Still Looking At You [ryan ross/z berg][bandgirlsbang][pt1]
Z hates this atmosphere. She hates the loud noises and the clink of bottles and glasses and the clutter of people and things just strewn everywhere. She hates the stink of alcohol and cigarettes and she hates the girls with their arms linked together, giggling and fluttering their too long eyelashes and flirting like they’ve got nothing better to do.
And she hates that she looks just like them.
Besides that she’s sitting alone at one of the last stools in the bar - she’s got the fake eyelashes and she’s got the ‘raccoon’ eye make-up and the foundation. She’s got her short blonde bob hair sprayed and tucked back perfectly, she’s got the cotton white dress and the silver flats with tiny buckles. She’s got the cigarette sitting between her fingers and the vibrant red lipstick on her lips.
She’s everything every other girl here is - on the outside.
Which is such a terrible, gag-me cliché. She knows that - usually, she’s okay with that. She doesn’t mind that she’s extra sparkly, that she’s got these connections and goes to these huge parties and sometimes (sometimes, only sometimes) gets a little too wasted. She doesn’t mind the deals and the posing, the working for style magazines and fashion and everything that just seems to blow up in front of her. She doesn’t mind because it puts money in her pocket and it makes it possible for her to buy a nice guitar and to sing in her spare time. It allows her to meet the few awesome people she has met and to do what she loves, because honestly, she does like the attention.
She likes posing.
She likes twisting.
She likes the make-up and the lights and the glitter and the flash of the photography. She loves the men and the women who fawn over her and the backgrounds and just - she loves it all. She loves everything about her job.
But she hates what they hide.
There’s whooping as the musicians steps on stage. They’re the third band to play that night, though it’s only eleven, but they seem to be getting the most positive feedback from the crowd as more girls move and squirm to get closer, get into the pit. Z scoots in her seat just enough so that she can peer at the band on the small stage up front, get a good look at them. It doesn’t take her long to decide that they’re scrappy and not very impressive. The singer has a plastic cup with beer in it at his feet as he tunes his guitar, and the bassist is scruffy and has scruffy hair. The cutest is definitely the drummer, who is setting up his set - he’s possibly the skinniest boy Z has ever seen.
She doesn’t pay much attention to the other guitarist - he’s got short, curly hair and has shaved recently.
Whatever.
She turns back to the bar and waves for another beer as the crowd starts to scream.
Maybe they’re famous, or something.
But she thinks she’ll need to be really drunk if she’s going to make it through this night in one piece.
--
It’s almost one in the morning when Z decides it’s time to go. She hops out of the seat, realizing that she probably should have moved a bit because fuck, her ass is sore, but is interrupted before she can take two steps.
A whistle, followed by a, “Well, gosh darling, where are you going so early?”
Z is tempted to just stomp by the man in front of her - he’s scrawny, she could probably slap him and get away easy - but instead, for some insane reason, she looks up at him. She scowls.
“Kindly fuck off,” she mutters darkly, and she turns to walk past him but another, larger man is standing where she had meant to go - she freezes up, going stiff.
The larger man has big hands and long hair and a smirk on his face. “What was that, honey?”
Z steps back and sighs under her breath - she’s obviously not drunk enough. “May I please get to the door? Thanks,” she half-growls, trying to slip past the third one, flanking the skinny one. She blinks and frowns when she recognizes him as the guitarist who she had thought was quite average - up close, she can see just how drunk he is and maybe he’s a little good looking. But he looks like he’s about to say something else, so she just backs up. “You know what, never mind. I think I’ll have another drink.”
The two on either side of the curly haired one laugh, and Z rolls her eyes as she turns back towards the bar, hoping to shake them off by being a bitch. It works, or at least, she thinks it works, until the same skinny, curly haired boy sits next to her.
She stays tense and swallows down her beer - the alcohol tastes bitter and wrong.
“You’re not…” the boy next to her says, and she doesn’t turn to look at him - but his voice is soft, different than before. He’s not here to mock her. “…You’re not one of them, are you?” He’s asking, maybe to be polite, but there’s also something like suspicion - like he doesn’t want to be tricked.
Z turns and looks at him. “You were in the band. That all of the girls freaked out about,” she states, nodding towards the stage.
The guy chuckles and shrugs. “I guess. Maybe. I dunno.”
“How do you not know?” Z asks, regretting this already - she shouldn’t even be talking to this guy who was just harassing her, but. But she thinks that maybe there’s something good in him. Something not so…corrupted.
She’s not so sure about his friends, though.
“They like us - well, they act like they like us. Maybe they just know we can get them somewhere. Or maybe they just want to say ‘yeah, I fucked Ryan Ross’ or ‘yeah, I blew Jon Walker’ but it’s not…it’s not like it’s something to be proud of. None of them really know us. Especially not at a place like this.” The guy looks at Z and smiles a little.
“So, which one are you - Jon or Ryan?” Z asks, pushing her beer away. She’s so sick of beer.
The guy smiles a little. “Ryan. Ryan Ross. Nice to meet you.”
She doesn’t say the same, simply humming a little. “Z,” she answers, short and sweet. “Call me Z. Z Berg.”
Ryan chuckles and glances down the bar - the last band of the night is setting up on stage, though they look dead tired. “Hope your parents didn’t name you that. Rebel without a cause?”
Z snorts. “The name ‘Elizabeth’ has never been fitting for me. I gave it up at fourteen, but my grandmother still calls me that every once in a while. Really does my nerves something awful, but, you know, you learn to deal.”
Ryan laughs again, smiling. “That’s ironic. I changed my name when I was four.”
“Oh?” She tries not to sound interested.
“My middle name is Ryan. My real name is George.”
When Z laughs, it isn’t intentional. But George is way worse than Z. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she manages, breathless. “That was rude of me.”
Ryan laughs along with her, unfazed. “You don’t seem like you’d normally care about being polite, if I’m reading you correctly.”
Z blinks and frowns, hesitating. “I guess not,” she admits.
Ryan grins. “Excuse me, waiter?” he calls, his voice going down and then up and octave as he waves over at the bartender who gives him an incredulous look. “I’d like a glass of champagne - for the lady, of course? And, well, you can get me one too I suppose…”
Z stares.
The bartender slides them their drinks and Ryan pays. Z stares at the glass.
“Why are you buying me alcohol?”
Ryan grins again as he takes a sip of my own. “Why don’t you find out, darling?” he says, with an almost-English accent (it’s purposely fake and almost cute, if Z thinks about it) and for some reason, that’s charming. Z thinks this guy, who was a total douche bag to her ten minutes ago (and is still kind of a douche bag) might be charming.
She takes the champagne and swallows it down, figuring she must be drunk enough as it is - what’s another drink?
--
Her voice is slurred.
“Give up?” Ryan asks, and his voice is just as slurred. Z finds herself giggling like an idiot and she drops the ball so that it bounces across the empty floor.
“Yeah, yeah, I give up, I ’ive up…” she murmurs, almost tripping over her feet. In some part of her mind that’s still possibly sober, she’s trying to scream at herself - get home, go to bed, don’t fuck up, you have a shoot tomorrow, a shoot with Vogue, don’t let this opportunity slip by you! - but instead she just grabs Ryan’s arm, and, entirely hammered, she trips out of the nearly empty bar.
It’s at least three in the morning, and she has to be at the shoot at eight thirty (sharp, her manager has told her, but she’s managed to get away a little late before, so why not now? But her mind’s not really working that smoothly at the moment, anyway) and she can’t drive and there’s no way Ryan or Jon or Alex can drive.
“I have a friend…” Ryan murmurs, his arm around Z’s waist and his face in her hair as they stumble across the parking lot. “Named Nick. And he plays keys in…in my band…so he’ll…take us home.”
Z just mumbles something into his jacket, clinging and tripping along and letting herself trust these almost strangers with everything she’s ever believed in.
--
When Z wakes up, her head is pounding.
But she’s warm.
Groggily, she opens her eyes and moves, just a little, to see the reaction in her head - automatic pain. She moves again, her legs, and finds them tangled with someone else’s. It’s then that she notices the soft breathing and the slow movement - up, down, up, down - of a chest and she realizes that there’s an arm wound tight around her waist.
She squirms again, beginning to panic, and then she remembers who she’s with.
She blinks.
Her face is in the crook of his neck. Her dress is wrinkled and worn but still on. She smells like alcohol, but so does he.
She’s supposed to be at a photo shoot.
“Shit, fuck, shit.”
As she untangles herself from Ryan, he begins to move, disturbed. “The fuck…?” he mumbles as Z stands up, looking wildly around the bedroom for a mirror or something, maybe a bathroom. She looks at the clock when she gets the chance and it’s already eight - she must have a set alarm in her brain still, but it went off a little too late.
“Z?”
Z doesn’t even look at Ryan, fixing the straps of her dress. She feels almost violated, even though she knows that she and Ryan didn’t actually sleep together. They just…slept. Together. But there was no sex. She’d know if there was sex.
“I have to go,” she says shortly and her head is pounding but she finds a bathroom. She curses under her breath as she brushes her hair and washes her face, the best she can do, and then brushes her teeth (she tries to ignore the distinct feeling of disgust she gets from using someone else’s toothbrush, because this is an emergency). When she turns around, Ryan is standing in the doorway, looking at least as wrecked as she does - his hair is all over the place and there are deep circles set under his eyes.
“I have a shoot,” she tells him sharply, pushing past.
She walks out of the room and realizes she’s in a kitchen - she glances around, finds another door - now she’s in a hallway. “Good lord,” she mumbles to herself as she hurries down the hall, half-jogging in her rush. “Damn apartments.”
When Z gets out of the complex (which is huge, as she had expected) it’s 8:23, the shoot starts in seven minutes, but the good thing is that her car is parked not too far back. When she gets closer she recognizes her handbag and purse, slipped between the front seat and the passenger seat.
The door is unlocked.
She frowns, gets in, and tries not to think about the disaster she’s caused herself.
She’s going to be in big trouble.
--
She knows she looks like shit, and by the expression of her make up artist, that isn’t making things much easier.
Greta meets her gaze in the mirror. “So, what kept you?” she asks, but something in her voice says she knows. Z frowns, though it makes her head pound.
“I…woke up late. Forgot to set my alarm.”
Greta bobs her head, humming softly. “Oh, of course. I should have known.”
The artist uncaps a tube of liquid liner and tilts Z’s chin up. She gazes up at Greta as the girl glosses the liner on. “You don’t believe me,” she says, and her voice is rough. She licks her lips - a nervous habit - but doesn’t look away from Greta.
“No…” Greta admits with a tiny shrug. “Not really.”
“Why?” Z asks.
“Because I know it’s not the truth.”
Z stiffens but lets the girl finish putting on her eyeliner and fake eyelashes, pursing her lips.
“You’re all set, Ms. Berg.”
Z nods. “Thank you.”
Greta tails after Z, both of their heels tapping on the tile floor. “Have you seen the photos?”
Z looks back at Greta, frowning. “…What photos?” she asks, suddenly suspicious.
“Some leaked - of you.”
Z frowns harder. It hurts. “What d’you mean? Stop being so fucking…dodgy.”
Greta smiles, a little sadly. “From last night. Of you clinging to some guy…apparently he was in the band that played at the party last night. As your friend, I sincerely hope you didn’t sleep with him, Z, because that could really put your career and your life is jeopardy, if it isn’t already…”
“Shut the fuck up, Greta, I didn’t fucking sleep with him. We were both way too hammered for sex.”
Greta blinks and then quirks an eyebrow. “You went home with him, though?”
“I don’t even fucking remember what happened. The last thing I remember was nearly passing out playing beer pong and then he told me a friend would drive us…next thing I knew, I woke up against his fucking chest. Ugh, it’s disgusting. Believe me, dearest Greta, I’m disgusted with myself.”
Greta smiles again, sweet and sad. “Well, I hope you feel better later. Because I certainly know that once Tom bitches you out you will more than likely feel worse.”
Z groans and glances at a clock hanging above the door leading into the main room of the photo shoot. It’s an hour past when they were supposed to start.
“Fuck my life,” she grumbles, and knows today is going to be a bad day.
--
When Z thinks about it, getting that drunk was a mistake from the start.
Well, she doesn’t exactly have to think about it, it was obvious. But. Sometimes she does, anyway.
Tom did bitch her out, and she felt like shit for the rest of the day - she’s been avoiding parties for weeks now, and she hasn’t heard a thing about Ryan Ross or the rest of his band (she doesn’t even know their name, which she supposes is actually a good thing). After the photos got leaked to the paparazzi, it had basically gone away. She had been bothered for a few days, but then…it had faded.
And Z is okay with that.
Mistakes happen.
--
It takes a week or so, but she eventually remembers more about what had happened. It’s like she had suppressed the memories of being wasted, but slowly they seep back to her.
She remembers Ryan talking to her with his soft voice, joking about his friends and ordering her drink after drink. She remembers the way they had played beer pong for almost an hour even though she knew she was terrible at it. She remembers laughing a lot and she remembers stumbling and grabbing his arm.
She remembers him steadying her even though he was just as drunk as her, if not possibly more (though she doesn’t think that was even possible, considering).
She starts to remember Ryan taking her handbag and handing it to the bassist (she still doesn’t know his name) and asking him with a slurred voice to, “Please, can you follow us in her car? Nick needs to take us home…” and Z remembers almost nodding off but not really caring. But she kind of remembers maybe being grateful.
She remembers Nick opening the back door for them and waking up with her head lying in Ryan’s lap. She begins to remember him holding her elbow as she tried not to nod off again, her arm around his waist. She remembers him leading her to the elevator and her giggles as she almost fell over when the elevator started to move.
She shivers when she remembers how he had taken off his shirt and led her towards the bed.
She remembers blinking at him and how everything had been fuzzy and distorted.
She kind of remembers him, maybe vaguely, asking if she wants to shower. She had mumbled something and just crawled up under the sheets of his bed without really caring. And he had laughed and muttered, “Fuck it,” and crawled in with her. And she had let herself wrap her arms around his neck and press her face to the crook of his neck while he tangled their skinny legs together.
Correction: He was definitely, most certainly, not as drunk as her. It would have been impossible for him to be as drunk as her if he was able to take care of her that well. Yeah, sure, he was definitely hammered - but he still took care of her.
And that’s a realization that scares Z - she put her faith and trust into someone she hardly knew and they returned it. They…reciprocated.
She can’t remember the last time a guy treated her right. Didn’t try to take advantage of her.
Somehow, this is a scarier thought than if he had taken advantage of her. Why is he different? He shouldn’t be different. If he’s different, then she’s going to be scared. Scared because he’ll end up being something she’ll want - maybe something she’ll need. And she can’t let that happen. She can’t (she refuses) be vulnerable. The last time she was vulnerable, she ended up in the hospital with Tennessee holding her hand and a huge black bruise over her eye.
That is not going to happen.
Even if he is different.
And even if she does feel like she has to see him again.
--
“Z? What’s so fascinating?”
Z glances back at Tennessee, blinking. She turns, and points at the stage. “T-them - you know…” She trails off, her voice falling flat, and frowns. “Don’t you?”
Tennessee blinks, absolutely innocent. “Know what?” she asks, and her English accent is evident, even in the few words. “Z, what’s wrong? Do you like that band or something?” Tennessee squints, and then adds, “Oooh, the singer is pretty cute.”
Z blushes and shakes her head, looking bewildered. “No, that’s not it, I’m just…”
Tennessee blinks again and smiles. “Yeah?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Z twists in her seat and looks back at stage, where Ryan and Jon are setting up.
Tennessee doesn’t bug her about it anymore.
--
Z manages to slip away from Tennessee. “Think you can get a ride? I’m just going to hang out for a little bit longer.”
Tennessee laughs. “Well, you don’t have a photo shoot tomorrow, right? It should be okay, I’m sure Laena will take me home, and if not, I’m sure someone will let me hitch a ride. I’m cute, after all.”
Z laughs with her, agreeing. “You are cute,” she murmurs, leaning down and kissing Tennessee’s cheek as she stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”
“Don’t get too drunk tonight, right, darling?”
Z scowls a bit. “Promise?” Tennessee pushes, her lips twitching with amusement.
“Promise,” Z mutters, and, pleased, Tennessee stands and waves as Z heads towards the crowd.
She manages to weave her way through people until she’s near the front, where girls and guys are dispersing, chattering loudly and laughing and almost spilling alcohol on her (she dodges well). She looks up at the boys on stage - Ryan’s back is to her, and he looks like he’s talking in a low voice with the drummer, who follows up with a shrug. Z thinks it’s probably a bad idea to be just standing heer, almost like she’s waiting for him to turn around and notice her (maybe he wouldn’t even do that), so she moves out of the crowd and towards the back of the stage.
She notices the guy with longer hair leaning against the steps leading onto the stage and ducks her head, confidence gone. Admittedly, he kind of scares her.
Honestly, it’s strange (maybe ironic would be the better word). She hasn’t been to a party since the fiasco with Ryan and the paparazzi almost a month ago, and the first time she goes out (only for a quick drink and maybe to hang until eleven) with Tennessee, they’re there. And it’s weird. It’s awkward. It’s just strange - maybe it’s just a coincidence.
Or maybe it’s fate.
Well, it could be fate if Z believed in fate. Which she doesn’t - it’s garbage that people make up so that they can have excuses as to why they fall in love or why they get screwed over and break up. People just want an excuse, she’s realized - it was ‘fate’ that made her mother leave. It was ‘fate’ that made her father an alcoholic. It was ‘fate’ that she grew up in a shitty household so she thought it was okay. It was ‘fate’ that made her fall in love with a man who didn’t love her. It was ‘fate’ that made him punch her. It was ‘fate’ that made her crawl back to him until Tennessee and Laena talked some sense into her.
It was ‘fate’. Fate, fucking fate, ruining everything for everyone.
But right now, leaning against the wall of a dank and badly lit bar, Z realizes that maybe there are good kinds of fate. Maybe there are some parts that are okay.
But right now - why does that even matter?
After a couple of minutes of waiting, Z realizes something - she blends in perfect near the back of the stage. There are a couple of guys, but few. Mostly, girls - chattering, drinking, laughing, preparing their cameras, gossiping, taking pictures of themselves with their friends. Z hears snippets of their conversations, though she has no idea where most of it comes from - “Think he’d let me suck him off?” “Would it really be worth it?” “What’s the keyboardist’s name again?” “You’ll be famous.”
They’ve all got their heads blown up and their worlds out of proportion. They sneaked into this party and now they’re taking advantage of cheating.
Z tries not to roll her eyes and shake her head.
She stays in her little corner when Ryan and Jon get off stage (the bassist is helping the drummer who is still putting away his set, and the keyboardist (she’s pretty sure he’s the Nick that helped them drive home) disappeared off the other side of the stage - no one bothered him), and at first they’re all smiles, all greetings and the taking of pens and markers and the signing of clothes and skin and paper and booklets.
Z maybe nods off a little.
“Hey.”
She blinks, looks up.
“Jon, can you help me…?”
Still crowded. Not as crowded - they could easily notice her if she looked at them.
The long haired one is bothering Jon (who is the short haired one who had flanked Ryan, she realizes), asking him to help move stuff to the van. Z scans the area and eventually meets Ryan’s gaze.
Meets his gaze.
He’s staring right at her.
She falters for a moment, but then lifts her chin and with a smirk, manages to put her hand over her chest, sighing heavily. “This is a moment I’ve only dreamt of,” she says breathily as she approaches him with languid steps, fluttering her fake eyelashes. Ryan looks confused, and her plan is working. “Oh, Ryan Ross, if only you knew what your music caused me to feel…the emotions, the pain, it’s just…oh, it’s too much!” She clasps her other hand over the first, stumbling backwards as if she’s getting the wind knocked out of her. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you for the first time in my life, ever.”
Ryan is smiling now, understanding (maybe) what she’s getting at. He pushes his too long hair out of his eyes, and, still smiling, shrugs. “Well, thanks. You know, just part of my job. Gotta eat.”
“Oh…?” Z trails off and smiles, more genuinely now. “Well, you do it splendidly, my dear.” She pauses, biting her lip. After a moment of awkward silence, she adds, “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.”
Ryan looks at the floor, and the atmosphere has changed. “Did I ruin your day? Or…your night? Morning…? What would you consider that?”
Z laughs gently. “A little,” she answers, choosing not to elaborate on his question. “But it was my fault, really. I was late for a photo shoot, but that was about it. Massive hangover. Got screamed at. Took shit photos for a shit magazine. No big deal.”
“I…stayed in bed all day.” Ryan gives her a quirked smile and a little shrug.
Z raises an eyebrow then shakes her head. “Lucky bastard.”
“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but…” Before Ryan can go on, Z interrupts him.
“So, how many girls come back here to ask if they can suck your cock on average per night?”
Ryan blinks and then snorts. “Hm, roughly? About…seven a night. It’s hard not to laugh, really. Like they could handle my dick anyway.”
Z rolls her eyes, wondering if this was a bad idea - she hates the stupid snooty attitude dripping in his voice. Maybe she really just misread him.
“But really,” he continues, and something’s softened in his voice, “they’re just kids. I don’t do the groupie thing - it’s stupid. They’re so lost, they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing when they ask…I mean, God, they’re just kids. I can’t give them what they need.”
Z looks up at him. Under her breath, she murmurs, “Oh,” but she doesn’t think Ryan hears her. They meet each other’s eyes again, and she looks at him (really looks this time, tries to see something she might have missed before), reaching out and touching his jaw. Ryan bites his lip, but he doesn’t avert her gaze, and for some reason Z feels like they’re in some paradox, where things don’t have to make sense.
She kisses him and at first it’s just a light peck - she lets her mouth linger near his and he moves his lips just enough to count as a kiss back. She’s on her toes in her heels in order to reach him, and he stands still, maybe afraid to move and ruin something.
“Hi,” she says, still just hovering near his face.
“…Hey,” he returns, and when she notices that his voice is shaking slightly she smiles.
She kisses him again, but she doesn’t mind as much this time - no one’s watching. No one cares. And if they do - well, she doesn’t.
The way Ryan kisses back is awkward - he tries to move his mouth to work with hers but he doesn’t seem to really be sure how. His hands land on her hips, but then one moves to her back and suddenly she’s pressed up against him with their mouths hot together and Ryan’s hand pressing into her back.
She cups her hands on either sides of his face and kisses like she hasn’t kissed in quite a long time.
--
His apartment is cleaner this time - like he realized she might come back and thought, ‘Gosh, I should put my dirty laundry in the basket,’ and took some time to tidy up. It’s the first thing Z notices, even though after Ryan locks the door they’re molded together again, kissing sloppy and dirty.
Z can feel the line of Ryan’s dick through his pants and she tries not to laugh into his mouth, tangling her fingers into his hair.
This is insane.
He kisses down her neck and her shoulder. “You’re really pretty,” he murmurs as his fingers fumble with the zipper in the back of her dress. As it unfolds she shivers, the sound seeming much louder in Ryan’s apartment. He stops pulling it down halfway down her back, hesitating with his mouth against her neck. “Are you okay with this?”
Z laughs, but it comes out almost hysterically. “Yes, I am okay with this. If I wasn’t okay with this I would have slapped you. Or punched you. Especially by now. I’m not about to back down. Don’t make me consider backing down.” Her voice goes up at least two octaves as she almost stutters out the words, finding herself quivering.
“You’re shaking,” Ryan whispers, and he kisses her throat. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise.”
Z lets out a shuddering breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I know,” she whispers, and she grabs his hair and pulls his face back to hers for another messy kiss.
He unzips her dress the rest of the way down.
She helps it slide to the floor so that all she’s wearing is her underwear. She can still feel his dick in between her thighs but for some reason it’s not awkward or wrong. It just makes the room seem hotter. It makes her seem full.
Still kissing Ryan, Z undoes the buttons of his pants and pulls down the zipper.
It makes a similar noise to hers and is followed by a similar reaction to Z’s.
Z laughs (it’s not hysterical this time) as his pants fall to the living room floor.
“You weren’t really joking about the groupies, were you?” she whispers.
“Not exactly.”
--
Z crashes on her couch all of the next day.
She doesn’t regret what happened.
But she’s not exactly thrilled about it, either.
She feels uncomfortable in her skin, like something’s just a bit off. She had kissed Ryan good bye, she had lay by his side and stayed there all morning, naked in the heat because he had no air conditioning on, and it had been okay. She had been okay with that, the couple of hours from eight to ten in the morning where they had just kind of watched each other with half lidded eyes while she threaded her fingers through his hair and he kept his arm around her waist.
She had left - she had told him, softly, “I’m gonna go home now,” and he had pushed himself up on his elbows and gazed at her. She had smiled and leaned over to kiss him on the corner of the mouth.
She remembers how he had kissed back, just barely, just tilting his head a little to get a better grip, touching the side of her face with his long fingers.
And then, just like that, she had up and left and driven back to her apartment.
And here she is.
The feelings are still mixed, even as she thinks about it. She’s happy, but at the same time, it’s something she’s not sure about. She’s not sure if Ryan will want to stick around, or if she’ll be able to keep herself rooted down. And maybe she doesn’t want to be rooted down. Of course she doesn’t want to be rooted down, and she knows she’s being stupid for assuming that’s what it means.
It’s just - she’s never had a relationship that was exactly stable.
And two nights together doesn’t really count as a relationship, does it?
“Shit,” she whispers, throwing her arm over her forehead.
“Shit, fuck, shit.”
--
“Z!”
Z blinks and twists.
Victoria smiles, standing too close.
“Shit, Victoria, I didn’t know you were there!” Z rolls her shoulders, looking at the taller girl. “What?”
Victoria laughs at Z’s blatant response. “You seem totally out of it. What’s up? You’re not paying any attention.”
Z shrugs her shoulders, this time rather in response than to raise her circulation. “I’ve had a lot to think about,” she admits, trying to be nonchalant. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with what?” Victoria asks, and Z frowns.
“Modeling. Photo shoots. Work. The same things you’re always busy with, Ms. Asher. What are you getting out? You sound like Greta.”
Victoria laughs, and Z isn’t going to lie - Victoria has a great smile, it’s why she’s such a great model. That and her fucking legs - Z is so jealous of the length of those damned things. Basically, Victoria is the most beautiful, perfectly created thing to enter the industry - she makes up for it by being a pretty much cutthroat bitch who loves getting into other people’s business and who hates men. She’s got an absolute vendetta against them, and Z thinks Victoria might have gone through a couple of situations similar to hers - which makes her nervous that she’s not good enough, or that Victoria will see through her.
Which doesn’t make sense.
Z’s just paranoid as fuck.
“Well, I was just thinking about your boyfriend.”
Z tenses, but she doesn’t slow down - she starts to walk faster, hoping, maybe, she’ll lose Victoria. It doesn’t work. Victoria’s got longer legs and catches up with her in a couple of strides. “You. And Ryan Ross - you guys are a thing, right?” she asks, as if it’s not big deal.
“We are not dating,” Z snaps, “we barely even know each other.” She reaches up she wipe her mouth when she realizes that she had spit on the floor with her words, but curses quietly to herself, instead just rubbing her red painted lips together.
“Oh. Really.”
Victoria doesn’t sound convinced.
“Hey, I know you know I’m a lesbian, but you seemed really happy. In those pictures with him - I mean, yeah, initially you were really drunk,” - Victoria laughs here, and Z kind of wants to punch her in the mouth - “but it happens to the best of us, so I get you. But hey, you seem like you need someone. Don’t let it get you down, alright, darling?” Victoria touches Z’s elbow at her side and squeezes. Z looks at her and sighs.
“Yeah, whatever,” she grumbles, finishing with, “we have a shoot, okay Victoria? Let’s not talk about this anymore.”
--
Z avoids Ryan Ross like the plague, hoping that people will pretend like it never happened. She doesn’t go to any bars without checking to see who the entertainment is (and making sure Ryan Ross is not involved - it’s kind of stalkerish, actually, she’s gone out of her way to make sure he won’t be at a party she has to go to) and mostly, she’s been staying home and going out only when she absolutely has to - she does what she needs to do, and that is modeling and shopping.
It’s boring as fuck, though.
And then, she starts getting calls.
And the number lists the name as ‘Ross’, and Z doesn’t know anyone named Ross besides Ryan, first or last name wise. It’s not like she was pocket dialed, either, because he calls approximately six or seven times a day, ten on a day when he seems really pissed off. Eventually she gets texts from him, too, and the first one reads, y r u ignoring me? txt me back -ry and Z legitimately wants to laugh, because he’s so irritated that he can’t even use entire words?
She doesn’t text him back.
--
Z is really beginning to get stressed. People left and right are asking her about Ryan, and she tries to be polite, tries so hard - they want to know fucking details about her personal life? Do they honestly think any amount of money will help them? Yeah, because she most certainly gives a flying fuck. But again, she’s polite - I have no comment, and a lot of Ryan and I are just friends, nothing more,, but Z’s pretty sure none of them believe it.
It’s when Z’s in a fucking grocery store that she really loses it, though - she’s just had enough.
The lady who approaches her is holding a pad of paper and a small recording device in her other hand along with a pencil, and she touches Z’s shoulder with a quick, “Excuse me, Miss Berg?” and of course, Z turns around because what else is she supposed to do?
She immediately flinches when she realizes it’s someone for a gossip magazine. The woman smiles lightly, and dives right into an interview Z never agreed to. “Do you think the Young Veins will be able to be successful, despite Ryan Ross’ incapability to sing?”
Z is dumbstruck for a moment, just surprised that the soft looking woman could be so utterly blatant. “Excuse me?” she starts, but right when the woman looks about to repeat herself, she shakes her head. “No, you’re wrong. Ryan can sing - in fact, he’s fan-fucking-tastic,” - oops, she thinks to herself, she hadn’t meant to swear - oh well - “and as a band, they’re great, they function fine, but I really can’t put my opinion into that very well, because, see, I’ve only seen them twice, and I’ve only met Ryan twice, and you’re wrong to think that I really care, I just don’t need any ignorant fucks lying. So, thanks for your concern, but please - don’t.”
Z turns, leaving the soy milk on the shelf, and heads out the doors.
She knows she’s fucked.
Tennessee looks up from her drink and tilts her head to the side, her long hair falling out of her eyes. “Are you okay, darling?” she asks, sipping from her girly fruity drink.
Z snorts and rolls her eyes, gulping down some of her beer. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asks, and it’s not supposed to come off as sarcastic, but maybe it does.
“Well, I noticed that article. A couple of days ago. Something about you cursing quite rudely was all I saw…on the front of the magazine. Someone got a little pushy and you broke down?”
Z falls back in her chair across from Tennessee and groans. “I am fucking sick of being asked about that! Yes, I am only human, a woman who is likely PMSing, what the fuck else do you expect from me? They keep on bothering me about Ryan, and to be completely honest, I don’t give a fuck. He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh.”
Z glares. “What?”
“You’re afraid!”
Z snorts. “Afraid of what? The paparazzi? I don’t give a fuck about them, either.”
“But you do. I mean, in some weird, twisted way. You care what they think because if Ryan sees it, he’ll know who you are. Honey, I don’t think he cares. I think he really likes you.”
Z laughs again, but it sounds nervous this time. “How the hell would you know, Tenn? You’ve never met him.”
Tennessee twists her straw in her drink. “Honey, I go to parties without you. Especially recently, God, otherwise I’d be bored out of my mind.” Tennessee giggles and Z narrows her eyes. “I’ve talked to him. He misses you. He asked me if your cell phone was broken or if you’d lost it.”
“No,” Z says flatly. “I’m just ignoring him.”
“I know, I know,” Tennessee says, waving her hand. “I told him that and he pouted. It was sweet. Z, darling, he likes you. Like, legitimately likes you.”
“Shut up, Tenn. What do you know?” Z grumbles, looking at her bottle of beer.
Tennessee sighs lightly. “Remember being in the hospital eight months ago? It’s been eight months, can you believe that? Do you remember that, though? And how everyone pitied you, the press actually left you alone, almost, because you had a huge black eye? How you couldn’t model, and you limped your way out to your car when you had to go out because of when he knocked you down the stairs? Honey, I was there and I held your hand and cried with you. Honey, I know a good guy from a bad guy. And you can’t be afraid forever.”
Z had meant to tell Tennessee to go fuck herself about two minutes ago, but her voice is caught in her throat. She swallows, tears stinging her eyes. “I…” she starts, “I’m afraid?”
“Yes, you are,” Tennessee says, matter-of-factly. “Give Ry a chance, okay? Let him into your heart, little by little. You might learn something about yourself.”
Z swallows and blinks back the tears. “Yeah. Okay.”
She doesn’t know much of anything, not anymore.
--
It takes a couple of days, but she finally works up the courage to call Ryan.
“Z? Is that you!?”
She’s silent for a minute, gathering the thoughts she had thought she had sorted out - so much for that. “So, apparently I was scared,” she starts, and her voice cracks. “But I’m calling you now, because I talked to Tennessee, that traitorous bitch, but uhm. I’m talking to you now.”
Ryan laughs, deep and long on the other line. “So I’ve noticed. I stopped calling you when I realized your phone wasn’t broken. I was ready for rejection.”
“I like you,” Z says, ignoring him. “I do. You’re the first nice guy I’ve met. In a long time, I guess. You…you probably know.” It dawns on her when she realizes Ryan probably read the articles about her abusive exes in some of those stupid magazines last year. She almost chokes again, biting down hard on her lip. She hates being exposed and vulnerable. People think they can use her because of it.
“I…” Ryan pauses. “Yes. That’s why. When I first saw you, I…”
“You asked if I was the same.”
“But I knew you weren’t. No one who was hurt like that and still got up in the morning and moved on with life could have been. I kind of…I kind of admire that, I mean, my dad was an alcoholic and he didn’t hit me too often, and I mean, he’s been dead since I was nineteen, but…still…”
“I…Yeah. My dad was…an alcoholic too. That’s why…” Z can feel the stupid fucking tears again, and she thinks she’s going to cry. “That’s why I let my boyfriends - but fuck, Ryan, you’re not going to fucking use me. You’re not.”
“You’re right,” Ryan whispers, his voice soft and soothing. “I’m not going to.”
Z wipes her eyes, not caring if she smudges her mascara or eye shadow. She’s so sick of lying and pretending to be okay, but she doesn’t want to fall apart on the phone.
“Z? Are you busy this weekend?”
Z blinks, distracted. “What?”
“I don’t have any gigs, and if you don’t have anything going on, I want to invite you to my place. To just…hang, you know? I don’t know. I want to get to know you, get to talk to you a little more, if that’s okay. If you’ll let me, that is. If you’re not busy.”
Mentally, Z quickly thinks through her schedule. It’s true - she has nothing to do, no modeling contracts to keep up with this weekend. “I…yeah, I’m not busy. I - let’s do it.”
There’s a long, pleased sigh on the other line. “Do you need me to tell you where I live again?”
“Yes,” Z says, her voice cracking again. “Yes, please do that.”
Part 2
And she hates that she looks just like them.
Besides that she’s sitting alone at one of the last stools in the bar - she’s got the fake eyelashes and she’s got the ‘raccoon’ eye make-up and the foundation. She’s got her short blonde bob hair sprayed and tucked back perfectly, she’s got the cotton white dress and the silver flats with tiny buckles. She’s got the cigarette sitting between her fingers and the vibrant red lipstick on her lips.
She’s everything every other girl here is - on the outside.
Which is such a terrible, gag-me cliché. She knows that - usually, she’s okay with that. She doesn’t mind that she’s extra sparkly, that she’s got these connections and goes to these huge parties and sometimes (sometimes, only sometimes) gets a little too wasted. She doesn’t mind the deals and the posing, the working for style magazines and fashion and everything that just seems to blow up in front of her. She doesn’t mind because it puts money in her pocket and it makes it possible for her to buy a nice guitar and to sing in her spare time. It allows her to meet the few awesome people she has met and to do what she loves, because honestly, she does like the attention.
She likes posing.
She likes twisting.
She likes the make-up and the lights and the glitter and the flash of the photography. She loves the men and the women who fawn over her and the backgrounds and just - she loves it all. She loves everything about her job.
But she hates what they hide.
There’s whooping as the musicians steps on stage. They’re the third band to play that night, though it’s only eleven, but they seem to be getting the most positive feedback from the crowd as more girls move and squirm to get closer, get into the pit. Z scoots in her seat just enough so that she can peer at the band on the small stage up front, get a good look at them. It doesn’t take her long to decide that they’re scrappy and not very impressive. The singer has a plastic cup with beer in it at his feet as he tunes his guitar, and the bassist is scruffy and has scruffy hair. The cutest is definitely the drummer, who is setting up his set - he’s possibly the skinniest boy Z has ever seen.
She doesn’t pay much attention to the other guitarist - he’s got short, curly hair and has shaved recently.
Whatever.
She turns back to the bar and waves for another beer as the crowd starts to scream.
Maybe they’re famous, or something.
But she thinks she’ll need to be really drunk if she’s going to make it through this night in one piece.
--
It’s almost one in the morning when Z decides it’s time to go. She hops out of the seat, realizing that she probably should have moved a bit because fuck, her ass is sore, but is interrupted before she can take two steps.
A whistle, followed by a, “Well, gosh darling, where are you going so early?”
Z is tempted to just stomp by the man in front of her - he’s scrawny, she could probably slap him and get away easy - but instead, for some insane reason, she looks up at him. She scowls.
“Kindly fuck off,” she mutters darkly, and she turns to walk past him but another, larger man is standing where she had meant to go - she freezes up, going stiff.
The larger man has big hands and long hair and a smirk on his face. “What was that, honey?”
Z steps back and sighs under her breath - she’s obviously not drunk enough. “May I please get to the door? Thanks,” she half-growls, trying to slip past the third one, flanking the skinny one. She blinks and frowns when she recognizes him as the guitarist who she had thought was quite average - up close, she can see just how drunk he is and maybe he’s a little good looking. But he looks like he’s about to say something else, so she just backs up. “You know what, never mind. I think I’ll have another drink.”
The two on either side of the curly haired one laugh, and Z rolls her eyes as she turns back towards the bar, hoping to shake them off by being a bitch. It works, or at least, she thinks it works, until the same skinny, curly haired boy sits next to her.
She stays tense and swallows down her beer - the alcohol tastes bitter and wrong.
“You’re not…” the boy next to her says, and she doesn’t turn to look at him - but his voice is soft, different than before. He’s not here to mock her. “…You’re not one of them, are you?” He’s asking, maybe to be polite, but there’s also something like suspicion - like he doesn’t want to be tricked.
Z turns and looks at him. “You were in the band. That all of the girls freaked out about,” she states, nodding towards the stage.
The guy chuckles and shrugs. “I guess. Maybe. I dunno.”
“How do you not know?” Z asks, regretting this already - she shouldn’t even be talking to this guy who was just harassing her, but. But she thinks that maybe there’s something good in him. Something not so…corrupted.
She’s not so sure about his friends, though.
“They like us - well, they act like they like us. Maybe they just know we can get them somewhere. Or maybe they just want to say ‘yeah, I fucked Ryan Ross’ or ‘yeah, I blew Jon Walker’ but it’s not…it’s not like it’s something to be proud of. None of them really know us. Especially not at a place like this.” The guy looks at Z and smiles a little.
“So, which one are you - Jon or Ryan?” Z asks, pushing her beer away. She’s so sick of beer.
The guy smiles a little. “Ryan. Ryan Ross. Nice to meet you.”
She doesn’t say the same, simply humming a little. “Z,” she answers, short and sweet. “Call me Z. Z Berg.”
Ryan chuckles and glances down the bar - the last band of the night is setting up on stage, though they look dead tired. “Hope your parents didn’t name you that. Rebel without a cause?”
Z snorts. “The name ‘Elizabeth’ has never been fitting for me. I gave it up at fourteen, but my grandmother still calls me that every once in a while. Really does my nerves something awful, but, you know, you learn to deal.”
Ryan laughs again, smiling. “That’s ironic. I changed my name when I was four.”
“Oh?” She tries not to sound interested.
“My middle name is Ryan. My real name is George.”
When Z laughs, it isn’t intentional. But George is way worse than Z. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she manages, breathless. “That was rude of me.”
Ryan laughs along with her, unfazed. “You don’t seem like you’d normally care about being polite, if I’m reading you correctly.”
Z blinks and frowns, hesitating. “I guess not,” she admits.
Ryan grins. “Excuse me, waiter?” he calls, his voice going down and then up and octave as he waves over at the bartender who gives him an incredulous look. “I’d like a glass of champagne - for the lady, of course? And, well, you can get me one too I suppose…”
Z stares.
The bartender slides them their drinks and Ryan pays. Z stares at the glass.
“Why are you buying me alcohol?”
Ryan grins again as he takes a sip of my own. “Why don’t you find out, darling?” he says, with an almost-English accent (it’s purposely fake and almost cute, if Z thinks about it) and for some reason, that’s charming. Z thinks this guy, who was a total douche bag to her ten minutes ago (and is still kind of a douche bag) might be charming.
She takes the champagne and swallows it down, figuring she must be drunk enough as it is - what’s another drink?
--
Her voice is slurred.
“Give up?” Ryan asks, and his voice is just as slurred. Z finds herself giggling like an idiot and she drops the ball so that it bounces across the empty floor.
“Yeah, yeah, I give up, I ’ive up…” she murmurs, almost tripping over her feet. In some part of her mind that’s still possibly sober, she’s trying to scream at herself - get home, go to bed, don’t fuck up, you have a shoot tomorrow, a shoot with Vogue, don’t let this opportunity slip by you! - but instead she just grabs Ryan’s arm, and, entirely hammered, she trips out of the nearly empty bar.
It’s at least three in the morning, and she has to be at the shoot at eight thirty (sharp, her manager has told her, but she’s managed to get away a little late before, so why not now? But her mind’s not really working that smoothly at the moment, anyway) and she can’t drive and there’s no way Ryan or Jon or Alex can drive.
“I have a friend…” Ryan murmurs, his arm around Z’s waist and his face in her hair as they stumble across the parking lot. “Named Nick. And he plays keys in…in my band…so he’ll…take us home.”
Z just mumbles something into his jacket, clinging and tripping along and letting herself trust these almost strangers with everything she’s ever believed in.
--
When Z wakes up, her head is pounding.
But she’s warm.
Groggily, she opens her eyes and moves, just a little, to see the reaction in her head - automatic pain. She moves again, her legs, and finds them tangled with someone else’s. It’s then that she notices the soft breathing and the slow movement - up, down, up, down - of a chest and she realizes that there’s an arm wound tight around her waist.
She squirms again, beginning to panic, and then she remembers who she’s with.
She blinks.
Her face is in the crook of his neck. Her dress is wrinkled and worn but still on. She smells like alcohol, but so does he.
She’s supposed to be at a photo shoot.
“Shit, fuck, shit.”
As she untangles herself from Ryan, he begins to move, disturbed. “The fuck…?” he mumbles as Z stands up, looking wildly around the bedroom for a mirror or something, maybe a bathroom. She looks at the clock when she gets the chance and it’s already eight - she must have a set alarm in her brain still, but it went off a little too late.
“Z?”
Z doesn’t even look at Ryan, fixing the straps of her dress. She feels almost violated, even though she knows that she and Ryan didn’t actually sleep together. They just…slept. Together. But there was no sex. She’d know if there was sex.
“I have to go,” she says shortly and her head is pounding but she finds a bathroom. She curses under her breath as she brushes her hair and washes her face, the best she can do, and then brushes her teeth (she tries to ignore the distinct feeling of disgust she gets from using someone else’s toothbrush, because this is an emergency). When she turns around, Ryan is standing in the doorway, looking at least as wrecked as she does - his hair is all over the place and there are deep circles set under his eyes.
“I have a shoot,” she tells him sharply, pushing past.
She walks out of the room and realizes she’s in a kitchen - she glances around, finds another door - now she’s in a hallway. “Good lord,” she mumbles to herself as she hurries down the hall, half-jogging in her rush. “Damn apartments.”
When Z gets out of the complex (which is huge, as she had expected) it’s 8:23, the shoot starts in seven minutes, but the good thing is that her car is parked not too far back. When she gets closer she recognizes her handbag and purse, slipped between the front seat and the passenger seat.
The door is unlocked.
She frowns, gets in, and tries not to think about the disaster she’s caused herself.
She’s going to be in big trouble.
--
She knows she looks like shit, and by the expression of her make up artist, that isn’t making things much easier.
Greta meets her gaze in the mirror. “So, what kept you?” she asks, but something in her voice says she knows. Z frowns, though it makes her head pound.
“I…woke up late. Forgot to set my alarm.”
Greta bobs her head, humming softly. “Oh, of course. I should have known.”
The artist uncaps a tube of liquid liner and tilts Z’s chin up. She gazes up at Greta as the girl glosses the liner on. “You don’t believe me,” she says, and her voice is rough. She licks her lips - a nervous habit - but doesn’t look away from Greta.
“No…” Greta admits with a tiny shrug. “Not really.”
“Why?” Z asks.
“Because I know it’s not the truth.”
Z stiffens but lets the girl finish putting on her eyeliner and fake eyelashes, pursing her lips.
“You’re all set, Ms. Berg.”
Z nods. “Thank you.”
Greta tails after Z, both of their heels tapping on the tile floor. “Have you seen the photos?”
Z looks back at Greta, frowning. “…What photos?” she asks, suddenly suspicious.
“Some leaked - of you.”
Z frowns harder. It hurts. “What d’you mean? Stop being so fucking…dodgy.”
Greta smiles, a little sadly. “From last night. Of you clinging to some guy…apparently he was in the band that played at the party last night. As your friend, I sincerely hope you didn’t sleep with him, Z, because that could really put your career and your life is jeopardy, if it isn’t already…”
“Shut the fuck up, Greta, I didn’t fucking sleep with him. We were both way too hammered for sex.”
Greta blinks and then quirks an eyebrow. “You went home with him, though?”
“I don’t even fucking remember what happened. The last thing I remember was nearly passing out playing beer pong and then he told me a friend would drive us…next thing I knew, I woke up against his fucking chest. Ugh, it’s disgusting. Believe me, dearest Greta, I’m disgusted with myself.”
Greta smiles again, sweet and sad. “Well, I hope you feel better later. Because I certainly know that once Tom bitches you out you will more than likely feel worse.”
Z groans and glances at a clock hanging above the door leading into the main room of the photo shoot. It’s an hour past when they were supposed to start.
“Fuck my life,” she grumbles, and knows today is going to be a bad day.
--
When Z thinks about it, getting that drunk was a mistake from the start.
Well, she doesn’t exactly have to think about it, it was obvious. But. Sometimes she does, anyway.
Tom did bitch her out, and she felt like shit for the rest of the day - she’s been avoiding parties for weeks now, and she hasn’t heard a thing about Ryan Ross or the rest of his band (she doesn’t even know their name, which she supposes is actually a good thing). After the photos got leaked to the paparazzi, it had basically gone away. She had been bothered for a few days, but then…it had faded.
And Z is okay with that.
Mistakes happen.
--
It takes a week or so, but she eventually remembers more about what had happened. It’s like she had suppressed the memories of being wasted, but slowly they seep back to her.
She remembers Ryan talking to her with his soft voice, joking about his friends and ordering her drink after drink. She remembers the way they had played beer pong for almost an hour even though she knew she was terrible at it. She remembers laughing a lot and she remembers stumbling and grabbing his arm.
She remembers him steadying her even though he was just as drunk as her, if not possibly more (though she doesn’t think that was even possible, considering).
She starts to remember Ryan taking her handbag and handing it to the bassist (she still doesn’t know his name) and asking him with a slurred voice to, “Please, can you follow us in her car? Nick needs to take us home…” and Z remembers almost nodding off but not really caring. But she kind of remembers maybe being grateful.
She remembers Nick opening the back door for them and waking up with her head lying in Ryan’s lap. She begins to remember him holding her elbow as she tried not to nod off again, her arm around his waist. She remembers him leading her to the elevator and her giggles as she almost fell over when the elevator started to move.
She shivers when she remembers how he had taken off his shirt and led her towards the bed.
She remembers blinking at him and how everything had been fuzzy and distorted.
She kind of remembers him, maybe vaguely, asking if she wants to shower. She had mumbled something and just crawled up under the sheets of his bed without really caring. And he had laughed and muttered, “Fuck it,” and crawled in with her. And she had let herself wrap her arms around his neck and press her face to the crook of his neck while he tangled their skinny legs together.
Correction: He was definitely, most certainly, not as drunk as her. It would have been impossible for him to be as drunk as her if he was able to take care of her that well. Yeah, sure, he was definitely hammered - but he still took care of her.
And that’s a realization that scares Z - she put her faith and trust into someone she hardly knew and they returned it. They…reciprocated.
She can’t remember the last time a guy treated her right. Didn’t try to take advantage of her.
Somehow, this is a scarier thought than if he had taken advantage of her. Why is he different? He shouldn’t be different. If he’s different, then she’s going to be scared. Scared because he’ll end up being something she’ll want - maybe something she’ll need. And she can’t let that happen. She can’t (she refuses) be vulnerable. The last time she was vulnerable, she ended up in the hospital with Tennessee holding her hand and a huge black bruise over her eye.
That is not going to happen.
Even if he is different.
And even if she does feel like she has to see him again.
--
“Z? What’s so fascinating?”
Z glances back at Tennessee, blinking. She turns, and points at the stage. “T-them - you know…” She trails off, her voice falling flat, and frowns. “Don’t you?”
Tennessee blinks, absolutely innocent. “Know what?” she asks, and her English accent is evident, even in the few words. “Z, what’s wrong? Do you like that band or something?” Tennessee squints, and then adds, “Oooh, the singer is pretty cute.”
Z blushes and shakes her head, looking bewildered. “No, that’s not it, I’m just…”
Tennessee blinks again and smiles. “Yeah?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Z twists in her seat and looks back at stage, where Ryan and Jon are setting up.
Tennessee doesn’t bug her about it anymore.
--
Z manages to slip away from Tennessee. “Think you can get a ride? I’m just going to hang out for a little bit longer.”
Tennessee laughs. “Well, you don’t have a photo shoot tomorrow, right? It should be okay, I’m sure Laena will take me home, and if not, I’m sure someone will let me hitch a ride. I’m cute, after all.”
Z laughs with her, agreeing. “You are cute,” she murmurs, leaning down and kissing Tennessee’s cheek as she stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”
“Don’t get too drunk tonight, right, darling?”
Z scowls a bit. “Promise?” Tennessee pushes, her lips twitching with amusement.
“Promise,” Z mutters, and, pleased, Tennessee stands and waves as Z heads towards the crowd.
She manages to weave her way through people until she’s near the front, where girls and guys are dispersing, chattering loudly and laughing and almost spilling alcohol on her (she dodges well). She looks up at the boys on stage - Ryan’s back is to her, and he looks like he’s talking in a low voice with the drummer, who follows up with a shrug. Z thinks it’s probably a bad idea to be just standing heer, almost like she’s waiting for him to turn around and notice her (maybe he wouldn’t even do that), so she moves out of the crowd and towards the back of the stage.
She notices the guy with longer hair leaning against the steps leading onto the stage and ducks her head, confidence gone. Admittedly, he kind of scares her.
Honestly, it’s strange (maybe ironic would be the better word). She hasn’t been to a party since the fiasco with Ryan and the paparazzi almost a month ago, and the first time she goes out (only for a quick drink and maybe to hang until eleven) with Tennessee, they’re there. And it’s weird. It’s awkward. It’s just strange - maybe it’s just a coincidence.
Or maybe it’s fate.
Well, it could be fate if Z believed in fate. Which she doesn’t - it’s garbage that people make up so that they can have excuses as to why they fall in love or why they get screwed over and break up. People just want an excuse, she’s realized - it was ‘fate’ that made her mother leave. It was ‘fate’ that made her father an alcoholic. It was ‘fate’ that she grew up in a shitty household so she thought it was okay. It was ‘fate’ that made her fall in love with a man who didn’t love her. It was ‘fate’ that made him punch her. It was ‘fate’ that made her crawl back to him until Tennessee and Laena talked some sense into her.
It was ‘fate’. Fate, fucking fate, ruining everything for everyone.
But right now, leaning against the wall of a dank and badly lit bar, Z realizes that maybe there are good kinds of fate. Maybe there are some parts that are okay.
But right now - why does that even matter?
After a couple of minutes of waiting, Z realizes something - she blends in perfect near the back of the stage. There are a couple of guys, but few. Mostly, girls - chattering, drinking, laughing, preparing their cameras, gossiping, taking pictures of themselves with their friends. Z hears snippets of their conversations, though she has no idea where most of it comes from - “Think he’d let me suck him off?” “Would it really be worth it?” “What’s the keyboardist’s name again?” “You’ll be famous.”
They’ve all got their heads blown up and their worlds out of proportion. They sneaked into this party and now they’re taking advantage of cheating.
Z tries not to roll her eyes and shake her head.
She stays in her little corner when Ryan and Jon get off stage (the bassist is helping the drummer who is still putting away his set, and the keyboardist (she’s pretty sure he’s the Nick that helped them drive home) disappeared off the other side of the stage - no one bothered him), and at first they’re all smiles, all greetings and the taking of pens and markers and the signing of clothes and skin and paper and booklets.
Z maybe nods off a little.
“Hey.”
She blinks, looks up.
“Jon, can you help me…?”
Still crowded. Not as crowded - they could easily notice her if she looked at them.
The long haired one is bothering Jon (who is the short haired one who had flanked Ryan, she realizes), asking him to help move stuff to the van. Z scans the area and eventually meets Ryan’s gaze.
Meets his gaze.
He’s staring right at her.
She falters for a moment, but then lifts her chin and with a smirk, manages to put her hand over her chest, sighing heavily. “This is a moment I’ve only dreamt of,” she says breathily as she approaches him with languid steps, fluttering her fake eyelashes. Ryan looks confused, and her plan is working. “Oh, Ryan Ross, if only you knew what your music caused me to feel…the emotions, the pain, it’s just…oh, it’s too much!” She clasps her other hand over the first, stumbling backwards as if she’s getting the wind knocked out of her. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you for the first time in my life, ever.”
Ryan is smiling now, understanding (maybe) what she’s getting at. He pushes his too long hair out of his eyes, and, still smiling, shrugs. “Well, thanks. You know, just part of my job. Gotta eat.”
“Oh…?” Z trails off and smiles, more genuinely now. “Well, you do it splendidly, my dear.” She pauses, biting her lip. After a moment of awkward silence, she adds, “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.”
Ryan looks at the floor, and the atmosphere has changed. “Did I ruin your day? Or…your night? Morning…? What would you consider that?”
Z laughs gently. “A little,” she answers, choosing not to elaborate on his question. “But it was my fault, really. I was late for a photo shoot, but that was about it. Massive hangover. Got screamed at. Took shit photos for a shit magazine. No big deal.”
“I…stayed in bed all day.” Ryan gives her a quirked smile and a little shrug.
Z raises an eyebrow then shakes her head. “Lucky bastard.”
“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but…” Before Ryan can go on, Z interrupts him.
“So, how many girls come back here to ask if they can suck your cock on average per night?”
Ryan blinks and then snorts. “Hm, roughly? About…seven a night. It’s hard not to laugh, really. Like they could handle my dick anyway.”
Z rolls her eyes, wondering if this was a bad idea - she hates the stupid snooty attitude dripping in his voice. Maybe she really just misread him.
“But really,” he continues, and something’s softened in his voice, “they’re just kids. I don’t do the groupie thing - it’s stupid. They’re so lost, they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing when they ask…I mean, God, they’re just kids. I can’t give them what they need.”
Z looks up at him. Under her breath, she murmurs, “Oh,” but she doesn’t think Ryan hears her. They meet each other’s eyes again, and she looks at him (really looks this time, tries to see something she might have missed before), reaching out and touching his jaw. Ryan bites his lip, but he doesn’t avert her gaze, and for some reason Z feels like they’re in some paradox, where things don’t have to make sense.
She kisses him and at first it’s just a light peck - she lets her mouth linger near his and he moves his lips just enough to count as a kiss back. She’s on her toes in her heels in order to reach him, and he stands still, maybe afraid to move and ruin something.
“Hi,” she says, still just hovering near his face.
“…Hey,” he returns, and when she notices that his voice is shaking slightly she smiles.
She kisses him again, but she doesn’t mind as much this time - no one’s watching. No one cares. And if they do - well, she doesn’t.
The way Ryan kisses back is awkward - he tries to move his mouth to work with hers but he doesn’t seem to really be sure how. His hands land on her hips, but then one moves to her back and suddenly she’s pressed up against him with their mouths hot together and Ryan’s hand pressing into her back.
She cups her hands on either sides of his face and kisses like she hasn’t kissed in quite a long time.
--
His apartment is cleaner this time - like he realized she might come back and thought, ‘Gosh, I should put my dirty laundry in the basket,’ and took some time to tidy up. It’s the first thing Z notices, even though after Ryan locks the door they’re molded together again, kissing sloppy and dirty.
Z can feel the line of Ryan’s dick through his pants and she tries not to laugh into his mouth, tangling her fingers into his hair.
This is insane.
He kisses down her neck and her shoulder. “You’re really pretty,” he murmurs as his fingers fumble with the zipper in the back of her dress. As it unfolds she shivers, the sound seeming much louder in Ryan’s apartment. He stops pulling it down halfway down her back, hesitating with his mouth against her neck. “Are you okay with this?”
Z laughs, but it comes out almost hysterically. “Yes, I am okay with this. If I wasn’t okay with this I would have slapped you. Or punched you. Especially by now. I’m not about to back down. Don’t make me consider backing down.” Her voice goes up at least two octaves as she almost stutters out the words, finding herself quivering.
“You’re shaking,” Ryan whispers, and he kisses her throat. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise.”
Z lets out a shuddering breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I know,” she whispers, and she grabs his hair and pulls his face back to hers for another messy kiss.
He unzips her dress the rest of the way down.
She helps it slide to the floor so that all she’s wearing is her underwear. She can still feel his dick in between her thighs but for some reason it’s not awkward or wrong. It just makes the room seem hotter. It makes her seem full.
Still kissing Ryan, Z undoes the buttons of his pants and pulls down the zipper.
It makes a similar noise to hers and is followed by a similar reaction to Z’s.
Z laughs (it’s not hysterical this time) as his pants fall to the living room floor.
“You weren’t really joking about the groupies, were you?” she whispers.
“Not exactly.”
--
Z crashes on her couch all of the next day.
She doesn’t regret what happened.
But she’s not exactly thrilled about it, either.
She feels uncomfortable in her skin, like something’s just a bit off. She had kissed Ryan good bye, she had lay by his side and stayed there all morning, naked in the heat because he had no air conditioning on, and it had been okay. She had been okay with that, the couple of hours from eight to ten in the morning where they had just kind of watched each other with half lidded eyes while she threaded her fingers through his hair and he kept his arm around her waist.
She had left - she had told him, softly, “I’m gonna go home now,” and he had pushed himself up on his elbows and gazed at her. She had smiled and leaned over to kiss him on the corner of the mouth.
She remembers how he had kissed back, just barely, just tilting his head a little to get a better grip, touching the side of her face with his long fingers.
And then, just like that, she had up and left and driven back to her apartment.
And here she is.
The feelings are still mixed, even as she thinks about it. She’s happy, but at the same time, it’s something she’s not sure about. She’s not sure if Ryan will want to stick around, or if she’ll be able to keep herself rooted down. And maybe she doesn’t want to be rooted down. Of course she doesn’t want to be rooted down, and she knows she’s being stupid for assuming that’s what it means.
It’s just - she’s never had a relationship that was exactly stable.
And two nights together doesn’t really count as a relationship, does it?
“Shit,” she whispers, throwing her arm over her forehead.
“Shit, fuck, shit.”
--
“Z!”
Z blinks and twists.
Victoria smiles, standing too close.
“Shit, Victoria, I didn’t know you were there!” Z rolls her shoulders, looking at the taller girl. “What?”
Victoria laughs at Z’s blatant response. “You seem totally out of it. What’s up? You’re not paying any attention.”
Z shrugs her shoulders, this time rather in response than to raise her circulation. “I’ve had a lot to think about,” she admits, trying to be nonchalant. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with what?” Victoria asks, and Z frowns.
“Modeling. Photo shoots. Work. The same things you’re always busy with, Ms. Asher. What are you getting out? You sound like Greta.”
Victoria laughs, and Z isn’t going to lie - Victoria has a great smile, it’s why she’s such a great model. That and her fucking legs - Z is so jealous of the length of those damned things. Basically, Victoria is the most beautiful, perfectly created thing to enter the industry - she makes up for it by being a pretty much cutthroat bitch who loves getting into other people’s business and who hates men. She’s got an absolute vendetta against them, and Z thinks Victoria might have gone through a couple of situations similar to hers - which makes her nervous that she’s not good enough, or that Victoria will see through her.
Which doesn’t make sense.
Z’s just paranoid as fuck.
“Well, I was just thinking about your boyfriend.”
Z tenses, but she doesn’t slow down - she starts to walk faster, hoping, maybe, she’ll lose Victoria. It doesn’t work. Victoria’s got longer legs and catches up with her in a couple of strides. “You. And Ryan Ross - you guys are a thing, right?” she asks, as if it’s not big deal.
“We are not dating,” Z snaps, “we barely even know each other.” She reaches up she wipe her mouth when she realizes that she had spit on the floor with her words, but curses quietly to herself, instead just rubbing her red painted lips together.
“Oh. Really.”
Victoria doesn’t sound convinced.
“Hey, I know you know I’m a lesbian, but you seemed really happy. In those pictures with him - I mean, yeah, initially you were really drunk,” - Victoria laughs here, and Z kind of wants to punch her in the mouth - “but it happens to the best of us, so I get you. But hey, you seem like you need someone. Don’t let it get you down, alright, darling?” Victoria touches Z’s elbow at her side and squeezes. Z looks at her and sighs.
“Yeah, whatever,” she grumbles, finishing with, “we have a shoot, okay Victoria? Let’s not talk about this anymore.”
--
Z avoids Ryan Ross like the plague, hoping that people will pretend like it never happened. She doesn’t go to any bars without checking to see who the entertainment is (and making sure Ryan Ross is not involved - it’s kind of stalkerish, actually, she’s gone out of her way to make sure he won’t be at a party she has to go to) and mostly, she’s been staying home and going out only when she absolutely has to - she does what she needs to do, and that is modeling and shopping.
It’s boring as fuck, though.
And then, she starts getting calls.
And the number lists the name as ‘Ross’, and Z doesn’t know anyone named Ross besides Ryan, first or last name wise. It’s not like she was pocket dialed, either, because he calls approximately six or seven times a day, ten on a day when he seems really pissed off. Eventually she gets texts from him, too, and the first one reads, y r u ignoring me? txt me back -ry and Z legitimately wants to laugh, because he’s so irritated that he can’t even use entire words?
She doesn’t text him back.
--
Z is really beginning to get stressed. People left and right are asking her about Ryan, and she tries to be polite, tries so hard - they want to know fucking details about her personal life? Do they honestly think any amount of money will help them? Yeah, because she most certainly gives a flying fuck. But again, she’s polite - I have no comment, and a lot of Ryan and I are just friends, nothing more,, but Z’s pretty sure none of them believe it.
It’s when Z’s in a fucking grocery store that she really loses it, though - she’s just had enough.
The lady who approaches her is holding a pad of paper and a small recording device in her other hand along with a pencil, and she touches Z’s shoulder with a quick, “Excuse me, Miss Berg?” and of course, Z turns around because what else is she supposed to do?
She immediately flinches when she realizes it’s someone for a gossip magazine. The woman smiles lightly, and dives right into an interview Z never agreed to. “Do you think the Young Veins will be able to be successful, despite Ryan Ross’ incapability to sing?”
Z is dumbstruck for a moment, just surprised that the soft looking woman could be so utterly blatant. “Excuse me?” she starts, but right when the woman looks about to repeat herself, she shakes her head. “No, you’re wrong. Ryan can sing - in fact, he’s fan-fucking-tastic,” - oops, she thinks to herself, she hadn’t meant to swear - oh well - “and as a band, they’re great, they function fine, but I really can’t put my opinion into that very well, because, see, I’ve only seen them twice, and I’ve only met Ryan twice, and you’re wrong to think that I really care, I just don’t need any ignorant fucks lying. So, thanks for your concern, but please - don’t.”
Z turns, leaving the soy milk on the shelf, and heads out the doors.
She knows she’s fucked.
Tennessee looks up from her drink and tilts her head to the side, her long hair falling out of her eyes. “Are you okay, darling?” she asks, sipping from her girly fruity drink.
Z snorts and rolls her eyes, gulping down some of her beer. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asks, and it’s not supposed to come off as sarcastic, but maybe it does.
“Well, I noticed that article. A couple of days ago. Something about you cursing quite rudely was all I saw…on the front of the magazine. Someone got a little pushy and you broke down?”
Z falls back in her chair across from Tennessee and groans. “I am fucking sick of being asked about that! Yes, I am only human, a woman who is likely PMSing, what the fuck else do you expect from me? They keep on bothering me about Ryan, and to be completely honest, I don’t give a fuck. He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh.”
Z glares. “What?”
“You’re afraid!”
Z snorts. “Afraid of what? The paparazzi? I don’t give a fuck about them, either.”
“But you do. I mean, in some weird, twisted way. You care what they think because if Ryan sees it, he’ll know who you are. Honey, I don’t think he cares. I think he really likes you.”
Z laughs again, but it sounds nervous this time. “How the hell would you know, Tenn? You’ve never met him.”
Tennessee twists her straw in her drink. “Honey, I go to parties without you. Especially recently, God, otherwise I’d be bored out of my mind.” Tennessee giggles and Z narrows her eyes. “I’ve talked to him. He misses you. He asked me if your cell phone was broken or if you’d lost it.”
“No,” Z says flatly. “I’m just ignoring him.”
“I know, I know,” Tennessee says, waving her hand. “I told him that and he pouted. It was sweet. Z, darling, he likes you. Like, legitimately likes you.”
“Shut up, Tenn. What do you know?” Z grumbles, looking at her bottle of beer.
Tennessee sighs lightly. “Remember being in the hospital eight months ago? It’s been eight months, can you believe that? Do you remember that, though? And how everyone pitied you, the press actually left you alone, almost, because you had a huge black eye? How you couldn’t model, and you limped your way out to your car when you had to go out because of when he knocked you down the stairs? Honey, I was there and I held your hand and cried with you. Honey, I know a good guy from a bad guy. And you can’t be afraid forever.”
Z had meant to tell Tennessee to go fuck herself about two minutes ago, but her voice is caught in her throat. She swallows, tears stinging her eyes. “I…” she starts, “I’m afraid?”
“Yes, you are,” Tennessee says, matter-of-factly. “Give Ry a chance, okay? Let him into your heart, little by little. You might learn something about yourself.”
Z swallows and blinks back the tears. “Yeah. Okay.”
She doesn’t know much of anything, not anymore.
--
It takes a couple of days, but she finally works up the courage to call Ryan.
“Z? Is that you!?”
She’s silent for a minute, gathering the thoughts she had thought she had sorted out - so much for that. “So, apparently I was scared,” she starts, and her voice cracks. “But I’m calling you now, because I talked to Tennessee, that traitorous bitch, but uhm. I’m talking to you now.”
Ryan laughs, deep and long on the other line. “So I’ve noticed. I stopped calling you when I realized your phone wasn’t broken. I was ready for rejection.”
“I like you,” Z says, ignoring him. “I do. You’re the first nice guy I’ve met. In a long time, I guess. You…you probably know.” It dawns on her when she realizes Ryan probably read the articles about her abusive exes in some of those stupid magazines last year. She almost chokes again, biting down hard on her lip. She hates being exposed and vulnerable. People think they can use her because of it.
“I…” Ryan pauses. “Yes. That’s why. When I first saw you, I…”
“You asked if I was the same.”
“But I knew you weren’t. No one who was hurt like that and still got up in the morning and moved on with life could have been. I kind of…I kind of admire that, I mean, my dad was an alcoholic and he didn’t hit me too often, and I mean, he’s been dead since I was nineteen, but…still…”
“I…Yeah. My dad was…an alcoholic too. That’s why…” Z can feel the stupid fucking tears again, and she thinks she’s going to cry. “That’s why I let my boyfriends - but fuck, Ryan, you’re not going to fucking use me. You’re not.”
“You’re right,” Ryan whispers, his voice soft and soothing. “I’m not going to.”
Z wipes her eyes, not caring if she smudges her mascara or eye shadow. She’s so sick of lying and pretending to be okay, but she doesn’t want to fall apart on the phone.
“Z? Are you busy this weekend?”
Z blinks, distracted. “What?”
“I don’t have any gigs, and if you don’t have anything going on, I want to invite you to my place. To just…hang, you know? I don’t know. I want to get to know you, get to talk to you a little more, if that’s okay. If you’ll let me, that is. If you’re not busy.”
Mentally, Z quickly thinks through her schedule. It’s true - she has nothing to do, no modeling contracts to keep up with this weekend. “I…yeah, I’m not busy. I - let’s do it.”
There’s a long, pleased sigh on the other line. “Do you need me to tell you where I live again?”
“Yes,” Z says, her voice cracking again. “Yes, please do that.”
Part 2