Are You Ready To Be Liberated? [On this sad side city street.]
Title: Are You Ready To Be Liberated? [On this sad side city street.]
Fandom: RPFS - Bandverse
Pairing: Brody Dalle/Hayley Williams
Band: (The Distillers/Spinnerette - Paramore)
Word Count: 5274...This is a beast. I haven't written fanfic in ages... I got a little carried away.
Disclaimer: I don’t own these people! These events did not occur. I have no idea who's going to be at Lollapalooza this year. Also, these artist do not run in the same circle at all. I did find out that Hayley follows Brody on twitter though. This suits my purposes.
A/N: Written because I miss Brody with a mohawk. I was originally gonna pair Brody with Patricia Day because she makes me lol with her orientation of “not sure” and interests in “handsome men in wife beaters and girls who knock their teeth out” but I feel that she’s way too obscure for anyone to even care enough to read this. Oh most anything written in italics are not my words; they're taken from reviews and such. Also, Hayley's Josh is not the same person as Brody's Josh. I'd hate to confuse all you lovely readers.
I am an epic failure at photoshop so banners really don't work out but I shall supply you with Brody hottness to compensate :).
This is the song in the fic.
Click to view~Lollapalooza 2010~
It’s August in Chicago. There’s a sticky hot quality to the air that makes it seem like a blanket is wrapped around your shoulders, even in the dead of the night.
Hair is sticking to Brody’s forehead but it doesn’t matter because she’s singing.
She’s singing onstage and there are thousands of people out there screaming and the whole mass of them is alive and undulating with energy. It’s all for her and the band and she really fucking missed this.
Brody loves her life. She loves her husband; she most certainly loves her daughter, but this, performing and putting your all out on a fucking stage, it’s something that’s always been so much a part of her. She doesn’t know how she had laid it aside for so long.
They’ve played countless of shows as Spinnerette. It’s a rare occurrence where fans haven’t called for a Distillers song but this is the first time they’ve relented. It’s partly because Tony has been begging for it. He wants to relive the glory days. When they had respect.
They decide to close set with The Hunger and Brody hasn’t screamed like this in years but there’s a part of her that wants to throw out a big fuck you to all the pricks who think she’s sold out.
She sees a sign out of corner of her eye. TIM WROTE YOUR SONGS BETTER. The words are angry red slashes across white canvas. There’s a kid surfing the crowd waving it high above his head, he’s jubilant and righteous in his judgment. Seven years later and she still can’t escape this shit.
Brody’s guttural wails transcend a new level of raw.
The crowd is calling for an encore. They want more of The Distillers and none of Spinnerette. She struts off stage without saying thank you or goodnight or even I love you Chicago. The youth is angry, the youth will always be angry but Brody knows that few of them have known anger as intimately as she has.
She is the sneering mouthpiece of the band.
The fans, or ex-fans really, aren’t afraid to show exactly what they think of her so she figures the hell with it. She has opinions too. Thirty-one years old and still trying to prove herself, she scoffs to herself.
She brushes her mop of sweaty bangs of off her forehead before she remembers she’s not supposed to give a fuck.
Lollapalooza is nothing like Brody remembers it 7 years ago.
Grant Park is full of more bands than Brody’s ever seen, a scant few that she recognizes. She saunters through the throngs of people. She wants nothing more than to find a halfway decent group among the kiddie bopper shit bands she hears all around her and lose herself in the music.
Punk is dead. DIY ethic has nothing to do with shit basement gigs and everything to do with the internet these days. These kids can put out their own demos with the right laptop and editing software. The internet still weirds her out.
Brody lights up a cigarette and does her best not to burn anyone but it’s a tight fit anywhere you go in these sorts of festivals and if she brushes the chick in stilettos who keeps stepping on her feet, well the bitch shouldn’t be wearing stilettos at a rock show anyway.
Brody focuses her attention on the band occupying the stage she’s at.
She takes in the shock of red hair first.
The band is thrumming with energy. The guitarist’s fingers are ghosting over frets in furious concentration, the bassist picks a wild harmony. The drummer is pounding out a full bodied beat, but the girl, the girl is owning the stage in a way that makes her mildly jealous.
Brody’s always felt a bit out of her element performing without a guitar gripped between her fingers.
…oh and she plays the guitar like a mean bastard with a big boner.
Hair is flying every which way. She sees the passion. It stirs something deep inside her chest.
She stubs her cigarette with the toe of her chucks.
-
Paramore is on tonight. Hayley can’t remember a show going this well in ages. Her hair is interwoven between her fingers and there’s a fire alight in her veins. A charge is building in her bones and she’s never felt more alive. Everyone should have a shot at this.
Josh sidles up beside her. His entire body is swaying with the music. He seeks purchase in her eyes, he’s grinning at her madly. Hayley knows what he’s telling her, she recognizes his delight in herself.
Paramore had been touring for several months in 2009 through to the new year and the last couple shows had petered out a bit. Lollapalooza brought their rhythm back.
Hayley’s encases the mike in a white knuckled grasp. Her body hunched, one hand stretching wildly out in front of her, she wrenches the words out of her gut and belts them out to the crowd.
Hayley lights a flare in the crowd, they match her intensity in kind. Waves of people are writhing together. The climax approaches.
She hears Josh’s voice join her own. Their voices twine around each with an easy familiarity. Her mouth wraps around the words, they fall from her lips and explode on the grimy, sweat-soaked floor.
They crash upon impact and wash over the audience. The last echoes of chords linger in the air before fading.
The crowd roars.
Hayley throws herself into the next song.
-
Chicago is an unfamiliar concrete jungle. Brody hasn't got a clue where she's going but Shirley seems confident going by the way she's throwing elbows out with abandon. They make it to the front of the crowd in little time with many disgruntled looks tossed their way.
The subway cars are at maximum capacity. People are still teeming with restless energy from the show, all trying to locate misplaced friends and let loose somewhere else. An elderly man, probably trying to find his way home, is glaring distrustfully at a girl with neon pink hair and pants halfway down her ass.
Brody fondly recalls when she used to garner such affectionate looks. She readjusts her grip on the sweat slick railing overhead and bares her left shoulder at the man.
That tattoo on her arm, Gerald, what does it read? ‘FUCK OFF!’
An elbow is pressed awkwardly between her shoulder blades. The train slows to a halt. California-O'Hare.
Shirley expertly ducks and weaves through the crowd. Brody struggles to keep up. In all her lanky glory, she's never been then most graceful of beings.
The night air is warm and sticky against the exposed skin of her collarbone and shoulders. She allows herself to be led down a few blocks. They stop at a hole in the wall dive bar. Helen's Two Way Lounge.
Inside the bar the bar is a conglomeration of urban hipsters and tattooed meatheads. It's much nicer than outer appearances would imply.
Shirley snags a corner booth while Brody makes a beeline to the jukebox. She runs a finger along the varnished mahogany and selects a song.
"Vintage."
The sultry rock stylings of Joan Jett blend with the din of alcohol tinted conversations.
When she slides in across from Shirley there's already drinks on the table. "I do love rock n' roll," she mimics the song.
Shirley raises a perfectly foamy beer, "I'll drink to that." Brody raises her own and clinks it to the side of Shirley's glass. Some of the golden fluid sloshes against the surface of the table.
Brody swallows the bitter liquid and promptly grimaces in distaste. Shirley smirks. "Oh c'mon Aussie. I figured you'd like your native brew."
Brody tips her glass back and forces another swig down. “I hate Foster’s. I’m pretty fucking sure all Australians hate Foster’s.”
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t.” She grins cheekily and tips an imaginary hat. “Tell you what, I’m a gentleman. Next round’s all you.”
-
Hayley Williams is not a big drinker. She’s been twenty one since December but drinking never had too much of an appeal to her when it was forbidden and that certainly hadn’t changed once it wasn’t.
Hayley does however; spend most of her free time surrounded by her three rambunctious male band mates so the occasional night out isn’t entirely unheard of.
The show had gone far too well for Hayley to decline their well-intentioned invitation. This is how she’d ended up at her third bar of the night nursing a beer in one hand and protecting Zac's own from crashing to the floor from his wildly flailing arm.
Zac always was a bit of an eccentric drunk, the kind that punctuated every sentence with an unruly gesture. On rare nights like these, Josh usually ends up in some kind of scuffle defending his shortsighted brother from a decidedly larger biker whose Zac trodden toes would be looking for a fight.
Hayley on the other hand, well alcohol gave Hayley an injection of pure bravado. Hayley hasn't paid for a single drink all night, a benefit of being a petite, cute girl with flaming red hair (you can't not notice her), but the boy are running out of cash quick.
This is the series of events that leads to Hayley Williams sitting in the very same bar as the Brody Dalle.
It starts with Hayley going to the bathroom. Without her careful eye, Zac flails, a drink spills and a half-naked bimbo is covered in beer. From there it erupts into chaos.
Few words are exchanged. Hayley returns from her bathroom break in time to see a meaty fist arching full throttle towards Zac's face. Jeremy pulls Zac down face first into the table and the fist grazes right over his head. Josh swings a bottle down. Red trickles past an ear, bleeding together with the distinct lines of a tattooed neck. A beat passes before Josh is flying backwards over a stranger's table, two more drinks slide to the ground with him.
Hayley scans the bar in a panic, her eyes are frantically looking or an out. She grabs the back of Zac's shirt and pushes her way through the gathering crowd. Jeremy and Taylor each loop on arm under one of Josh's and drag him towards the exit. A fan follows them out. Josh is shoved against a gritty brick wall.
"What the fuck man?" Jeremy isn't used to being the voice of reason, that's usually Josh's MO, but it's times like these that he remembers that he is the oldest. Zac grips his shoulder tightly and wrenches him away from Josh. "Don't you fucking touch him!"
The three of them face each in a battle stance, jaws set and fuming. Taylor sits quietly. Hayley the first to notice the guy lurking in shadows. "Guys, cool it! We have company," Hayley turns to the stranger and musters up the greatest amount of contempt she can, "You gonna take a picture or take a hike?" Paparazzi usually isn't too bad in Chicago but if they're going to lose their squeaky clean image she figures they might as well go out with a bang.
Taylor surprises everyone in a move so uncharacteristic of him, he strides directly into the stranger's personal space, "Beat it kid. We don't need to see this fun little exchange all over the net in the morning." Taylor's eyes are burning, he's so close to the mysterious stranger's face every other word sprays him haphazardly. The guy looks terrified, Hayley sees that he's actually quite young, probably a local college kid.
She lays a hang on Taylor's forearm and the tension is visibly drawn from his body. "I-uh I just was gonna say that uh there's this bar. Uhh it has one dollar beers, ya know if you guys like, didn't wanna go home."
The unnamed man's stammered words effectively dissolve previously drawn battle lines; brothers no longer stand against friends.
Taylor rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sorry man. Been a night, ya know?" is muttered as a peace offering. "S'cool bro. I saw." Josh is still fervent in his temper, the lines of his body are rigid and everyone feels the need to tread lightly. Zac takes him back to the hotel to slap a steak on his rapidly swelling eye.
Taylor opts to return to the hotel with the Farro brothers, mumbling something about rockstars with egos and the headaches they induce. Jeremy however, is determined to salvage something of the night and accepts the offer of camaraderie from a stranger. Hayley tags along because well, someone has to keep her boys out of trouble.
The guy, whose name is Mike, turns out to be quite the talkative type. Hayley tunes out most of the tidbits of trivial information he feels is necessary to share. She realizes he must be a fan, for him to have followed them out of the bar and all, but alcohol has a tendency to inhibit her patience. She wonders if he was drinking alone- or worse if he left his friends there.
She lets Jeremy deal with the idle chatter and instead thinks about Lolla. Hayley herself felt like a much like a star struck kid in the wake of all the incredible bands and artists she had the honor of playing with.
The bar looks like a dump. Hayley arches an eyebrow in skepticism but after much reassurance of purported greatness from Mike, follows the boys inside. Upon entering, Hayley is relieved to find that the atmosphere is much to her liking.
The three of them get situated at the bar and Mike orders the first round, on him.
The boys immediately notice how smoking hot the bartender is and are quick to place bets on who'll score digits by the end of the night. Hayley's pretty sure that, judging by the way the bartender's smiling at her; neither of them are getting lucky tonight.
Hayley is pulled from her thoughts by a sharp smack to the shoulder. "Hey Spongebob, isn't that that chick?" She rubs her shoulder sorely, "Jeremy I'm not actually a dude." She pouts petulantly at him.
"Haaayles, pay attention. It's that, what's it, Distillers chick over in the corner."
"Spinnerette," she corrects on autopilot. A beat. "What! Where?!!" Hayley spins around spastically and Jeremy chuckles, "Oh hello girl crush."
Mike takes the time to slur, "Oh tha's a right lookin' broad. Bet ya can't get 'er number."
Normally Hayley would protest such sinful insinuations but alcohol is sobering in truth and she's growing tired of the knuckleheads' company. Hitching her bravado up by the suspenders, she takes the out.
"I got this boys."
-
"Girl you were eighteen. He was thirty. They're trippin' if the ever thought that whole bag of fun would work out.
"Yeah well apparently everyone's still trippin'." Brody notices a slight accent coloring her words. It compliments Shirley's own lilting tone nicely. She wonders how long they've been drinking.
"Bullshit. Only the diehard Rancid fans, you know that. Quit being so fucking mopey. You're harshing my mellow."
Brody treats her with a blank stare. "We're young, we're hot and we're successful baby. What's more to celebrate?"
"Not so young Shirl." She lines up some shots. "But fuck it. It does feel damn good to be touring again."
Shirley raises her shot to Brody's own.
"To the wife and kids."
Brody chuckles. She thinks of Josh. A low blow. She should probably be more defensive about it. She knocks back the fire and slams her glass down on the table.
"So tell me. How's Stefani?" There's something buried in her tone, just a trace of an edge.
Shirley brushes it off with a smile. "Gwennie’s fabulous. We'll have to get together soon," she ignores the dark look burgeoning across Brody's features and forges ahead, "But you're gonna have to excuse me. You know me and booze. Runs right through me."
Shirley departs and Brody sighs. She's glad they've never been the type of friends who go to the bathroom together. It was growing uncomfortable enough as it was. Brody briefly entertains the thought of giving Josh a ring but knows he'll wake Camille so she orders another round of rum and coke instead.
"Funny. I always imagined you'd be one for whiskey."
She growls like a rabid dog and sings like she survives on whiskey and cigarettes.
There's a girl standing at the end of her table. The fiery red hair registers as familiar.
It's the girl from before. She didn't look so short on stage.
The girl is starting to fidget under her unnervingly blank stare. She invites the girl to sit with a silent gesture of the hand. Brody arches an eyebrow at the girl in an unspoken articulation of well...?
"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume you know who I am."
She lets the statement hang in the air expectantly. Hayley colors crimson right down to the roots.
"I'm Hayley. Williams. Of Paramore." She stops a passing waiter. "I'll have what she's having." The waiter, much to her chagrin, IDs her. She fishes her license out of her pockets with a furious blush.
Brody stifles her laugh with a hand over her mouth. The girl is trying to impress her so badly.
It's cute.
-
Shirley’s an actress now. She’s been on Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, taken the classes and everything. Shirley’s an actress now so she gracefully turns tail and pretends not know why Brody asked about Gwen. She’s not stupid. She remembers when they toured together. She knows that there was always some underlying awkwardness between the three of them based on how close Gwen and herself may or may not have been.
It’s not that Brody didn’t like Gwen. They actually got along quite well on the dates Good Charlotte stood in for Garbage, or so she heard.
Brodywas young then, just a hint awkward. Always trying to prove herself. Eight years ago was a different time, they were different people. But a semblance of old aches still shone through some nights.
Shirley readjusts her little black dress and flounces out of the bathroom. The scene she returns to stops Shirley in her tracks. Brody seems to have picked up a cute little redheaded number while she was gone. Brody is chatting animatedly and the mystery girl is hanging on her every word.
Shirley sees the interest. It makes her smile.
They’re both so engrossed in whatever amusing tale Brody is weaving they don’t even notice her rapidly approaching the table. Shirley scoots in right alongside the girl and practically sits in her lap upon noticing how young she is. This should be fun. Shirley’s nothing if not a tad bit sadistic.
She fingers her own fiery tresses lightly. “Jesus Dalle what is it with you and your obsession with redheads?” Her mind flickers to Josh Homme’s ginger locks briefly. Douche bag. “Cute one though, I approve. I’m Shirley and you are?” The girl, who introduces herself as Hayley, looks taken aback. Shirley’s willing to bet she’d be blushing if she weren’t already flushed with alcohol.
She gives Hayley props- the girl recovers neatly. She refocuses her attention on Brody, who takes a moment to glare at her old friend before turning to her new one. “So Paramore you said? How’d you find the festival? Can’t say I’ve heard of you but I’ll definitely have to check you out.” Shirley notices her tone comes out a great deal flirtier than she had probably intended. She laughs lightly as she can practically see Brody making a mental note to reel it in a bit.
Hayley is positively glowing. “Oh it was great! I was a bit bummed we were playing while you were on; you always put on an incredible performance. I’ve been dying to see Spinnerette in action.” The girl is cute in her excitability. She reminds Shirley a bit of how Brody was underneath her whole badass rock n’ roll façade back in the day. You know if she hadn’t gone off and eloped with the lead singer of a prominent punk band at eighteen years old.
Brody smirks. “I assume you’ve been to a Distillers show then?”
Hayley ds her best not to color. “Yeah. Does that make me seem too much like a creepy stalker?”
“Not at all.”
“A bit.”
Brody smacks Shirley sharply in the shoulder. Shirley rubs her shoulder in mock offense. “No such thing as too much.” Brody rolls her eyes.
“Well don’t get quite the same response we used to, I’d hate to disappoint. I mean I think Spinnerette has a great quality but-”
“It's brilliant,” Hayley interjects hastily. The girl is so smitten. Shirley wonders if they’d even notice if she slipped out the back. “I mean I dig it. Of course I was a Distillers fan but Spinnerette has it’s own vibe, you know and that’s cool. It’s got all of the edge, just… refined.”
She adds, “I mean of course anything you work on is gonna have that edge. Your voice is so…” She trails off, realizing she maybe should’ve quit while she was ahead.
Brody smiles at her brilliantly. An honest smile.
Spinnerette is the sound of a sweaty black leather glove holding a lollipop’s stick, shoving it into crushed glass before offering you the first lick.
Shirley takes that as her social cue to leave. As interested as she is to see how this night plays out it’s clear that the two of them are past the point of needing a third party to nudge the ball into motion.
“Alright ladies, as charming as it’s been, I’m gonna head out. There’s a can of haggis with Craig Ferguson’s name all over it back at my hotel.”
“Ah, fuckin’ Scots.” Her tone is light, colored with affection. A flash of jealousy crosses the younger woman’s face before she can effectively mask it. Shirley smirks amusedly.
“Hey now. He promised to cut me in half the way magicians do and until he does I’m gonna bombard him with a package of haggis in a can everyday. It’s costing me a small fortune but he hates the shit so I say it’s money well spent.”
Hayley laughs brightly. Brody scoffs in mock disdain. “Like the post office’s even open at this hour, ya wanker.”
“Yeah whatever then, I’m just sick of your face. I’ll call you in the morning, yeah?”
Brody nods and Shirley leaves, glancing back before heading out the door. She sees the two women leaning towards each other, occasionally brushings hands ‘accidentally’ as they speak.
Yeah, the interest is most definitely there. She expects details come morning.
-
“Do you wanna get out of here?” The words stumble past slightly chapped lips, unintentionally presumptuous. They fall to the table, flailing the entire way down, hastily retreating. Hayley imagines they sort of flop around a bit before lying still like a dead fish, the both of them staring at it in silent horror.
Brody bites her lip gently and gives Hayley a long, hard stare. She stands, not too slowly, not too abruptly, always the right amount of cool, calm and collected.
She has a voice like a gravel truck with a broken axel but she never misses a note.
She sweeps her arm out in the universal gesture of after you and Hayley gets to her feet shakily. She’s aware that her heart is suddenly palpitating at jackrabbit speed. The sticky warmth of the night air meeting her overheated skin does nothing to calm her fraying nerves.
They walk side by side in silence, hands grazing ever so lightly with each pendulum swing of their arms. Brody startles Hayley out of her thoughts with a hand placed delicately on her forearm.
Hayley musters up the courage to drag her voice out from where it’s settled somwhere near her heavy heart. “I-uhh. I just meant that- It was hot in there wasn’t it?”
Brody purses her lips in thought. She remains quiet, pensive even, as she scrutinizes Hayley’s every minuscule fidget. Her eyes shift focusing on something just to the right of Hayley. Hayley takes the time to memorize the older woman’s face, smooth panes punctuated by thin lines around the mouth and smoky eyes.
She feels the panic swell up and crash down on a shoreline straddling the impulse to get the fuck out and wanting to absolutely be nowhere else.
She fears she said the wrong thing. Again.
Time elongates, stretchg endlessly before a sudden snap back to the here and now.
“You a virgin?”
Hayley feels like she’s finally started to get the hang of this whole rock star business this past year. Brody makes her feel intensely uncomfortable in her own skin. She suddenly feels parched.
Brody reaches out towards the exposed skin of Hayley’s left shoulder, eyes distant. She stops just short of contact, fingertips suspended in empty air.
“Such pretty skin.”
Her hand withdraws and rubs at her own shoulder. “I think we should mark it tonight.” Fingers stray over faintly faded ink. “I have eight, you know.”
There’s a hesitant look in the younger girl’s eyes. Brody isn’t one to be deterred.
“Come on. You’re young, you just played you first Lollapalooza.”
She gestures to a tattoo parlor with bright neon lights a half a block down. Hayley feels her resolve flickering.
The boys are going to shit a brick in the morning.
She shoots Hayley a crooked half grin, reminiscent of the infamous Dalle sneer. Slightly mollified. Packing all the charm.
“Do something crazy.”
-
Brody goes first.
The girl is tapping out a nervous beat with her toes. She puts on a good game face; something that, as a female in a male dominated business, Brody knows is a necessary skill to hone. Still she wants to put the girl at ease. The nervous energy is unsettling.
The feeling of the alcohol swipe against her skin isn’t something she’s felt for some years but it’s still a familiar, somewhat comforting feeling. She’s aware that the tattoo artist is speaking to her but she’s much more interested in watching as Hayley peruses the photos on the wall with all the wonder of a kid in a candy store.
He asks her why she chose a large phoenix piece flanking her right side, she’s distantly aware of muttering something about new beginnings and burning bridges but is otherwise entirely engrossed in the redhead in front of her.
Brody is done sooner than she expected. She knows she’s going to have to return a few times at least to fill in all of the coloring. Hayley takes her seat, trepidation written all over her face.
Brody does her best to distract the girl as the man gets to work. “I tatted a fan once you know.” She lifts her eyes to the ceiling briefly, trying to call forth the memory. “Two of them actually. My drummer too.”
Hayley’s eyebrows shoot up past red fringe. “Really?” Brody laughs sardonically. “Yeah in Munich. I think… I was pretty sloshed to tell you the truth.” Her tone is self-deprecating. Her smile matches.
“Why Ms. Dalle, I knew you were a bad ass but I had no idea you were that bad ass.”
Beat on the Street: Brody Dalle will never be uncool.
Hayley beams. A grin turns into a grimace as Hayley remembers that a needle is currently imbedding ink into her skin at some hundred hits per hour. Brody takes pity on the poor girl and offers a hand. She feels Hayley’s eyes linger on the pale patch of skin encircling her ring finger.
They silently hold hands for the remainder of the session.
Hayley is reluctant to relinquish her hold on Brody’s hand once she’s finished but they have to pay the man. They exit the parlor after Brody insists on paying for both them. Hayley’s pride is adamant that she at least covers tip.
They exit the parlor and Brody stops to light up a smoke. She takes a lengthy pull of sweet, sweet nicotine and bends to sit on the hard concrete of the sidewalk. Hayley follows suit.
There’s an unspoken agreement that neither are ready to part ways just yet.
Brody leans back against the gritty brick wall with one knee tucked to her chin, relaxed in her carelessness. “I’m not you know.” She turns to Hayley casually. “A virgin,” Hayley clarifies. Brody quirks an eyebrow suggestively. “To ink,” she amends hastily, pulling back a curtain of red hair to reveal a small tattoo just behind her ear.
She extends a hand skimming the back of her fingertips against the exposed skin. Her hand rests on the nape of the other girl’s neck, the pad of her thumb ghosting over the outline of the cloud and lightning bolt figure.
“Cute,” she drawls lowly in deliciously insinuating tones.
Hayley feels like she is on fire. Burning from the nape her neck down. She swallows harshly. “S’not my favorite thing to do. I can be a bit of a wuss,” she trails off, abashed in the admission.
Brody pulls the strap of her flimsy white wife beater down, baring the fresh ink spreading across the back of her left shoulder. A guitar with a rose wrapped artfully around it. The intimate act sends the redhead’s heart beat skyrocketing, bungee jumping, free falling, something.
Brody traces the intricate script just below it. Franklin.
“Boyfriend?"
An answer is shot back rapid-fire.
“Hometown.”
A challenge is set, loaded and cocked.
Hayley feels a moment approaching, a moment that has been building since they left the bar, since she first sauntered up to Brody’s table. Since she was 15 years old and rocking out to the smoky-eyed singer’s howls in her bedroom.
This is no awkward first fumble in the rumble seat:
Brody exhales slowly, cigarette dangling precariously from her lips. Brody’s gaze is intense, smoldering. Hayley is struck by how expressive the stormy blue eyes are. There is a deep underlying sadness haunting the desire filled eyes.
Her hand hasn’t surrendered its position on the younger woman’s shoulder. Brody slips her fingers in between fiery red strands. She supports her weight on her other hand, cigarette still clenched between the tips of her fingers, as she closes the distance.
The streetlight above flickers.
Hayley feels her heart sputter and die before being kick started again by the languid draw of Brody’s mouth.
There is no hesitation within the girl as she responds feverishly. Lip to lip. Repeatedly meeting. The cadence of a tide pushing and pulling; sifting sand, caressing lovers.
Brody tastes like smoke, indomitable vagrancy and a hint of rock n’ roll. Hayley thinks this moment will be imprinted in her mind forever.
Brody knows that there will be nothing more than this in the morning. She will, very courteously, walk the twenty something year old to her hotel room. She will, very politely, decline the exchange of contact information. She will, very exhaustedly, board a flight in the morning, returning to her husband and child. She hopes Hayley knows this.
Hayley slides her hand through her own choppy tresses, seeking and interweaving fingers with her own.
Brody doesn’t want to think about tomorrow.
She lightly squeezes the hand wrapped around her own and presses in harder, more urgently.
Hayley tastes like the beginning. Like cherries, youth and unbounded potential; like an uncrushed spirit.
She does her best not to burn the girl.
-Fin.
This fic actually helped me reconcile my feelings about Spinnerette. After 3 years of moping I finally decided to give Spinnerette a listen and they’re good, they are, because you know it’s Brody but it’s not The Distillers. Buuuut, people grow up and they change and they can’t keep doing the same damn thing over and over, especially musically, and I get that. Catharsis.