone else. Well, I bet he found out my name in an equally stupid manner, if he even knew it before reading it off my chest at work. Suddenly the extreme fucked-up-ness of this whole situation strikes me, and I really feel like laughing until I go into cardiac arrest.

And he's not my lover. I don't know why I just said he is.

"I'm Chloe. It's a pleasure to meet you too, sir," Chloe replies softly. She's beet red. I suppose he is pretty charming, though, Andy is.

And this is all very amusing, considering that last time Andy referred to Chloe, he called her cheap. The question is, whether he's lying to me or lying to her. I'm guessing it's the latter, but I really don't know. Someone like him, he probably lies to everybody.

"I'm sure. But, the fact of the matter is, me and Peter here have some stuff we gotta do, and we're already running late. Now, Peter, come with me, and I'll take you there." Andy smiles sweetly and grabs my hand, dragging me toward the parking lot. I look back, rather relieved that Chloe is not following, though I doubt even she'd be stupid enough not to catch Andy's hints. "Besides," Andy starts again suddenly, almost making me jump, "I bet you drive like an old man in that truck, huh? You wouldn't be able to keep up."

The computer store's parking lot is joined with that of a 24-hour convenience store, meaning that it is never devoid of cars. However, I am able to guess which car is Andy's, and not only because it's the one parked closest to the computer store.

Andy stops walking, twirling around his finger a key ring with two keys and an electronic lock attached. He smiles at me expectantly and points toward the very car I had picked out for him—a brand new silver Corvette C6 convertible. Yeah, fitting, to say the least. He's so very unoriginal. It would have been cooler if he had some sort of shitty cheap-ass car, like an 80's Escort, or something.

"Did Daddy buy that for you, Andy?" I sing snidely at him, smiling mockingly.

"I never knew my daddy, Peter," Andy replies without skipping a beat in the same singsong voice. Then he laughs and scratches his head.

"Oh, so you're a bastard in all senses of the word?"

"Aw, shucks, man. You're good at the whole snappy comeback thing."

"Thanks for the compliment," I mutter. I place my hands on my hips, studying the car. It's getting dark out. "Okay, I'll ride with you in your stupid car, but if I say I want to go, we go. No hesitation. Okay?"

"Okay, okay. Jeez, how bad do you think this is going to be?" He points his keys at his car and presses the button on the electronic lock, beeping the car awake.

"I'm not sure, exactly," I reply, pulling open the passenger door and jumping in. And, fuck, is it comfortable, as much as I hate the idea of expensive cars.

"This baby right here, this is ten years of working full time between classes and not spending a penny of it," Andy informs me as he slides into the driver's seat. "I'm making payments now, but I currently don't have enough to completely pay it off. I'm hoping I will by the time I need to."

"So it's really gonna suck if you crash it, huh?"

Andy laughs, only it's more like a snicker—a noise like a little kid would make. "You're so pleasant," he says starting up the car. He throws it into gear and peals out of the parking lot faster than I can register what's going on. "Way to be optimistic!"

I curl my fingers around the handle in the door, regretting agreeing to let him take me. He was right though—I wouldn't have been able to keep up with him in my truck. He drives like a friggin' fugitive running from the cops. And he has this little smirk on his face, like he's really enjoying it.

"So," I say, after a few minutes of adjusting to the speed. "Do you… Do you really have a gun?"

He glances at me for a moment, and then returns his eyes to the road with a confused expression across his face. "What?"

"Well, before, you said that…you could pull a gun out of your coat and rob the store. I was just wondering. Do you really have gun?"

Andy laughs then, and shakes his head. "Sorry, sorry, did I scare you?" I want to retort back with an empathic "no," but he continues before I can. "I don't have a gun. Not with me, at least. I have a .45 caliber at home that I bought down at a gun show in Mexico, but no, I usually don't carry it with me. I don't have a license for it, or anything."

I pause momentarily, fixing my eyes on the road ahead of us. "So why'd you get it? To sate your raging testosterone?"

"Apparently. You don't need to do that, though, huh? Your testosterone isn't very prominent."

Okay, I walked into that. I guess I deserved it. I've been doing that to him this whole time. I can't help it, though. I feel the need to insult him. Just as I do for everyone else too. He may be hot, but other than that, he's not so special.

I lean my head against the window, watching buildings and other cars whiz by in blurs. I'm surprised he's driving as well as he is at the speed he's going. But, maybe that's because I'm just not a very good driver. And maybe Corvettes are easier to handle than F250's.

I glace over at Andy. He's staring at the road with a very thoughtful expression on his face. He seems to be concentrating very hard on something, but it doesn't appear to be his driving. He catches me staring and smiles at me, breaking the expression completely.

"You ever heard that rock song, the one that goes, 'And I'm staring down the barrel of a .45, .45'?" I ask, though suddenly I feel very stupid, singing for him, but I decide it's too late now. He doesn't look like he knows what I'm talking about, "'No real reason to accept the way things have changed, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun, dun….'"

And now I'm humming. God, I feel like a retard.

"Yeah, I've heard it," Andy says at last, after my humming dissipates. "What about it?"

"Uh, I don't know," I mutter, softly banging my head once against the window. Great, now I've made an ass out of myself in front of him, and for no real reason anyway. Now, it's time to save myself: "You ever think about trying it? I mean, you've already got the .45. Might as well just shoot yourself with it."

"You should take up singing professionally. You have a fucking sexy voice." It should be sarcastic, judging by the timing and subject matter, but he says it with such a straight face and serious tone that I don't know what to make of it. So I do the wisest thing: I ignore it.

"Hey, I was just curious as to what you really—" I don't get to finish; a shrill, yet somehow catchy tune starts to reverberate around the car and Andy swears loudly before reaching into his pocket in search of the perpetrator (successfully losing his focus on the road and swerving the car into another lane so that an ugly blue Crown Victoria has to slam on its brakes to avoid us). He extracts a small silver cell and swears with equal profanity as he glances at the caller ID.

I bite my lip, looking at him expectantly. The song has been going on for a while—it's the midi version of some Korn song, with the low, distorted guitar chords suddenly much more perky and about two octaves higher. It's somehow humorous, yet annoying at the same time.

"You can answer it, if you want. I don't care."

Andy's eyes slide towards me, and then he sighs and flips open the phone. "What the fuck do you want, Sam?" is his angry greeting. He falls silent for a moment. The car's still swerving around, but now I think Andy's doing it on purpose in order to vent, or that's what it seems like, at least. "Look, I'm kinda busy. And I mean really busy."

I can't help but lift an eyebrow at him with that. If he notices, he doesn't let me know.

"Holy fuck, are you crying? Jeez, you little fairy. Hang on." He turns to me, looking both apprehensive and pleading. "Can we take a little detour? It won't be long. I just have to take care of this helpless little shit that I know."

I wave my hand, casually, with a shrug. He smiles apologetically before lifting his phone back to his mouth.

"Sam? Yeah, okay, I'm coming now. See you in a little."

He flips closed his phone and then looks at me again, his eyebrows raised in even more apology. He looks pretty good like that, too. "Sorry."

"Whatever."

break;

Of all places, Andy swings his car into the lot of the most popular gay nightclub around the university. It makes me a little uncomfortable, just the notion of it. I've never been to a gay club at all—I've only been into this building once, on a Thursday night back in high school for an all ages goth night.

Now that I think about it, this is the place where I first asked Cindy out. And that somehow just seems…really, utterly wrong.

"If you want to stay in the car, you can. It'll be quick," Andy says, shoving open his door and moving to get out. I start to do the same.

"No, that's all right. I'll come." I don't know why I want to—no, wait, yes I do. I just don't really want to admit it.

You see, even that once when I came here for goth night, I kept wondering what this club was like every other night of the week. What a gay club was like.

I didn't actually tell anyone that, though. Now I'm just taking my recent, and quite unexpected, crossing into the world of homosexuality as a means of sating my various curiosities. And that contrarily doesn't seem so wrong right now.

Andy looks at me inquisitively but doesn't say anything as I follow him inside. I can't help but notice his pants—they're just normal blue jeans, maybe a little worn, but for some reason they fit him really well. I always wear jeans, but they seem to hang off my hips like a fucking skirt or something. I feel jealous.

We reach the bouncer, a big, burly, and bald man, with a forked goatee, who somehow seems as though he would just look right at home on a Harley. The bouncer glances down at Andy (and I mean all the way down), and then at me.

"Your friend twenty-one?"

"'Course," Andy replies with a charming smile, showing his teeth. The bouncer gazes at him, and then quickly looks straight ahead stiffly, a faint redness staining his white cheeks.

I didn't know gay clubs have gay bouncers, too.

Andy continues forward, and I follow wordlessly until he falls back in step next to me and leans in close. The suddenness and casualness of the movement unnerves me, but he grins at my face.

"You twenty-one?" he asks.

"Since February," I reply, looking at the floor and sticking my hands into my pockets out of habit. My actions seem to suggest that what I just said is something really embarrassing to me, but really it's just the way Andy looks at me. Like what I said somehow made his day.

"You're younger than me? That's good. I've always gone after older guys who want older guys themselves."

"You're gay?"

That seems like a really dumb thing to ask, but I only realize this after it comes out of my mouth. He just doesn't really seem gay. Well, maybe he does, I guess, but his mannerisms and everything are just a little masculine. He's got the whole, macho, "I've got a cool car and a cool stereo system and a lot of money and I'm way cool," complex. I am actually surprised that he's into rock rather than hiphop—he seems like the type to like the latter. I suppose that's why his comment about fucking girls like Chloe didn't take me by surprise considering my experiences with him.

Then again, his face is too pretty for him not to be gay. I could imagine him in mascara.

"Yah," Andy says, chuckling a little, his black eyes twinkling. "That's my preference, I suppose. And you?"

He's not supposed to ask me back. I wasn't expecting it. And I wouldn't have asked him in the first place if I knew he would.

"No. I'm telling you, I'm straight." That's the best answer I could come up with. It sounds feeble and lame, like I'm trying to convince him.

"Uh-huh." Sarcasm. The fucker. I feel the need to defend myself.

"You don't believe me because I fucked you? I was just interested, I told you! Just a one-time thing. I only agreed to this because you're so fucking good at sweet-talking."

"Uh-hmm," he hums, smiling faintly. He looks so good when he smiles, and he does it so often too. He smiles when he's being a fucking asshole—I've learned that much already.

We've reached the dance floor by now, and Andy's looking around in a manner akin to the way he was in the computer store—the I-have-no-idea-where-the-fuck-I-am one. Meaning he's probably searching for someone. Before I manage to think of a snappy answer to his earlier non-committal response, he finds what he's looking for and sets out at a quick walk.

"Sam!" he calls out, lifting his hand in a wave. I look in the direction he's waving, toward the bar, where I notice a small figure hunched over, sipping at a glass of alcohol through a straw and staring at us at the same time. I follow Andy, studying the person as we approach.

It takes me awhile to decide that it is, indeed, male. And I only decide as much because the tight, low-necked shirt does nothing to hide the intense skinniness and flatness of the boy. A head of pale, longish blond hair falls unevenly around a small, girly face, and for a moment I feel resentful of this. The boy isn't bad looking, and his hair is cut almost exactly like mine, only his is lighter and thinner. Fucking copycat.

The boy (Sam, I'm assuming) looks about as resentful of me as I am of him. I wonder absently whether he's thinking the same thing.

"What is he doing here?" Sam demands angrily, his finger angled accusingly toward me.

And this strikes me as odd, seeing as though I've never met this kid before in my life.

"Come on, Sam. You're the one who begged me to come," Andy replies. I can feel him practically bristling toward this stranger who somehow seems to know me.

Yeah, take that, Sam. Andy is on my side. And you know what they say: Beggars can't be picky.

"I didn't know you'd be with him," Sam whines, forming his little mouth into a pout.

"Well, then, we'll be leaving."

God, I'm really liking Andy right about now. He seemed so annoying before, but compared to this prick, he is super cool.

Andy grabs my hand and starts to drag me away, but Sam yelps out a quick, "Wait!" and jumps to his feet, standing there for only about a second before losing his balance and staggering around till he finally falls to the floor in a crumpled heap. I want to laugh, but Andy rushes forward and kneels down beside him before I can.

"Sam, how drunk are you?" Andy mutters.

Sam ignores him and glares up at me. "This is all…everything's your fault, Peter."

Oh, so he knows my name too. This is really creepy. I swear, I've never seen this guy before.

"What the fuck? You knew his name this whole time? I asked you, you bastard!"

The outburst is rather unexpected, and a little out of character, too, from what I've gathered so far. Both Sam and I look confusedly at Andy, who's since jumped to his feet with an expression that is at the same time both shocked and angry, glaring at Sam. He remains so, seething, for a while in silence before his eyes turn towards me slowly in reluctance, and his face falters.

"I mean…fuck you, Sam," he mutters, almost under his breath, and his gaze slides to the floor. There's actually a blush staining his cheeks, and I would laugh at his shame if I weren't so fucking pissed off at this stranger who, apparently, I should know.

Sam attempts to raise himself to his feet again, quite futilely until Andy bends over and strings an arm under his shoulders to help him. If I were Andy, I would have kicked the bastard over. Personally.

You're jealous. I only think that briefly before mentally laughing it off and sauntering over to take a seat on a stool by the bar. Andy steers Sam over as well, draping the limp body halfway over the bar and halfway on the stool, before taking the place in between us.

"What the fuck are you thinking, Sam? You promised I could have the room tonight. And now here you are, drunk off your ass, asking me to take you home? What am I supposed to do, huh?" Andy rants, turned more towards Sam than me, though he's glaring at the ceiling.

"Sorry, Andy…"

Andy sighs angrily, and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette and lighter. He ignites it quickly, and irritably too, taking a huff as he shoves the lighter back into his pocket. I watch him in a sort of fascination I have no explanation for.

"Fuck," Andy growls, narrowing his eyes to mere slits before opening them again, as if a nasty thought briefly passed across his mind at that very moment. "I'm not taking you home, Sammy. You got yourself into this mess. You can stay here for all I care."

"Andy, don't be so cold. It closes at two anyway. What am I supposed to do then?" Sam's voice is grating. Maybe it's just because he's drunk, but then again, maybe not. He seems…really gay. In the flamboyant, fluffy, rainbow way.

"Call Tom. I don't know."

Now there's a familiar name. Is Tom how he knows me? But I swear I've never seen him before. Could he recognize me on just a description? And why would Tom be telling him about me anyway?

On my way to look at Sam, my eyes catch Andy in between us, and suddenly I lose the desire to see Sam anymore.

"I can't call Tom!" Sam practically cries. "He's the reason this all happened anyway. Him and that guy." Again, his finger turns in my direction.

That makes me uncomfortable. How did Tom and I make this stranger so miserable? I haven't seen Tom in a week. Haven't spoken to him in more than that.

"Look, how is it Peter's fault that your boyfriend is an asshole, huh? Just because Tom doesn't know the meaning of monogamy, or loyalty, or whatever!" Andy groans, and then sticks his cigarette in his mouth before continuing to speak around it. He's surprisingly articulate, considering its presence. Makes me think he must do it a lot. "So stop playing the victim. Ever thought that it might be your fault for having bad taste in men?"

Sam looks absolutely scandalized. I can't help but laugh, though I make it a quiet chuckle so that even Andy won't be able to notice it.

And then I get to thinking about what Andy said. I didn't know Tom had a boyfriend. I assumed that his orgies were just because he's fickle and tired of his wife. And beyond that, what was he saying about Tom's lack of monogamy when referring to me? I don't like this. Is that why Tom invited me in the first place?

Fuck that. This is like psychological trauma, trying to scar me as I'm speaking right now. I'll be miserably recalling this very moment for a therapist a few years in the future; I know I will. I inhale sharply before (somewhat impulsively) snatching the cigarette out of Andy's mouth and sucking on it myself. The nicotine works about as fast as caffeine, and it's pretty relaxing.

And now Andy's looking at me like a bully would look at a nerd as the latter tells the former that no, he will not relinquish his lunch money.

"That's mine," Andy practically whines, his expression now changing to that of disbelief. His thin black eyebrows straighten over his wide black eyes, and he looks a little younger.

I turn snide, sticking my nose into the air and pulling the cigarette out of my mouth, holding it in the hand farthest from Andy and letting it smolder between my fingers. "Didn't your mommy ever teach you to share?"

"I paid good money for that, asshole."

"Yeah, well, I deserve it more than you."

"Says who?"

"Says me, you retard. What are you, twelve?"

"Close, but no fucking cigarette."

I laugh aloud. I can't help it—that was just so awful, it's hilarious. I bend over on the stool, pressing my lower back against the bar to steady myself, and cross my arms over my thighs in an attempt to close myself up so that the laughter doesn't get out of control. I manage to stop it reasonably quickly, which I'm quite thankful for.

I didn't realize, however, that crossing my arms would put my hand with the cigarette in it right next to Andy. I only notice such when he slyly slips it from my fingers and sticks it back into his own mouth.

"Look see how much you wasted, bastard," he mutters, crossing his eyes to look at it sticking out in front of his face. The sight of it coerces the remaining weak bits of laughter out of me. I'm probably done now for another month. It's like vomiting, really—once you empty your stomach, there's just nothing left to throw up. Andy turns and catches my eyes, grinning. "And here I was starting to think that you couldn't laugh."

I grin back at him. "Just needed some mind-altering substance to be able to."

"I'll keep that in mind."

A soft whimper comes from behind, barely audible over the techno music in the background, and Andy dons a sour face and groans.

"Forgot 'bout him," he murmurs before looking over to where Sam is now hunched over the bar, his head buried in his arms. "Sammy, you okay?"

An incoherent "Nghh" is Sam's only response, which seems to greatly please Andy. He turns around to me, even more than before, so that his back is to Sam. I want to look at his face, but my eyes instinctively continue to return to the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He rewards this by noticing.

"You look so wistful," he observes, catching the cigarette between two fingers and holding it next to his temple. My eyes loyally follow the smoldering drug as he does this. "You really want it that bad?"

"Mm-hmm." What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm not even addicted—I usually only smoke at parties and other social let's-get-drunk gatherings. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I'm pretty certain at this point that I completely lost my mind sometime before I showed up at Tom's that lone Friday night. Probably started when Cindy broke up with me, but I really don't want to think about her right now.

"Okay, then, your sharing idea was a pretty good one. Let me see…" He takes a whiff of the cigarette, and then actually snubs it out in a nearby ashtray on the bar. I try to look pissy as I glare at the crushed cigarette resting in a pile of ash, but before I can manage to fully sculpt my expression, Andy's hands are on either side of my face. He's staring—no, gazing—into my eyes as he curls the messy strands of hair that normally frame my face around his fingers. It's somehow endearing, yet totally clichéd, when he leans forward and presses his lips against my own. I can taste the smoke on his breath.

This is the dumbest thing that's ever happened to me. Yet I'm so totally going for it. Cynicism can be put aside for just a moment.

I weave my fingers through his hair and press our faces even harder together. He opens his mouth wide, thrusting his tongue into my mouth before pulling it back out and biting my lower lip. I moan, rubbing my thumb across his cheek, trying to muse about the way the club seems to be fading away, the smoke disappearing, the stuffy heat, the music, the noise—all gone, but I fail to really consider it. My mind is totally blank. There's a hunger in this kiss that I've never felt before.

I'm the one who breaks it, though not entirely on my own volition—I have to pull away to stop myself from falling off the stool. I look up at Andy, feeling somehow apologetic, only to be greeted with his smile.

"You're sexy," he mutters…almost growls, actually. I blush and look around, noticing a few guys have stopped dancing to stare. It's embarrassing. I can't believe I'm doing this.

"I…"

"Hey, let's go," Andy suggests, but gives me no time to disagree before snatching my hand and leading me away, weaving in and out of the crowd, as if I were a child. I glance back, looking at Sam's limp, unconscious body still draped over the bar, before a wave of writhing dancers block him from view. I look forward again, focusing on Andy's hand curled around my own, and letting him lead me away.

break;

We arrive at Andy's apartment only minutes later—he lives on a small residential street off the university road, so it's close to practically everything (including my place, since my apartment is pretty much in the same area). His apartment has a typical college kid's layout: bathroom, kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms that are sort of separated, but really are all practically one room. I study it as I enter—it's very clean, not pristine, I guess, but it looks as though it's regularly cleaned, though there's still some evidence that people live in it. It's not what I was expecting. I was really expecting something messy.

Andy slides inside and locks the door behind him, and then starts toward the kitchen. He turns his head slightly in my direction as he walks.

"You want something to eat? Or drink?" he offers as he starts to rummage through some cabinets. One opens to reveal an array of breakfast cereals, and another contains a disorganized pile of bowls and plates. He doesn't really seem to know what he's looking for.

"Uh-uh, that's fine," I mutter, suddenly feeling awkward. I rub a chill from my arms—it's a bit cold, as houses usually are when the occupants have been gone all day.

Andy turns around and lifts an incredulous eyebrow at me. "You sure?" he asks, like my refusal is absolutely unbelievable to him.

"Of course I'm sure," I snap back, narrowing my eyes at him. "Why would I say no if I actually want something?"

Andy's expression turns thoughtful as he breaks eye contact and shrugs. "I dunno, I guess I figured you were being polite, or something. I shoulda known better, though, huh, since it's you."

I'm not sure whether I should laugh or be insulted. I decide on the latter. Andy looks back at me and grins.

"And take off that damn shirt. It's annoying."

I look down at my chest and find my eyes protesting immediately as they are bombarded with the hideously bright red color of my work uniform. I forgot I was wearing it. As much as I hate to take orders, I listen to Andy and quickly start to unbutton it. When I finish and slip it from my shoulders, I lift my eyes again to find Andy absent from his earlier spot in the kitchen. I glance around until I find him rounding the coffee table near an ugly couch and picking up a few newspapers that were draped over the arm.

"So," Andy says, a wry smile touching his lips as he conspicuously rakes my body with his eyes. "Wanna fuck here or on the bed?"

"Bed," I say simply, turning away from him. I'm really cold without a shirt. I hear him come up behind me, and I'm expecting him to grab me or something. Still, I flinch away when I feel his freezing fingers ghost across my back and I swing around as another shiver engulfs me. Andy laughs.

"Sorry. I guess you're underdressed, huh?" he says, and then cocks his head to the side. "Or maybe I'm overdressed." He immediately sheds his leather jacket, letting it drop carelessly to the floor, and then wraps his arm around my shoulders.

"You're so corny," I mutter, shifting away from him as he leans closer. His hand wanders across my chest and then stops in the middle of it—it takes me a bit to realize he's been distracted, and I look down to see what got his attention.

He's holding the gargoyle necklace in his hand, studying it with a thoughtful frown. "This is mine, isn't it?" he asks uncertainly, and then gathers more confidence when he seems to decide that it does, in fact, belong to him. "This is mine! What's up with you jacking all my shit, huh? I've only known you…what? Not very long…"

"You stupidly left it at Tom's," I inform him insolently. "I figured it was up for grabs."

Somehow, though, it's an incredible relief to know that the necklace actually does belong to him.

Andy drops the pendant, and it swings across my chest for a while before settling into place. He stares at it silently for a long time, a frown etched on his face. It isn't so becoming. At last, he shakes his head and breaks the expression. "It looks good on you."

"Good. I'll keep it then," I utter, pulling away slightly. Andy finally grins again.

"I don't think so," he says, dragging me back into his grip. "That was expensive."

"Makes it a more appealing gift," I persist, though I don't really know why. I really could care less if he took it back—after all, the entire reason I took it in the first place was specifically to return it to him. And even though it's cool, it's not really my style anyway. I've been wearing it under my shirt this entire time.

"Yeah, right," Andy mutters, his grip around me tightening. My hand somehow finds its way to the small of his back, and I hesitate for a while, a fit of nerves suddenly making its presence known. Finally, I swallow hard and wrap my arm around his waist.

"You know, I'm not quite sure you actually exist," Andy whispers, turning to face me, and then bending over to place a soft kiss on my jaw. I grab his hair and yank gently.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" I ask, but lose my desire to hear the answer when his hands, which suddenly seem a lot warmer, slide down my bare sides and start to work at my belt.

Andy kisses me on the lips, and I can still feel a shadow of that same hunger and desperation that was in the last kiss at the club. I don't remember anything like it present before, not at Tom's.

Andy gets my pants undone and slips them over my hips so that they pool around my ankles. He looks down, smiling hungrily as he hooks his fingers around the waistband of my boxers. I frown and grab his hair again, yanking harder this time.

"I said the bed," I remind him, shoving away his hands and stepping out of my jeans. I stand there expectantly until he sighs and starts toward one of the bedrooms. I follow, suppressing the wave of anxiousness that suddenly washes over me. "And what did you mean, you don't believe I exist?"

Andy shrugs and grins at me before collapsing to sit on the bed. "Forget about it."

"Fuck you," I growl, glaring at him.

"'Kay, come here," he says, holding out his hand and grinning excitedly like a little kid at Christmas. I actually acquiesce and climb on top of him, straddling his waist. It feels good not to have to roll up onto my tiptoes in order to kiss him; I lean down, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and press my lips against his as his hands trail down my back to stop at the band of my boxers again.

"You're so fucking impatient," I say, almost in a chastising voice, and slap his hands away. He laughs into my mouth and then wraps his arms around my waist, grinding our crotches together as he swings my entire body around and throws me onto the bed. Now he's the one straddling me. "I hate you," I growl as he pins my hands to the bed.

"Really? 'Cause I fucking adore you," he replies, before leaning closer to me.

I think, not for the first time, I can't believe I'm actually doing this. One time thing my ass.

break;

The blaring, midmorning sun in my eyes is what finally forces me to cross the bridge into consciousness. I yawn quietly and squint at the window, initializing a staring contest with the glare on the glass. I lose pretty quickly. The clock on the unfamiliar nightstand reads 11:43. I've missed my Business class.

I hear a sigh from behind me and I shift in the bed. For some reason, I'm expecting to see Cindy's sleeping face, as I have many times before, chewing on the blankets in her sleep, her closed eyes shadowed lightly from old mascara. When I instead focus upon that of the one person I would probably wish to see least in the world, a sick feeling wells up in my throat.

Fuck…Andy. What the hell… When the hell did this happen? I'm not even gay. I've never…well…

Okay, whatever, this is bad. I decide as much, staring into his sleeping face. I feel angry, and I want to vomit. This is bad, bad, very bad. I wasn't even discreet about it. Chloe saw, I bet she's not dumb enough to not pick up on it, and Sam saw… We were kissing in a public place, in that dirty club! Sam knows Tom, I bet he'll tell Tom, and then what? Will Tom tell anyone?

This was such a mistake. Oh, Jesus fuck… I want to die.

This is about the time the terror sets in, and I bolt from bed, quick only enough so that I won't wake Andy. It would be hell to have to face him in this condition, I know that much, and therefore keep myself wary. My hands are shaking as I search out my clothes quickly, scuttling about and pulling them on carelessly. Frantically. I feel like I'm suffocating. I find my red work shirt wrinkled on Andy's living room floor, right next to my jeans, and hastily pull them on. I don't bother to button up the shirt before flying out of the apartment and down the narrow, somehow disorienting hallway toward the elevator.

I let out a sigh of relief when I exit into the bright morning sunlight. The anxiety is still fluttering around in my system, but knowing I've escaped a confrontation with Andy is a weight off my shoulders. I still hurry toward the main street, fumbling in my pocket for change and regretting agreeing to let Andy drive me—now I'll have to take the bus all the way back to the computer store.

I plop down on the bench of the bus stop exhaustedly, hanging my head so that my shaggy hair covers my face, though whether I do it in shame or relief, I don't know. Whatever—I'm going to just try to forget this ever happened. Shaking my head, I start to button up my shirt, only to notice that the stupid gargoyle necklace is still dangling around my neck.

Fucking Andy…just won't leave me alone, will he?

break;

Notes: Super-duper long chapter, whoo-hoo! Thank you for your reviews, Zephyr Snuggles, doragon41, & Cherise! As you can see, your name questions/comments were pretty much answered in this chapter (I hope Andy is acceptable for you), but not to worry! I'll be using names to piss you off way more than this later on; that's a promise.

Gosh, though, thanks guys! I got three times the reviews for the second chapter than I did the first! Eh-heh-heh, jeez, I'm so funny.

Oh, yeah. Sorry about the awful "break;" scene break indications—I used to have a very pretty combination of plus and equal signs for it, but fiction press didn't much like it and it wouldn't upload right. So, in my frustration, I flashbacked to my C programming days. Ugh. Okie, that's all till next time.