Heart of Stone - final revised version :)

Stares

Brendon shows up in my office the next day at precisely three o' clock. Exactly when I told him.

"Ah, Penis Picasso." I meet his offended gaze. "Nice to see you're still interested in the job."

"Of course I am." He responds, frowning. "I just don't see why you need me to 'provide transportation.'" He says using air quotes. "Aren't you rich enough to do that yourself?"

"Yes, but this will test your dedication to this movie."

He scoffs. Scoffs. "I showed up here. Of course I'm dedicated."

"So you're willing to do whatever I ask?"

He seems to ponder for a bit. "If I can be a part of this movie, yes. I'll do whatever you want."

His gorgeous brown eyes flash dangerously, expecting an argument.

Wait.

Gorgeous brown eyes?

I clear my throat. "Alright then, Brendon. We're leaving for Death Valley tomorrow morning. Be here with your car and camera at 7:00am."

"That's it?" He asks.

"Yes." I respond, not meeting his gaze. "Bring, uh, bring water too. Gonna be there all day."

"Okay." He says. I stand up and leave my office with Brendon still in it, staring after me.

God, can't he stop staring at me like that?

***

I look out my office window and see Brendon park his car five stories below.

I glance at the clock. 7:05am. Five minutes late. Asshole.

I grab my duffel bag and exit my office, making sure I'm not forgetting anything. I step into the elevator, since I'm way too important for stairs.

I exit the office building and see Brendon leaning on his pastel pink 1955 Dodge Custom Royal and smoking a cigarette.

"What the fuck is that?" I laugh.

He turns around, observing the car as if he forgot it was there. "It was my old man's. He gave it to me when I left for college."

"Your old man gave you an eight year old pink fucking car?" I snicker.

"Yes, your problem?" I hold my hands up in surrender. "What, is it because your father got you a brand spanking new Mercedes?" He mocks.

"That's none of your business." I spit.

He looks stunned by my sudden outburst. "Okay, Mr. Sensitive." I open my mouth, ready to fire him right then and there. But then I remember those pictures, his pictures, and I think better of it.

It's just for the pictures. Yep.

I push past him and start to put my duffel bag in the trunk of his stupid car.

"Why do you need all that stuff?" He asks.

"It's my notes for the movie, bozo." I shoot back, trying to shove the bag into the cramped trunk. "I also brought snacks because I get hungry on road trips." I say as the bag finally fits and I slam the trunk closed and move to stand in front of him.

He looks at me questioningly. "What?" He asks, almost defensively.

I force myself to stare into his chocolate brown eyes. "You're driving. Move so I can get in the passenger seat."

"Nope. Not in the agreement. You specifically stated that I needed to provide transportation. Well, here it is. Your movie, you drive."

"You're taking a big risk talking back to me, Urie."

"Actually, Ross, I've thought it over, and it seems like you chose me, so obviously you need me more than I need you." He spits back.

"That's not true. I could've picked any damn photographer in this entire fucking country!" I shout.

"But you picked me." He deadpans.

I want to say something cocky and sarcastic but I can't. He got me.

The kid actually got me.

I roll my eyes as I round the car, open the door, and sit behind the wheel.

He seems pleased with himself as I mutter, "I'm Ryan fucking Ross. I shouldn't have to drive six fucking hours in a pink fucking car."

I put the key into the ignition and start the car. The engine sputters and almost fails for a few seconds, but finally comes to life.

I look over at Brendon. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Hey, be grateful. At least she runs."

I scoff and turn on the radio. That new song by The Beatles comes on. I think it's called Hey Jude or something. Soft, slow lyrics begin to pour out of the speakers. "Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better." I let the voice calm me down, and look over to Brendon, who seems to be doing the same.

I start the drive down Sunset Boulevard and we sit, listening to the song.

When it ends, Brendon speaks up. "You like The Beatles?"

I shrug. "I guess. Haven't heard much from 'em. I like this one, though."

"Me too."

Well, there's one thing we can agree on.