cherry pain // bronnie

chapter three

"What were your plans for today?" I asked Brandon as I walked him down my driveway to his ride.

"Go back to my hotel, take a shower, maybe a nap," he listed, "then maybe I might see a friend down on the strip, old rodeo buddy of mine..."

I don't know who the hell gave me the right to get jealous over a "rodeo buddy", but I was. "Huh, well," I finally managed to grunt out as Brandon hopped in the back of the car, "have a good one."

"Yeah, you too, Vannucci."

I hated the way he called me by my last name. It was a turn on the night before, it was a turn on during, but after? I'd rather he call me "kitten" or something nastier. "Well, by--"

He cut me off by slamming his door shut. He was one cold closet case -- but that still didn't stop me from being desperately attracted to him. I never thought I'd ever longingly watch an uber drive away, yet there I stood, pathetically in my driveway.

Bitterness coursed through my body as I stormed back into my house. It was too early to drink my sorrows away, so I called Mark -- who had just so happened to be getting ready for the perfect day time activity for my situation.

****

There I sat on a large boat, sipping on a mimosa, complaining to my most heterosexual friends about my problems. Eventually, both of us were just drinking pure champagne the further into my venting session we got.

"Fuck it!" I yelled, more tipsy than I thought. "I don't need no dirty cowboy!"

"Hell yeah!" Mark called after me. "Fuck that guy -- that guy you just spent two hours talking about how much you want everything to work out with him -- yeah!"

I walked over to the railing and looked out into the lake. Brandon was certainly, 100 percent, not someone I should ever be catching feelings for -- closet case cowboy? Hell no. I was a successful business man with connections everywhere. More money than Brandon could ever dream of writing dumb country songs.

I looked away from the water for a moment to keep myself from getting nauseous. My eyes settled on the spot directly near me, as I steadied myself-- I saw him. I saw him hatless next to me, holding a beer in one hand as he leaned over the railing, his warm hazel eyes squinting over the water -- his blue jeans hugging his hips -- he'd have his shirt stripped off, his entire torso free for me to nestle my hand on --

I yakked right over the boat.

"Whoa!" Mark cried rushing over to me, pulling me away from the railing and leading me back to where we were sitting. "Holy shit, Ronnie, I didn't know you were that drunk!"

I was about to argue that I wasn't, but stopped as I began to sob. So, I was drunk -- drunk and insanely stupid. I was catching real feelings for a closet-case-cowboy I had a one night stand with -- how sad and pathetic. I was lucky to have Mark there to hold me through my bullshit even if the sun was beating down on us and I was disrupting his peaceful day on the water.

"Mark, I'm gonna die alone at this rate," I croaked.

"No you're not, you're Ronnie Vannucci -- you'd never let something like this get to you."

I pulled out of his arms, "I appreciate that, Mark -- but I'm about to prove you wrong."

****

Alone in my house was worse than vomiting off a boat. I almost asked Mark to stay, I felt so damned lonely, but I felt ashamed as I had already asked so much from him.

I was completely alone. Three stories of house and one guy -- even the cook was gone.

As I laid in my bed, mindlessly watching T.V., As much as I really didn't want to and really shouldn't have, I began to wonder how much less empty the house would feel if Brandon lived in it with me -- if he woke up next to me -- if used the gym downstairs every day.

God, I couldn't fucking stand it.

Maybe I was still a little drunk, but I didn't see any harm in calling him. I just needed to talk to him, maybe if I had just talked to him I'd realize that my feelings were absolutely nothing.

With each ring, I grew more angry and anxious, and too the point where I couldn't tell the difference between the two. I didn't know what I'd do if it went to voicemail, so luckily for me, on the last ring he picked up.

"Hello?" He answered, his voice even lower and more rich than I remembered.

"Hi...Brandon..." I managed, sounding more like a desperate teenage girl than a multimillionaire, "it's me -- Ronnie."

"Oh hey-- what's up?"

"Fuck-- I don't know, I've just been thinking..."

"I'm gonna stop you right there. You heard what I said this morning, correct?"

"Yes."

"Just friends, Vannucci, that's all."

"I fucking hate it when you call me my last name!"

Silence. Panic quickly settled in, "shit, sorry-- it's just been a really weird day."

"No, it's fine-- shit," he sighed, "maybe I'm too harsh on you, it's just so bad out here, bein' in this industry -- this side of the industry especially -- just really makes you hate anything 'abnormal' about you. I don't know what'd happen if everyone found out -- found out about the truth. I really don't wanna hurt you, Ronnie, that's why I'm tryin' to get away from you."

I didn't know who I felt more sorry for, me or him. "I get it, Brandon, I'm sorry."

"No! No, don't be sorry -- it's on me, I shouldn't have fucked around in the first place -- fuck! I know deep in my heart I should just be free and like whoever I like, but God, Ron you should hear some of the shit I hear," he went silent for a moment, "everyone out here's such a piece of shit, Ron, you got fake poptarts in fuckin' trucker hats tellin' you you ain't a real and that you're just a pretty face. You're the first person I've talked to in weeks who's not a piece of shit. Fuck it! Can I come over? I wanna see you -- I don't wanna fuck around, I just wanna see you."

His monologue gave me more emotional whiplash than what could fit in my tiny, drunk brain. All I knew was he wanted to see me and I wanted to see him too -- whether that conclusion was drawn from a good place or not didn't matter. I smiled to myself, "see you then."