CASUAL AFFAIR; brendon urie

Chapter Fifteen

I'd received Jessa's text approximately when I was about two feet away from the store. I had to actually physically stop, and desperately slap my hands to my pockets, searching for it, as it violently vibrated and the message tone of Pam from True Blood's droll, Southern drawl saying 'I'm gonna shove my fist up your ass and use you as a handwarmer,' that Jessa had somehow managed to program into my phone at some point played way too loud for public ears.

I honestly don't even know how she does shit like this. She's like a sticky-fingered, ill-intentioned ninja. Something that astounded, terrified and despaired me all at once. Nothing was safe with her. And just like a small child, it was best not to leave her alone in a room for any length of time. "I am seriously going to kill you, bitch." I hissed under my breath, but an annoyingly unintentional smile pulled my lips up. Dammit, why couldn't I ever just stay mad at her, even once? Because she was Jessa, with a warped, yet sunny disposition on life, a girl that everyone thought was a bitch, yet couldn't hate. And she was my best friend.

I was still going to kill her.

The hills are alive with the sound of the two people in the apartment next to me going at it like big, hairy bunny rabbits. With what I'm pretty sure is some sort of barnyard noises. And a chainsaw. If I don't survive this, put this on my gravestone.

I snorted, not doubting for a second that Dylan and Marty, Jessa's invariably hairy, but sweet, gay neighbours, were up and at em', but Jessa has this thing called Over Exaggeration. Ok. I could roll with this, Jessa stylee.

YOLO

Bitch! Jessa's frantic text came a mere second after I'd sent mine. Come save me. NOW.

I shook my head, as if Jessa could actually see me doing so, already fully aware that she could not, before tucking my phone up my sleeve, taking those few extra steps and unlocking the doors to the shop. Before I stepped over the threshold, I keyed in a quick reply of Be here at eleven. And bring sandwiches. And coffee. Then locked, and stuffed back into the confines of my side pocket. Jessa was - sometimes - a smart girl. She'd know not to reply back.

The welcoming quiet, coolness and the smell of old and new printed paper hit me as soon as I pushed the door open further. I smiled, blissfully, and closed my eyes. Home, I thought, away from home.

I flipped the Sorry, We're Closed! Sign to Just Come In Already, We're Open! And kicked the wedge underneath the bottom of the door to keep it open. No sooner had I returned to the store floor from depositing my bag, was Tommy at the door, in that way of just suddenly being there he had, leaning his lanky, long stature against the frame, and rapping his knuckles. He grinned when he saw me, hitching his guitar further up his skinny shoulder.

"Mornin', Chief." He said in that lazy, Brooklyn drawl of his. He shook his tousled, chestnut mop of hair from his eyes, something that probably made some girls swoon, and something that bugged the hell out of his mother. Dallon's refusal to do anything with his own had driven my own mother up the wall. And, on the topic of hair, Tommy reached over, and picked up my braid, before letting it drop back onto my shoulder. "Let me guess. You got up real early, too early, drew, got coffee, and had time to do a fishtail plait as well?"

"You know me so well." I put a hand tentatively, checking once more than there were no bumps or imperfections.

And Tommy simply grinned back.

"Something worth smiling about?" I asked, as I opened the little swinging door to get to the counter.

"Nope." As his lips formed the 'p', they made a popping noise. "Just your general awesomeness as my boss." He spread his hands wide, gesturing to me.

"Oh, a kiss-ass, are we this morning?" I grinned, leaning under the counter to the little door, unlocking it to bring out the tray for the register. I could see Tommy slowly meandering in from the corner of my eye, as I slotted it in place.

"Remind me to insult you tomorrow then. Balance things out." He came over to the counter and drummed his fingers in a steady rhythm. "World order and all."

"Oh, yeah." I nodded, seriously. "Wouldn't want to screw that up. We could get a whole The Butterfly Effect thing going."

"That reminds me," he let his slouchy probably-still-had-it-from-college messenger bag fall from his shoulder onto the counter. "I stepped on a ladybug this morning. I feel terrible."

"You totally should." I cried, smacking his forearm. His skinny yet oddly solid forearm. "You're such a bad person. I hope you cried."

"I did. Like a baby." He winced, rubbing his arm. "We should have a funeral for it. And it needs a name. I'd feel wrong burying it without a name."

"It probably already had one. And a wife. And kids. God, Tommy, how can you live with yourself?"

"I can't. That's why a funeral would clear my conscience right up. Jesus, I could even write it a tribute, and sing Danny Boy."

That was about the point that the whole ridiculous conversation had me in laughter, helpless little giggles that escaped from behind my hand. "Enough ladybug schematics. Our little store here is weird enough without that going on inside of it." I pushed him back from where he leant. "Now go get that bag away, and get working, Mr. I don't pay you to bitch about Bugs Life to me."

"Oh, Ladybug, Ladybug, where for art thou, Ladybug!" he put on a high, pouncy voice, and I giggled again, but pushed him further.

He was still quoting and rearranging Romeo and Juliet as he went, gesturing wildly with his arms, putting on a positively ridiculous British accent, whilst I shooed him along.

Romeo and Juliet. Star crossed lovers. Idiots.

Romeo. Oh, Jesus ...

I thought you said you hated Romeo. My fingers went back up, to go to my neck, wishing, begging for that same fluttery feeling, that strange heat it had against the rest of my skin, before I mentally kicked myself, and kept it firmly by my side. I do hate Romeo. Kind of.

"You ... ok?" I didn't expect Tommy's voice back so soon, but there he was, standing in the doorway that led to the stairwell up to the staff room, a frown creasing his forehead, still clutching his guitar, this time by its neck. He gestured his hand down the length of me.

And for what felt like the millionth time in under one week, I replied "Yes, I'm fine."

He didn't exactly seem convinced by my answer, but like the smart guy he was, he said nothing more, and simply made his way over to the stool by the stand that held the Marvel Comics. Neither of us spoke, as he settled himself in, getting comfortable, and beginning to strum the first few notes of Iron Man.

Sorry this chapter is short! It's just a little filler chapter to introduce the character of Tommy (who definitely plays an integral in the sub-plot).

What do ya think about Florence and her whole Romeo complex? (I'll admit, much of her opinion on him is based upon mine)

-Beth