(c) Ready or Not At All [R]
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(c) Ready or Not At All [R]
by gloria- Sat 24 Oct 2009, 1:14 am
Title: Ready or Not At All
Author: Me
Rating: R for some sexuality and plenty of swearing
Fandom: Green Day
Type: Chaptered/Complete
Summary: Billie Joe and Tracey Stoneham have a rather...physical relationship. But when it becomes less physical and more something else, is he ready for it?
-
Chapter 1
words: 374
The boy sighed quietly, again tracing the shape of his hand upon the desk with his index finger. The heavyset girl in the desk beside his tapped her large foot back and forth slowly. The detention monitor, seated up at her front desk like some kind of James Bond spoof, popped her bubble gum between yellowish smoker’s teeth. She pushed her red-rimmed glasses up her nose and fluffed her thin white hair with bloody claws.
He shuffled his ass in the uncomfortable seat, eyes drifting again to the round white clock above the chalkboard. Two minutes, and counting. His mind slipped into the familiar track made of smoke, guitar tabs, and used condoms.
He turned when someone tapped on the window to his left. The teen’s girlfriend was kneeling among the bushes planted the past spring by the old janitor, Ben, her elbows resting upon the sill. She grinned and stuck her studded tongue out at him, and winked one silver eye.
She sat back, flipping her brilliant red hair back over her shoulder, and began to pull on the hem of her oversized blue New England Patriots jersey. He watched carefully as she revealed her shiny belly button piercing, then a long expanse of pale, freckled skin. He licked his lips, expecting to see next a bra in black, or red, or lime green.
Just as he realized that she wasn’t wearing a bra at all, the bell rang, and she let her shirt fall back into place as she rose and gestured that he should come out and meet her.
He leapt from his seat, eagerly throwing his bag over his shoulder and bolting for the door. By the time he had made it to the parking lot, the redhead was sitting on the hood of his car, smiling sweetly, waiting. He didn’t stop to greet her, but got into the car and twisted the key in the ignition before she deigned to climb off the front and join him. She had barely closed the passenger door before he was speeding out of the parking lot. She laughed at his eagerness. “Christie Road?” she asked of their destination.
He grinned over at her as they stopped at a red light. “Where else?”
Author: Me
Rating: R for some sexuality and plenty of swearing
Fandom: Green Day
Type: Chaptered/Complete
Summary: Billie Joe and Tracey Stoneham have a rather...physical relationship. But when it becomes less physical and more something else, is he ready for it?
-
Chapter 1
words: 374
The boy sighed quietly, again tracing the shape of his hand upon the desk with his index finger. The heavyset girl in the desk beside his tapped her large foot back and forth slowly. The detention monitor, seated up at her front desk like some kind of James Bond spoof, popped her bubble gum between yellowish smoker’s teeth. She pushed her red-rimmed glasses up her nose and fluffed her thin white hair with bloody claws.
He shuffled his ass in the uncomfortable seat, eyes drifting again to the round white clock above the chalkboard. Two minutes, and counting. His mind slipped into the familiar track made of smoke, guitar tabs, and used condoms.
He turned when someone tapped on the window to his left. The teen’s girlfriend was kneeling among the bushes planted the past spring by the old janitor, Ben, her elbows resting upon the sill. She grinned and stuck her studded tongue out at him, and winked one silver eye.
She sat back, flipping her brilliant red hair back over her shoulder, and began to pull on the hem of her oversized blue New England Patriots jersey. He watched carefully as she revealed her shiny belly button piercing, then a long expanse of pale, freckled skin. He licked his lips, expecting to see next a bra in black, or red, or lime green.
Just as he realized that she wasn’t wearing a bra at all, the bell rang, and she let her shirt fall back into place as she rose and gestured that he should come out and meet her.
He leapt from his seat, eagerly throwing his bag over his shoulder and bolting for the door. By the time he had made it to the parking lot, the redhead was sitting on the hood of his car, smiling sweetly, waiting. He didn’t stop to greet her, but got into the car and twisted the key in the ignition before she deigned to climb off the front and join him. She had barely closed the passenger door before he was speeding out of the parking lot. She laughed at his eagerness. “Christie Road?” she asked of their destination.
He grinned over at her as they stopped at a red light. “Where else?”
Last edited by Sheepy on Tue 27 Oct 2009, 9:17 pm; edited 2 times in total (Reason for editing : checked: sheep)
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
Re: (c) Ready or Not At All [R]
by gloria- Sun 25 Oct 2009, 7:58 pm
Chapter 2
words: 706
Tracey flopped onto her back on the grass in the shade of a large oak tree. She gestured for her boy to join her. He did, also staring up at the canopy of large leaves. She rolled onto her side to look at him. “So, are you taking me to prom?”
Billie Joe looked over at her, eyebrows raised. “If you let me wear a dress, I will.”
She laughed and ran one hand through her straight red hair. “I don’t think it’s me you have to worry about,” she stated.
He shrugged and looked back towards the sky. “Then I’m not going. It’s not even my prom anyway. I doubt they’d let me in the building anymore; I don’t know if you remember, but, last time I was there, it was to drop off my drop-out letter.”
“Right. That didn't go too well, did it?”
“I'd say it went pretty well, actually. I ran out, knocking on all the classroom doors, screaming, ‘¡Viva la revolución!’ with my pants around my ankles. I almost got arrested, actually, but by the time the cops arrived I was off the property and they couldn’t claim I was trespassing.”
“So, no prom?”
“Exactly.”
The teenage girl rolled back to rest facing upwards thoughtfully. “We’d probably just end up fucking in the bathroom anyway.”
“Speaking of which,” Billie said, and sat up, “let’s go over to your place.”
She shook her head. “Can’t. My parents don’t work weekends. What about yours?”
“My homeless jobless brother’s loitering,” the eighteen-year-old informed her. They sat a few moments in silence. “Ah, fuck it. Let’s just go to Christie Road.”
They reached the train tracks less than ten minutes later, and the driver parked in a patch of trash-littered grass before switching off the car and following his girlfriend into the backseat. After a few minutes of manoeuvring (made longer by the fact that they were pausing every few moments to play tonsil hockey and touch each other), they settled down, Billie Joe lying on the vinyl facing up, his girlfriend seated astride him. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, hers pushed up past her breasts as they ground together, hands grabbing, kisses full of teeth and tongue and heat.
Tracey, panting, pressed one hand to her boy’s shoulder, holding him down as she sat up and made quick work of his belt and fly. He watched her, gasping for breath as she hooked her fingers into his boxers and pulled them down until his already-hard cock was exposed. As her long fingers caressed his erection, he threw his head back and groaned, arching his back up to her touch.
She chuckled above him, and his eyes snapped open to look at her. “What?” he growled, irritated that her laughter had made her stop touching him.
“You’re such a slut,” she told him matter-of-factly, thumbing the head of his dick so he let out a kind of aaoh sound. He glared at her but did not attempt to argue, instead pushing one hand up her skirt to ensure her lack of underpants.
“Fuck you,” he snapped, and surged upwards while dragging her hips down, forcing them together. She hissed at the sudden penetration, but quickly fell into the rhythm of his body to hers. The guitarist grunted, mouth open, eyes shut as he bucked upwards into her warmth. She leaned forward, placing both palms against his shoulders as she rode him, flaming locks falling in a curtain around them. Had anyone been anywhere near the Ford Fairlane, they would have noticed the car shaking, heard the shouts as the pair inside came and came down.
For awhile, neither teen moved, too busy clutching each other as they crawled back up the steep slope towards coherence. Finally, however, the boy sat up, taking his girlfriend with him and shifting his cock out of her. He leaned over and took a few tissues from the box sitting on the floor in the backseat, cleaning himself off and wiping away his seed, which had been dripping out of her for a few minutes now. Then, shakily, she climbed back into the passenger seat, waiting as he redressed himself and joined her.
He drove her home in silence.
words: 706
Tracey flopped onto her back on the grass in the shade of a large oak tree. She gestured for her boy to join her. He did, also staring up at the canopy of large leaves. She rolled onto her side to look at him. “So, are you taking me to prom?”
Billie Joe looked over at her, eyebrows raised. “If you let me wear a dress, I will.”
She laughed and ran one hand through her straight red hair. “I don’t think it’s me you have to worry about,” she stated.
He shrugged and looked back towards the sky. “Then I’m not going. It’s not even my prom anyway. I doubt they’d let me in the building anymore; I don’t know if you remember, but, last time I was there, it was to drop off my drop-out letter.”
“Right. That didn't go too well, did it?”
“I'd say it went pretty well, actually. I ran out, knocking on all the classroom doors, screaming, ‘¡Viva la revolución!’ with my pants around my ankles. I almost got arrested, actually, but by the time the cops arrived I was off the property and they couldn’t claim I was trespassing.”
“So, no prom?”
“Exactly.”
The teenage girl rolled back to rest facing upwards thoughtfully. “We’d probably just end up fucking in the bathroom anyway.”
“Speaking of which,” Billie said, and sat up, “let’s go over to your place.”
She shook her head. “Can’t. My parents don’t work weekends. What about yours?”
“My homeless jobless brother’s loitering,” the eighteen-year-old informed her. They sat a few moments in silence. “Ah, fuck it. Let’s just go to Christie Road.”
They reached the train tracks less than ten minutes later, and the driver parked in a patch of trash-littered grass before switching off the car and following his girlfriend into the backseat. After a few minutes of manoeuvring (made longer by the fact that they were pausing every few moments to play tonsil hockey and touch each other), they settled down, Billie Joe lying on the vinyl facing up, his girlfriend seated astride him. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, hers pushed up past her breasts as they ground together, hands grabbing, kisses full of teeth and tongue and heat.
Tracey, panting, pressed one hand to her boy’s shoulder, holding him down as she sat up and made quick work of his belt and fly. He watched her, gasping for breath as she hooked her fingers into his boxers and pulled them down until his already-hard cock was exposed. As her long fingers caressed his erection, he threw his head back and groaned, arching his back up to her touch.
She chuckled above him, and his eyes snapped open to look at her. “What?” he growled, irritated that her laughter had made her stop touching him.
“You’re such a slut,” she told him matter-of-factly, thumbing the head of his dick so he let out a kind of aaoh sound. He glared at her but did not attempt to argue, instead pushing one hand up her skirt to ensure her lack of underpants.
“Fuck you,” he snapped, and surged upwards while dragging her hips down, forcing them together. She hissed at the sudden penetration, but quickly fell into the rhythm of his body to hers. The guitarist grunted, mouth open, eyes shut as he bucked upwards into her warmth. She leaned forward, placing both palms against his shoulders as she rode him, flaming locks falling in a curtain around them. Had anyone been anywhere near the Ford Fairlane, they would have noticed the car shaking, heard the shouts as the pair inside came and came down.
For awhile, neither teen moved, too busy clutching each other as they crawled back up the steep slope towards coherence. Finally, however, the boy sat up, taking his girlfriend with him and shifting his cock out of her. He leaned over and took a few tissues from the box sitting on the floor in the backseat, cleaning himself off and wiping away his seed, which had been dripping out of her for a few minutes now. Then, shakily, she climbed back into the passenger seat, waiting as he redressed himself and joined her.
He drove her home in silence.
Last edited by Sheepy on Tue 27 Oct 2009, 9:20 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : checked:sheep)
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
Re: (c) Ready or Not At All [R]
by gloria- Wed 28 Oct 2009, 11:20 pm
Chapter 3
words: 620
“You want some dinner?” Billie Joe asked, glancing over at his girlfriend, who he’d just picked up from her home. He slowed, then rolled through the stop sign ahead of them, his attention now focused on Tracey, who looked rather pale and miserable. “Trace? What’s up?”
She looked over at him and away, thumb rubbing across her jeans in anxiety. “I...well, see, I – we – um.” She closed her eyes, and a tear dropped from her eyelashes. “Need to talk to you.”
Alarmed, the boy swerved into the next lane and took the next right turn, rushing towards Christie Road so that they could have some peace. Since he and his two best friends had moved into a basement apartment together, he hadn’t really had any privacy, so the railroad was their best chance for some quiet.
By the time they arrived, more tears had fallen from Tracey’s eyes. She wiped at them with her sleeve, one arm clutched protectively around herself as she tried to siphon away the saltwater. Her boyfriend stared at her uncomfortably.
“We need to stop seeing each other,” she said.
The singer’s caterpillar eyebrows drew together. He wouldn’t have said that this particular admission would have made her cry; they weren’t, after all, particularly close. In fact, what he would miss most about her was the fact that she gave good head. However, he leaned over and patted her knee in what he hoped was a comforting way. “Why?” he asked, as quietly as he could in hopes that she wouldn’t hear him.
Now she leaned forward in her seat, shoving his hand away with her arm and replacing it with her elbows. She covered her face with her hands. “My parents are moving me out of town,” she muttered, the sound muffled by her palms.
“What? Why?” He now sounded as confused as he looked.
Tracey sighed inaudibly and turned her head so she could look at him. Her eyes were dry, and she seemed to be watching for his reaction more than anything. “I’m pregnant.”
There were a few moments of painfully stunned silence. The girl watched her now-ex-boyfriend in apprehension as he visibly struggled to process the information. Finally, he swallowed twice, blinking rapidly, and turned to face his steering wheel. He picked absently with one fingertip at a patch of teal vinyl that was peeling off with an air of having no real idea what he was doing. He drew in a breath, and huffed it out all at once. “Wow.”
Hesitantly, she reached across the centre console and took his hand in hers. He turned to look at her and gave her a tiny weak smile. He looked as though he was going to vomit. “I...am planning on giving it up for adoption,” she informed him.
The smile faded from his lips, eyes widening as he called up his knowledge of the California adoption system. His best friend, Mike, had been forced into it and had barely made it through. Before really having a chance to think past that, he shook his head forcefully. “Don’t.”
“What?” The redhead’s forehead took on a crease as she gave him a perplexed look. “Billie, I’m not having an abortion.”
“No, don’t do that either,” he mumbled hurriedly, “I want it. Her. Him. It.”
“Billie, um,” she kept staring at him, apparently under the impression that he hadn’t understood the situation. “You don’t have to. We’re staying here until I have it, and then I’ll give it up for adoption and we’re leaving. You...I’m giving you an out. No responsibility. Just sign the papers and – ”
“Trace. Stop.” He was forceful now, something he rarely was outside of their sexual escapades. “I want it.”
words: 620
“You want some dinner?” Billie Joe asked, glancing over at his girlfriend, who he’d just picked up from her home. He slowed, then rolled through the stop sign ahead of them, his attention now focused on Tracey, who looked rather pale and miserable. “Trace? What’s up?”
She looked over at him and away, thumb rubbing across her jeans in anxiety. “I...well, see, I – we – um.” She closed her eyes, and a tear dropped from her eyelashes. “Need to talk to you.”
Alarmed, the boy swerved into the next lane and took the next right turn, rushing towards Christie Road so that they could have some peace. Since he and his two best friends had moved into a basement apartment together, he hadn’t really had any privacy, so the railroad was their best chance for some quiet.
By the time they arrived, more tears had fallen from Tracey’s eyes. She wiped at them with her sleeve, one arm clutched protectively around herself as she tried to siphon away the saltwater. Her boyfriend stared at her uncomfortably.
“We need to stop seeing each other,” she said.
The singer’s caterpillar eyebrows drew together. He wouldn’t have said that this particular admission would have made her cry; they weren’t, after all, particularly close. In fact, what he would miss most about her was the fact that she gave good head. However, he leaned over and patted her knee in what he hoped was a comforting way. “Why?” he asked, as quietly as he could in hopes that she wouldn’t hear him.
Now she leaned forward in her seat, shoving his hand away with her arm and replacing it with her elbows. She covered her face with her hands. “My parents are moving me out of town,” she muttered, the sound muffled by her palms.
“What? Why?” He now sounded as confused as he looked.
Tracey sighed inaudibly and turned her head so she could look at him. Her eyes were dry, and she seemed to be watching for his reaction more than anything. “I’m pregnant.”
There were a few moments of painfully stunned silence. The girl watched her now-ex-boyfriend in apprehension as he visibly struggled to process the information. Finally, he swallowed twice, blinking rapidly, and turned to face his steering wheel. He picked absently with one fingertip at a patch of teal vinyl that was peeling off with an air of having no real idea what he was doing. He drew in a breath, and huffed it out all at once. “Wow.”
Hesitantly, she reached across the centre console and took his hand in hers. He turned to look at her and gave her a tiny weak smile. He looked as though he was going to vomit. “I...am planning on giving it up for adoption,” she informed him.
The smile faded from his lips, eyes widening as he called up his knowledge of the California adoption system. His best friend, Mike, had been forced into it and had barely made it through. Before really having a chance to think past that, he shook his head forcefully. “Don’t.”
“What?” The redhead’s forehead took on a crease as she gave him a perplexed look. “Billie, I’m not having an abortion.”
“No, don’t do that either,” he mumbled hurriedly, “I want it. Her. Him. It.”
“Billie, um,” she kept staring at him, apparently under the impression that he hadn’t understood the situation. “You don’t have to. We’re staying here until I have it, and then I’ll give it up for adoption and we’re leaving. You...I’m giving you an out. No responsibility. Just sign the papers and – ”
“Trace. Stop.” He was forceful now, something he rarely was outside of their sexual escapades. “I want it.”
Last edited by Sheepy on Thu 29 Oct 2009, 11:35 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : checked:sheep)
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
Re: (c) Ready or Not At All [R]
by gloria- Fri 30 Oct 2009, 3:06 am
Chapter 4
words: 553
“Billie Joe, sweetheart?”
The eighteen-year-old looked up from his coffee at his mother, whose green eyes so like his own were staring at him in concern. “Sorry. Were you saying something?” he asked.
The platinum-blonde woman leaned forward and petted his hair back from his face. “You look like Hell, baby,” she told him.
He snorted. “Don’t bother sugar-coating it,” he replied sarcastically, a sardonic smile on his lips even through the depth of his thoughts.
She smiled too, but less-than-gently pulled his face to look at her. “What’s wrong?”
He glanced back into his hot brown liquid, and traced the rim of his mug with his thumb. “Tracey...” he stopped, heaved a sigh. “Tracey’s pregnant.”
“Oh, child,” Ollie murmured, coming around the counter of the diner she was waitressing and pulling her son’s head against her chest. She rubbed his back.
“I said I’d take it. The baby.”
The mother yanked his head back from her body to stare at him now in utter disbelief. “Billie!” The boy looked severely chagrined, verging on tears. She softened her tone in case he did start crying. “Why would you do that?”
He sighed heavily and picked at a hole in his jeans. “I...I guess I was thinking about Mike’s adoption and what a shitstorm that was. It just seems like if I could prevent it, I don’t want another kid to go into it.”
“You’ve always been such a good boy, baby,” Ollie commented, pulling her son back into her and stroking his hair fondly. “And I’ll help where I can. I do believe that your oldest brother still has a crib from when his last was born.”
“Do you think he’d lend it to me?” Billie asked mournfully, abandoning his lukewarm coffee for the better, more permanent comfort of his mother’s arms. “I...want her to be comfortable.”
“Her?! Baby, how long have you known?” his mother questioned, astonished.
He shook his head. “A few days. Maybe a week? I’m not really...not too sure. It’s been a bit of a blur.”
“How long has she known? Tracey, that is.”
Billie Joe shrugged. “I don’t know, actually.”
“Do you know it’s a girl?”
He signalled no with his head again, twisting his mouth in thought. “I just...feel like it’s a girl. I don’t really understand it. I mean, I want it to be a girl. But...” he trailed off, holding his head as though thinking this hard made it hurt. “It’s just a feeling, but it’s more than wanting.”
The mother smiled gently. “Billie, sweetheart, I thought you were a girl. Look where we are with that.”
“I’m sure that was different, Mother,” the teen told her indignantly. “I know she is.”
“If you say so.” The woman went back around the counter and took a sip of her own coffee, leaning against the sink on the serving side of the counter. “Have you chosen a name for her, then?”
The singer hunched his shoulders up near his ears and held his coffee cup out to his mother for a refill. “I have a first name chosen for her. But middle names...I don’t know. I’m having trouble with them – I want to give her a few.”
“Well, what’s the name?”
The soon-to-be-father looked straight at his mother now, eyes steady. “I really like Annette.”
words: 553
“Billie Joe, sweetheart?”
The eighteen-year-old looked up from his coffee at his mother, whose green eyes so like his own were staring at him in concern. “Sorry. Were you saying something?” he asked.
The platinum-blonde woman leaned forward and petted his hair back from his face. “You look like Hell, baby,” she told him.
He snorted. “Don’t bother sugar-coating it,” he replied sarcastically, a sardonic smile on his lips even through the depth of his thoughts.
She smiled too, but less-than-gently pulled his face to look at her. “What’s wrong?”
He glanced back into his hot brown liquid, and traced the rim of his mug with his thumb. “Tracey...” he stopped, heaved a sigh. “Tracey’s pregnant.”
“Oh, child,” Ollie murmured, coming around the counter of the diner she was waitressing and pulling her son’s head against her chest. She rubbed his back.
“I said I’d take it. The baby.”
The mother yanked his head back from her body to stare at him now in utter disbelief. “Billie!” The boy looked severely chagrined, verging on tears. She softened her tone in case he did start crying. “Why would you do that?”
He sighed heavily and picked at a hole in his jeans. “I...I guess I was thinking about Mike’s adoption and what a shitstorm that was. It just seems like if I could prevent it, I don’t want another kid to go into it.”
“You’ve always been such a good boy, baby,” Ollie commented, pulling her son back into her and stroking his hair fondly. “And I’ll help where I can. I do believe that your oldest brother still has a crib from when his last was born.”
“Do you think he’d lend it to me?” Billie asked mournfully, abandoning his lukewarm coffee for the better, more permanent comfort of his mother’s arms. “I...want her to be comfortable.”
“Her?! Baby, how long have you known?” his mother questioned, astonished.
He shook his head. “A few days. Maybe a week? I’m not really...not too sure. It’s been a bit of a blur.”
“How long has she known? Tracey, that is.”
Billie Joe shrugged. “I don’t know, actually.”
“Do you know it’s a girl?”
He signalled no with his head again, twisting his mouth in thought. “I just...feel like it’s a girl. I don’t really understand it. I mean, I want it to be a girl. But...” he trailed off, holding his head as though thinking this hard made it hurt. “It’s just a feeling, but it’s more than wanting.”
The mother smiled gently. “Billie, sweetheart, I thought you were a girl. Look where we are with that.”
“I’m sure that was different, Mother,” the teen told her indignantly. “I know she is.”
“If you say so.” The woman went back around the counter and took a sip of her own coffee, leaning against the sink on the serving side of the counter. “Have you chosen a name for her, then?”
The singer hunched his shoulders up near his ears and held his coffee cup out to his mother for a refill. “I have a first name chosen for her. But middle names...I don’t know. I’m having trouble with them – I want to give her a few.”
“Well, what’s the name?”
The soon-to-be-father looked straight at his mother now, eyes steady. “I really like Annette.”
Last edited by Sheepy on Fri 30 Oct 2009, 3:27 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : checked:sheep)
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
Re: (c) Ready or Not At All [R]
by gloria- Sun 01 Nov 2009, 12:18 am
Chapter 5
words: 524
“Hey, Mike. How many middle names is too many?”
The bassist raised his eyes slowly to his best friend, setting down his fork and chewing his eggs thoughtfully. “Bill, I don’t know. Why are you even asking?”
The green-eyed boy shrugged nonchalantly, running one finger along the page of his book. “Just answer, okay? Please. It’s important.”
Mike leaned back in his chair, gazing at the guitarist with interested azure eyes. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe four? That’s a lot of middle names,” he said.
“Four. Okay. Thanks.” The boy went back to his book, flipping a page and leaning over it eagerly.
“Why, Billie?” Mike asked suddenly, leaning forward. “Why is it so important? And what book are you reading?”
The singer looked at his friend apprehensively, setting down his pen and squirming a little in his seat. “Well, see, I...um, well. Tracey, well – ” he stopped, blushing furiously, and lifted his book from the table so that the bassist could read the cover. 1001 Baby Names.
“...Billie, what is that for?”
Billie Joe chewed his lip uncomfortably, picking at a spot on the glossy page he was looking at. “Tracey is pregnant.”
“Shit, man,” Mike said, looking astonished. “Is she keeping it?”
“No.” The father shook his head. “I am.”
“Shit, man. Why?”
He looked indignantly at his friend. “Because I didn’t want her to have to be adopted. And because for once I’m taking responsibility for my actions.”
“Oh.” Mike looked chagrined, and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Well, um, what are you going to name it?”
“I’m thinking of Annette, but I’ve got six or seven middle names that I want her to have. So, I’m not sure yet. Want to help me?”
“Okay.” The brown-haired boy picked up his plate and moved around the table to sit beside his best friend. “What are the ones you’re trying to narrow down?”
Billie passed him the handwritten list, his untidy scrawl almost impossible to read. The other squinted at it.
Marie. Olivia. Arianne. Bailey. Trinidad. Glory. Kasia. Phoebe.
“Well, I definitely don’t like Trinidad. Nor Phoebe,” Mike commented. The singer nodded and crossed off those two immediately. “Okay. I really like Bailey. But I also like Glory a lot.”
“Me too. And Arianne.”
“I don’t like that one.”
“Oh. Well, okay. We already have two, I guess.” He crossed off the name with one stroke and looked at the list. “That leaves Marie and Kasia.”
“Kasia? Isn’t that like, Russian or something?”
“Yeah, so? Annette is French.”
“I guess what I mean by isn’t that Russian or something is that I don’t like it,” the blue-eyed teen clarified, shrugging.
“Oh. Okay. Well, I suppose I like Marie better anyway.” Striking off the last name, Billie looked at his list again and rewrote the three finalists underneath. “But I still have three. That’s too many, isn’t it?”
“Dude, it doesn’t really matter to me.” The bassist ruffled his friend’s hair and got up to put his dish in the sink. “Get a second opinion, I say. That way if she hates her name, you can’t blame it on me.”
words: 524
“Hey, Mike. How many middle names is too many?”
The bassist raised his eyes slowly to his best friend, setting down his fork and chewing his eggs thoughtfully. “Bill, I don’t know. Why are you even asking?”
The green-eyed boy shrugged nonchalantly, running one finger along the page of his book. “Just answer, okay? Please. It’s important.”
Mike leaned back in his chair, gazing at the guitarist with interested azure eyes. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe four? That’s a lot of middle names,” he said.
“Four. Okay. Thanks.” The boy went back to his book, flipping a page and leaning over it eagerly.
“Why, Billie?” Mike asked suddenly, leaning forward. “Why is it so important? And what book are you reading?”
The singer looked at his friend apprehensively, setting down his pen and squirming a little in his seat. “Well, see, I...um, well. Tracey, well – ” he stopped, blushing furiously, and lifted his book from the table so that the bassist could read the cover. 1001 Baby Names.
“...Billie, what is that for?”
Billie Joe chewed his lip uncomfortably, picking at a spot on the glossy page he was looking at. “Tracey is pregnant.”
“Shit, man,” Mike said, looking astonished. “Is she keeping it?”
“No.” The father shook his head. “I am.”
“Shit, man. Why?”
He looked indignantly at his friend. “Because I didn’t want her to have to be adopted. And because for once I’m taking responsibility for my actions.”
“Oh.” Mike looked chagrined, and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Well, um, what are you going to name it?”
“I’m thinking of Annette, but I’ve got six or seven middle names that I want her to have. So, I’m not sure yet. Want to help me?”
“Okay.” The brown-haired boy picked up his plate and moved around the table to sit beside his best friend. “What are the ones you’re trying to narrow down?”
Billie passed him the handwritten list, his untidy scrawl almost impossible to read. The other squinted at it.
Marie. Olivia. Arianne. Bailey. Trinidad. Glory. Kasia. Phoebe.
“Well, I definitely don’t like Trinidad. Nor Phoebe,” Mike commented. The singer nodded and crossed off those two immediately. “Okay. I really like Bailey. But I also like Glory a lot.”
“Me too. And Arianne.”
“I don’t like that one.”
“Oh. Well, okay. We already have two, I guess.” He crossed off the name with one stroke and looked at the list. “That leaves Marie and Kasia.”
“Kasia? Isn’t that like, Russian or something?”
“Yeah, so? Annette is French.”
“I guess what I mean by isn’t that Russian or something is that I don’t like it,” the blue-eyed teen clarified, shrugging.
“Oh. Okay. Well, I suppose I like Marie better anyway.” Striking off the last name, Billie looked at his list again and rewrote the three finalists underneath. “But I still have three. That’s too many, isn’t it?”
“Dude, it doesn’t really matter to me.” The bassist ruffled his friend’s hair and got up to put his dish in the sink. “Get a second opinion, I say. That way if she hates her name, you can’t blame it on me.”
Last edited by Sheepy on Sun 01 Nov 2009, 1:14 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : checked:sheep)
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
Re: (c) Ready or Not At All [R]
by gloria- Wed 04 Nov 2009, 4:45 am
Chapter 6
words: 414
Billie Joe cleared his throat when a voice that wasn’t Tracey’s answered her phone. “Uh, hi. Can I talk to Tracey, please?”
“Who’s calling?” the voice on the other end asked. It sounded like it might be her father.
“Uh, this is Billie Joe.”
“Oh, so you’re the boy who’s taking her baby.”
Unsure of how to answer, the boy hummed awkwardly. “Yeah. Pretty much. Sir.”
“I see. Well, Tracey is out right now. I’ll have her call you when she gets home.”
“Thanks,” the teen mumbled, and hung up. He sighed and sat back against the ratty brown sofa cushions, which may or may not have been that colour when they were new. Placing one foot against the milk crate coffee table, he stared at the ceiling, wondering where the mother of his child had gone and when she would return so he could talk to her.
Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. Barely twenty minutes had gone by when the phone jingled from where it was sitting on the arm of the couch, and he grabbed it before it had finished its first ring. “Hello? Tracey?”
The girl laughed as though she wasn’t pregnant and wasn’t about to be thrown into a whirlwind gestation-labour-relocation. “Hi, Billie. My dad says you called.”
“I did. I – I wanted to just, I guess, well, see.” He closed his mouth, swallowed. He was babbling and he knew it. “How are you doing? How is she?”
“As of this exact moment, still not a girl,” the mother told him, making fun of his assuredness about the sex of the baby. “But otherwise, I am fine and so is it.” They were quiet for a moment, and then she took a deep breath and continued. “I just got back from my doctor’s appointment. They say it’s doing very well, and I’m definitely pregnant. I mean, not that I haven’t known for two months, or anything.”
“Good. I mean, I’ve already picked a name. Imagine how disappointing that would have been, had you not been.”
“Have you? What are you going to name it?” Tracey asked.
“Annette. But I don’t know what her middle name will be yet.”
“Do you have a boy’s name? Just in case?”
The eighteen-year-old shook his head. “No. It’s a girl. She’s a girl.”
“If you say so.” There was a laugh in her voice. “I’ve got to go, Billie, I can smell peaches and I want one. Or many. So, bye.”
words: 414
Billie Joe cleared his throat when a voice that wasn’t Tracey’s answered her phone. “Uh, hi. Can I talk to Tracey, please?”
“Who’s calling?” the voice on the other end asked. It sounded like it might be her father.
“Uh, this is Billie Joe.”
“Oh, so you’re the boy who’s taking her baby.”
Unsure of how to answer, the boy hummed awkwardly. “Yeah. Pretty much. Sir.”
“I see. Well, Tracey is out right now. I’ll have her call you when she gets home.”
“Thanks,” the teen mumbled, and hung up. He sighed and sat back against the ratty brown sofa cushions, which may or may not have been that colour when they were new. Placing one foot against the milk crate coffee table, he stared at the ceiling, wondering where the mother of his child had gone and when she would return so he could talk to her.
Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. Barely twenty minutes had gone by when the phone jingled from where it was sitting on the arm of the couch, and he grabbed it before it had finished its first ring. “Hello? Tracey?”
The girl laughed as though she wasn’t pregnant and wasn’t about to be thrown into a whirlwind gestation-labour-relocation. “Hi, Billie. My dad says you called.”
“I did. I – I wanted to just, I guess, well, see.” He closed his mouth, swallowed. He was babbling and he knew it. “How are you doing? How is she?”
“As of this exact moment, still not a girl,” the mother told him, making fun of his assuredness about the sex of the baby. “But otherwise, I am fine and so is it.” They were quiet for a moment, and then she took a deep breath and continued. “I just got back from my doctor’s appointment. They say it’s doing very well, and I’m definitely pregnant. I mean, not that I haven’t known for two months, or anything.”
“Good. I mean, I’ve already picked a name. Imagine how disappointing that would have been, had you not been.”
“Have you? What are you going to name it?” Tracey asked.
“Annette. But I don’t know what her middle name will be yet.”
“Do you have a boy’s name? Just in case?”
The eighteen-year-old shook his head. “No. It’s a girl. She’s a girl.”
“If you say so.” There was a laugh in her voice. “I’ve got to go, Billie, I can smell peaches and I want one. Or many. So, bye.”
Last edited by Sheepy on Wed 04 Nov 2009, 7:21 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : checked:sheep)
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
Re: (c) Ready or Not At All [R]
by gloria- Tue 10 Nov 2009, 12:41 am
Chapter 7
words: 765
There was a horrible retching sound coming from the bathroom down the hall when Tré awoke. Sitting up, he listened for a few moments before deciding that it was indeed a human throwing up (his sister’s cat tended to do it sometimes, after eating too many little bits of bacon fat) and got up in order to discover who it was.
Billie Joe was lying curled on the tile floor, bawling and hiding his face from the fluorescent light. His hair looked dishevelled, and he was still wearing his street clothes from the day before, suggesting that he hadn’t yet been to sleep even though it was nearly four in the morning.
“Bill, dude, are you okay?” the drummer asked, hovering in the doorway in case this was one of those Billie Joe moments.
The singer didn’t move, his tears redoubling while his sobs began to sound painful. Tentatively, Tré stepped into the bathroom and leaned down to scoop his too-light friend up off the floor. He cradled the green-eyed teen to his chest and exited the white-tiled room in favour of the cosier, more comfortable living room.
As the blue-eyed boy sat, Billie Joe wailed and curled himself up even tighter, fingers gripping tightly to his friend’s shirt.
For a few minutes, the pair sat alone in the dark, a poignant tableau on an unwatched stage. Then the lights flicked on, the audience took their seats, and Mike shuffled into the room. “Oh, God,” he muttered when he saw the situation, “Billie. Dude.” When even his best friend’s voice did nothing to abate the guitarist’s cries, Mike looked at Tré. “What happened?” he mouthed. The drummer replied with a shrug and a shake of his head, still rubbing their roommate’s back with gentle, circular motions. Coming to kneel beside the sofa, the bassist reached out and took hold of the sobbing man’s forearm. “Billie, you have to tell us what’s wrong, or we can’t help you.”
“Everything!” Billie Joe finally shrieked. “It’s all wrong and I won’t be able to fix it!”
“What are you talking about?” Tré asked earnestly.
“Annette,” the frontman whimpered, voice quieting. “She’s going to be here and I won’t be ready and nothing is going to be okay!”
The stunned silence that followed was punctuated only by the sobs, which were by now quieting slightly as he tired himself out. “Billie, it will be fine. Annette is going to love you, you know that. Everything will be okay, you’ll see,” the tallest of the three murmured, reaching up from his station beside the couch to pet his best friend’s hair.
“No it won’t!” His voice had again risen to a scream, desperate and frightened and hysterical without constraint. “You don’t know that she won’t hate me! You don’t! Don’t lie to me, Mike!”
“I’m not lying,” Mike insisted, grabbing his friend around the waist to keep him from flailing too much. “I know you, Bill. You already adore her and you don’t even know that it’s a her yet. You’ll spoil her fucking rotten, but she’ll love you for it. You’re her dad. She can’t hate you.”
“Why not?” Billie yelled. His voice cracked under the strain. “I hated my dad for years after he died! She’s going to hate me! I know it!”
“She’s not going to hate you, you fucking idiot,” Tré scoffed. “Listen to yourself. You’ve known you’re having a baby for what – like, three weeks, maybe – and you’ve already picked a name for her. It.”
Suddenly the green-eyed man turned to his friend, ice in his tone. It was hard to take him too seriously when his eyes were leaking and his nose was so gooey that a trail ran from his face to his sleeve. “She’s a girl,” he said, quietly angry, “not an it.”
“Right. Well she is not going to hate you, for fuck’s sake.” Shoving the slight man off his lap and into Mike’s, Tré got up and walked to the doorway. “So just buck the fuck up and finish painting her crib already.” He left, slamming his bedroom door behind him in a grotesque masquerade of domestic violence.
Billie Joe growled in the direction of the closed door, snuggling deeper into the bassist’s embrace. “She’ll hate me,” he muttered spitefully.
“No she won’t,” Mike sighed, exasperated at his two friends’ drama, and shifted into a more comfortable position on the floor. “I will bet you the first package of diapers that she will not hate you.”
The singer hesitated a moment before holding out his hand to shake. “Deal.”
words: 765
There was a horrible retching sound coming from the bathroom down the hall when Tré awoke. Sitting up, he listened for a few moments before deciding that it was indeed a human throwing up (his sister’s cat tended to do it sometimes, after eating too many little bits of bacon fat) and got up in order to discover who it was.
Billie Joe was lying curled on the tile floor, bawling and hiding his face from the fluorescent light. His hair looked dishevelled, and he was still wearing his street clothes from the day before, suggesting that he hadn’t yet been to sleep even though it was nearly four in the morning.
“Bill, dude, are you okay?” the drummer asked, hovering in the doorway in case this was one of those Billie Joe moments.
The singer didn’t move, his tears redoubling while his sobs began to sound painful. Tentatively, Tré stepped into the bathroom and leaned down to scoop his too-light friend up off the floor. He cradled the green-eyed teen to his chest and exited the white-tiled room in favour of the cosier, more comfortable living room.
As the blue-eyed boy sat, Billie Joe wailed and curled himself up even tighter, fingers gripping tightly to his friend’s shirt.
For a few minutes, the pair sat alone in the dark, a poignant tableau on an unwatched stage. Then the lights flicked on, the audience took their seats, and Mike shuffled into the room. “Oh, God,” he muttered when he saw the situation, “Billie. Dude.” When even his best friend’s voice did nothing to abate the guitarist’s cries, Mike looked at Tré. “What happened?” he mouthed. The drummer replied with a shrug and a shake of his head, still rubbing their roommate’s back with gentle, circular motions. Coming to kneel beside the sofa, the bassist reached out and took hold of the sobbing man’s forearm. “Billie, you have to tell us what’s wrong, or we can’t help you.”
“Everything!” Billie Joe finally shrieked. “It’s all wrong and I won’t be able to fix it!”
“What are you talking about?” Tré asked earnestly.
“Annette,” the frontman whimpered, voice quieting. “She’s going to be here and I won’t be ready and nothing is going to be okay!”
The stunned silence that followed was punctuated only by the sobs, which were by now quieting slightly as he tired himself out. “Billie, it will be fine. Annette is going to love you, you know that. Everything will be okay, you’ll see,” the tallest of the three murmured, reaching up from his station beside the couch to pet his best friend’s hair.
“No it won’t!” His voice had again risen to a scream, desperate and frightened and hysterical without constraint. “You don’t know that she won’t hate me! You don’t! Don’t lie to me, Mike!”
“I’m not lying,” Mike insisted, grabbing his friend around the waist to keep him from flailing too much. “I know you, Bill. You already adore her and you don’t even know that it’s a her yet. You’ll spoil her fucking rotten, but she’ll love you for it. You’re her dad. She can’t hate you.”
“Why not?” Billie yelled. His voice cracked under the strain. “I hated my dad for years after he died! She’s going to hate me! I know it!”
“She’s not going to hate you, you fucking idiot,” Tré scoffed. “Listen to yourself. You’ve known you’re having a baby for what – like, three weeks, maybe – and you’ve already picked a name for her. It.”
Suddenly the green-eyed man turned to his friend, ice in his tone. It was hard to take him too seriously when his eyes were leaking and his nose was so gooey that a trail ran from his face to his sleeve. “She’s a girl,” he said, quietly angry, “not an it.”
“Right. Well she is not going to hate you, for fuck’s sake.” Shoving the slight man off his lap and into Mike’s, Tré got up and walked to the doorway. “So just buck the fuck up and finish painting her crib already.” He left, slamming his bedroom door behind him in a grotesque masquerade of domestic violence.
Billie Joe growled in the direction of the closed door, snuggling deeper into the bassist’s embrace. “She’ll hate me,” he muttered spitefully.
“No she won’t,” Mike sighed, exasperated at his two friends’ drama, and shifted into a more comfortable position on the floor. “I will bet you the first package of diapers that she will not hate you.”
The singer hesitated a moment before holding out his hand to shake. “Deal.”
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
Re: (c) Ready or Not At All [R]
by gloria- Sat 14 Nov 2009, 1:44 am
Chapter 8
words: 443
The next time Billie Joe saw Tracey, she had started to show the baby, but only a little. He was napping between shifts, and she had entered his room quietly to look at the crib he had recently finished painting. It was light yellow with little penguins stamped at the corners, and had wheels so that, when the child came, he could push it right up against his own bed.
She sat down on the edge of his mattress and picked her fingers through his hair affectionately. He stirred, mumbling, and opened his eyes. He smiled sleepily when he saw her. “Hi,” he said, and rolled over onto his back so he could place one hand against her belly. “Hi.”
“Hey, Billie,” the redhead replied, patting his arm. “The crib looks good.”
“Thanks,” he grinned, and pointed to the pad inside, where a can of paint was still sitting with a brush and some stencils. “When we’re absolutely sure it’s a girl, I’m going to paint on her name.”
“Did you ever choose a middle name for her?”
“Glory Marie Bailey,” he said proudly. “Annette Glory Marie Bailey Armstrong.”
“It’s nice,” Tracey told him, “can I join you?”
Billie Joe nodded, shuffling over a little in his bed so that she could lie down in front of him. He put one arm around her, resting his hand protectively against the swell of her belly. “I’m going to teach her Spanish,” he mentioned.
“Why?”
He snorted. “Why not? What if she goes to, like, Spain or South America at some point? And we live in California, for the love of God. She could use it here.”
The girl shrugged vaguely, suddenly tired now that she was lying down. “If you say so,” she yawned.
There was a moment of silence. “My dad taught me Spanish,” the boy finally whispered, the tone of his voice indicating that this was a big secret he maybe hadn’t told anyone.
“Oh,” Tracey mumbled reverently, knowing what this meant to him. “You must have been really young. Do you still remember it?”
“Most of it.” He sighed heavily, his fingertips squeezing a little at her stomach. “When are you due?”
“Early November. My parents aren’t going to send me back to school in the fall.”
“Oh.” His breath was calm against the back of her neck, soft as though he was actually prepared for a baby. “I...I miss her.”
The girl lifted her head off the pillow, red hair falling in curtains back down. “Miss who?”
He sighed again, fingers now clutching a bit painfully at her skin. “Annette.”
“The...The baby?”
“Yes.”
“You miss her? Already?”
“Like Hell.”
words: 443
The next time Billie Joe saw Tracey, she had started to show the baby, but only a little. He was napping between shifts, and she had entered his room quietly to look at the crib he had recently finished painting. It was light yellow with little penguins stamped at the corners, and had wheels so that, when the child came, he could push it right up against his own bed.
She sat down on the edge of his mattress and picked her fingers through his hair affectionately. He stirred, mumbling, and opened his eyes. He smiled sleepily when he saw her. “Hi,” he said, and rolled over onto his back so he could place one hand against her belly. “Hi.”
“Hey, Billie,” the redhead replied, patting his arm. “The crib looks good.”
“Thanks,” he grinned, and pointed to the pad inside, where a can of paint was still sitting with a brush and some stencils. “When we’re absolutely sure it’s a girl, I’m going to paint on her name.”
“Did you ever choose a middle name for her?”
“Glory Marie Bailey,” he said proudly. “Annette Glory Marie Bailey Armstrong.”
“It’s nice,” Tracey told him, “can I join you?”
Billie Joe nodded, shuffling over a little in his bed so that she could lie down in front of him. He put one arm around her, resting his hand protectively against the swell of her belly. “I’m going to teach her Spanish,” he mentioned.
“Why?”
He snorted. “Why not? What if she goes to, like, Spain or South America at some point? And we live in California, for the love of God. She could use it here.”
The girl shrugged vaguely, suddenly tired now that she was lying down. “If you say so,” she yawned.
There was a moment of silence. “My dad taught me Spanish,” the boy finally whispered, the tone of his voice indicating that this was a big secret he maybe hadn’t told anyone.
“Oh,” Tracey mumbled reverently, knowing what this meant to him. “You must have been really young. Do you still remember it?”
“Most of it.” He sighed heavily, his fingertips squeezing a little at her stomach. “When are you due?”
“Early November. My parents aren’t going to send me back to school in the fall.”
“Oh.” His breath was calm against the back of her neck, soft as though he was actually prepared for a baby. “I...I miss her.”
The girl lifted her head off the pillow, red hair falling in curtains back down. “Miss who?”
He sighed again, fingers now clutching a bit painfully at her skin. “Annette.”
“The...The baby?”
“Yes.”
“You miss her? Already?”
“Like Hell.”
gloria-- Literary Mentor
-
Number of posts : 1860
Age : 31
Location : murder city. -
I am Revolution :: Words :: Stories :: Fanfiction
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