AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
I own nothing but Bono's naked ass. Just kidding. This is fiction...mostly. Somewhere, there is probably a woman who that song is about.
And Cath meets...Ali! Oh shit, indeed. Fight, anyone? Maybe.
'I Know My Love' by the Corrs is just about the perfect song to be listening to while writing this
It just radiates jealous Ali.
I desperately need to find out who else is in Ali's household to write any further. Ugh, research. It'd probably to be good to know places where U2 played when they still played in bars or pubs 'n stuff, too.
Edge may be in the next part.
Warnings: language, near cat fight...
***
‘Worst mistake of my life,’ Paul had said. He had assumed it would rest there, and no problems would continue. When he ran, laughing, back to his house as the clouds chased away the rain, he assumed he would never see her again, would go back to being with Ali—maybe.
*
Everything was busy and cluttered, clanging commotion in the bar. Ali watched from outside the papered-over windows. U2 was going to have a brief sound check in a couple of hours; she was early. She still didn’t really forgive Bono, who in her opinion was behaving like a stuck-up, childish idiot, sleeping around like he had.
Didn’t you promise you would never do that sort of thing, Hewson? The promises had been sincere shining in his innocent Catholic eyes, or so she had thought, as he knelt in the rain and smiled that charming smile, taking her hand and promising she was his girl, forever.
So she was early. She could avoid them, or hide her face, or something, though part of her wanted to open back up to him like a sunflower caught by the sun. The streetlights and the lamps would strike her face when she didn’t want and make her a shining beacon of apology. She would have to find a good way to hide, out of the light. She didn’t really want to go home; dammit, their music was just too good, worming its way inside of her to dance and improve her spirits, convince her at least some of the world was true and good even if the singer was not. And she didn’t want to avoid the other boys, either. Edge was always nice to her when he saw her, and though Adam and Larry were a bit boisterous and out of control, so were most boys. She had no reason to hide from them.
The air had warmed somewhat, no longer biting through her jacket. The outside of the bar was unforgiving, though, like most of the city, and the yellowed electric light plating the edges of the poster-clad, rain-plastered windows drew her in with invisible fingers that wrenched behind her ribcage and pulled.
It was a couple hours early, so she could get away with what she did. While normally anyone under eighteen, for the most part, weren’t allowed into this bar and lined up outside the streets in a huddle of angry shouts and fogging breath, demanding to be “let in, you bastards! They’re from our school! They’re our bloody band!” the lines weren’t there yet. Ali smiled a little uncomfortably at the bored man letting people in, and he waved her onwards, yawning. She glanced around, a little surprised to see the tiny stage was empty, without even any cords or instruments, and the bar was empty too—wait. Someone dark-haired in a familiar leather jacket was slumped to one of the tables. Ali inhaled and stomped forward, automatically more than a little angry though a traitorous part of her was pleasantly surprised. Both for the same reasons: Paul—Bono—whatever—had been avoiding her, childishly, for the last few days after she had rejected him.
“Bono Vox, you damn—“ she began.
She felt a warm satisfaction as she grabbed the back of his hair and pulled upward, satisfaction that quickly iced over as she did so.
“Oh shit,” Ali said automatically, jumping back. It wasn’t Bono. A girl of about seventeen with hair as dark and a little longer than his, messy bangs all about her faintly freckled, bruised face, blinked into wakefulness and groaned, pushing the sleeves of Bono’s jacket—no doubt about it; there was that faint stain where Ali had spilled some soda, the score across the sleeve where the jacket had been scuffed when Bono crashed his motorcycle into the fence—up from her wrists.
“I’m sorry,” Ali said hurriedly, uneasily, noticing the cut on the girl’s cheek and forehead. She waited a second, until the girl could see a little better and definitely was not moving to beat Ali up, then began to edge towards the door. She didn’t care why this girl had Bono’s clothing—well, she did, but it became unimportant. Outside suddenly seemed much more inviting—
And unreachable. In a flash, the girl Ali had rudely awakened grabbed her by the back of her shirt and hauled Ali to face her, with less force than Ali would have attributed to her. She avidly asked Ali some unintelligible question in Gaelic, which just made Ali nervous.
“I don’t know any bleedin—um, any—Gaelic. What do you want?”
The girl laughed exhaustedly and collapsed so that she leaned against the table where she’d been sleeping, releasing Ali swiftly, though curious, Ali didn’t leave.
In slightly accented speech—another surprise, the accent; Ali had assumed the other woman was from worse parts than her voice revealed—the girl asked something that made Ali’s heart freeze.
“Do you know where Paul Hewson lives?”
Ali narrowed her eyes, her fists tightening before she remembered she could definitely not fight this girl and win, and that she didn’t actually care what Paul did, replying:
“Why in he—“
before she remembered, and, less angrily, more concerned,
“why do you want to know?”
Those cuts on the girl’s forehead were oddly riveting, like deep fissures in the road.
“Well, that means you do know,” the Gaelic girl said in a satisfied tone, leaning back against the age-spotted posters that crackled at the pressure.
Ali bristled automatically. She had to will herself to back down. Something about this girl just screamed confrontation to Ali—her obvious scars, and something in her dark eyes made Ali defensive.
Her outlook changed in a strange instant, in which one heartbeat seemed utterly different than the next. Perhaps it was the slight relaxing of the other girl’s muscles—she was leaning against the wall because she couldn’t fully stand—or the look in her eyes, which was slightly pained, slightly confrontational, and altogether too familiar to Ali, though Ali for the most part had never been through a rough spot in her life.
It connected to Ali that in some basic way, she and the other girl were the same. Perhaps because the girl shivered, even with a jacket, and though she acted like it didn’t matter, obviously didn’t want to be sleeping in a bar.
She ran a hand through her hair that suddenly seemed much too clean, a gesture she made sometimes when a little overwhelmed, breaking eye contact for a second.
From what she guessed, “I don’t think you want to be going there.”
The girl laughed wearily.
“He’s a bastard,” Ali continued, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “And he’s in a house full of men. They fight all the time, though usually when people aren’t there. But…I don’t feel like Paul can take care of anyone, barely even himself. He’s still getting there.”
They began walking towards the exit. The air rushed full and oddly warm into their faces. The darkness was punctured with lavender-phosphorus-quicksilver afterimages of streetlamps, and seemed a bit more welcome.
The girl’s tension eased outwardly. The eyeliner that had smudged around her sleeping eyes bothered Ali slightly less, seemed normal in the darkness like her odd, spiky bangs. And Bono’s jacket.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” the girl admitted, in the easing silence, absolutely still, her eyes daring Ali to comment. With a touch of that old defensiveness, she said, “I’ve been evicted from my apartment.”
“Why aren’t you living at—“ Ali began, but Ali could sense it would probably not be wise to ask about the girl’s family life.
“House full of men,” the other girl grinned. “Drunks. And it doesn’t matter where I go anymore; I gave up on school when I couldn’t buy my books anymore. It all seemed like a joke. Live in oh-so-perfect society without complaining, working at whatever job you’re lucky to have, and too bad for you if your family is pissed drunk, anything can happen. In this world, you can support an entire family just by hard work and knowledge.” She rolled her eyes. “Fuck that.”
There was a slightly uncomfortable moment of silence. The rising moon, ancient and yellowed, clashing with the glimpses of the city streets, made sudden perfect reflections in the girl’s dark eyes. Ali realized she had probably already guessed what Ali was about to say—why else would they have left the bar and started walking?
Like a hand stretched out, she said tentatively, “You can stay at my place.”
Screw Bono. The sound of the fans beginning to gather outside the bar, and the raucous yell of one of the band members, brought a rush of laughter erupting from Ali’s throat. She couldn’t stop laughing. Bono probably thought she was waiting for him, being a good girl and hanging on his every word, back in the bar. The look on his face when he realized she wasn’t waiting around for him…oh, it was too much.
The other girl laughed a little. Laughter was infectious, anyhow. She then grew serious, the moon-reflections dancing in her eyes as she smiled. “That sounds…wonderful.”
And Cath meets...Ali! Oh shit, indeed. Fight, anyone? Maybe.
'I Know My Love' by the Corrs is just about the perfect song to be listening to while writing this
It just radiates jealous Ali.I desperately need to find out who else is in Ali's household to write any further. Ugh, research. It'd probably to be good to know places where U2 played when they still played in bars or pubs 'n stuff, too.
Edge may be in the next part.
Warnings: language, near cat fight...
***
‘Worst mistake of my life,’ Paul had said. He had assumed it would rest there, and no problems would continue. When he ran, laughing, back to his house as the clouds chased away the rain, he assumed he would never see her again, would go back to being with Ali—maybe.
*
Everything was busy and cluttered, clanging commotion in the bar. Ali watched from outside the papered-over windows. U2 was going to have a brief sound check in a couple of hours; she was early. She still didn’t really forgive Bono, who in her opinion was behaving like a stuck-up, childish idiot, sleeping around like he had.
Didn’t you promise you would never do that sort of thing, Hewson? The promises had been sincere shining in his innocent Catholic eyes, or so she had thought, as he knelt in the rain and smiled that charming smile, taking her hand and promising she was his girl, forever.
So she was early. She could avoid them, or hide her face, or something, though part of her wanted to open back up to him like a sunflower caught by the sun. The streetlights and the lamps would strike her face when she didn’t want and make her a shining beacon of apology. She would have to find a good way to hide, out of the light. She didn’t really want to go home; dammit, their music was just too good, worming its way inside of her to dance and improve her spirits, convince her at least some of the world was true and good even if the singer was not. And she didn’t want to avoid the other boys, either. Edge was always nice to her when he saw her, and though Adam and Larry were a bit boisterous and out of control, so were most boys. She had no reason to hide from them.
The air had warmed somewhat, no longer biting through her jacket. The outside of the bar was unforgiving, though, like most of the city, and the yellowed electric light plating the edges of the poster-clad, rain-plastered windows drew her in with invisible fingers that wrenched behind her ribcage and pulled.
It was a couple hours early, so she could get away with what she did. While normally anyone under eighteen, for the most part, weren’t allowed into this bar and lined up outside the streets in a huddle of angry shouts and fogging breath, demanding to be “let in, you bastards! They’re from our school! They’re our bloody band!” the lines weren’t there yet. Ali smiled a little uncomfortably at the bored man letting people in, and he waved her onwards, yawning. She glanced around, a little surprised to see the tiny stage was empty, without even any cords or instruments, and the bar was empty too—wait. Someone dark-haired in a familiar leather jacket was slumped to one of the tables. Ali inhaled and stomped forward, automatically more than a little angry though a traitorous part of her was pleasantly surprised. Both for the same reasons: Paul—Bono—whatever—had been avoiding her, childishly, for the last few days after she had rejected him.
“Bono Vox, you damn—“ she began.
She felt a warm satisfaction as she grabbed the back of his hair and pulled upward, satisfaction that quickly iced over as she did so.
“Oh shit,” Ali said automatically, jumping back. It wasn’t Bono. A girl of about seventeen with hair as dark and a little longer than his, messy bangs all about her faintly freckled, bruised face, blinked into wakefulness and groaned, pushing the sleeves of Bono’s jacket—no doubt about it; there was that faint stain where Ali had spilled some soda, the score across the sleeve where the jacket had been scuffed when Bono crashed his motorcycle into the fence—up from her wrists.
“I’m sorry,” Ali said hurriedly, uneasily, noticing the cut on the girl’s cheek and forehead. She waited a second, until the girl could see a little better and definitely was not moving to beat Ali up, then began to edge towards the door. She didn’t care why this girl had Bono’s clothing—well, she did, but it became unimportant. Outside suddenly seemed much more inviting—
And unreachable. In a flash, the girl Ali had rudely awakened grabbed her by the back of her shirt and hauled Ali to face her, with less force than Ali would have attributed to her. She avidly asked Ali some unintelligible question in Gaelic, which just made Ali nervous.
“I don’t know any bleedin—um, any—Gaelic. What do you want?”
The girl laughed exhaustedly and collapsed so that she leaned against the table where she’d been sleeping, releasing Ali swiftly, though curious, Ali didn’t leave.
In slightly accented speech—another surprise, the accent; Ali had assumed the other woman was from worse parts than her voice revealed—the girl asked something that made Ali’s heart freeze.
“Do you know where Paul Hewson lives?”
Ali narrowed her eyes, her fists tightening before she remembered she could definitely not fight this girl and win, and that she didn’t actually care what Paul did, replying:
“Why in he—“
before she remembered, and, less angrily, more concerned,
“why do you want to know?”
Those cuts on the girl’s forehead were oddly riveting, like deep fissures in the road.
“Well, that means you do know,” the Gaelic girl said in a satisfied tone, leaning back against the age-spotted posters that crackled at the pressure.
Ali bristled automatically. She had to will herself to back down. Something about this girl just screamed confrontation to Ali—her obvious scars, and something in her dark eyes made Ali defensive.
Her outlook changed in a strange instant, in which one heartbeat seemed utterly different than the next. Perhaps it was the slight relaxing of the other girl’s muscles—she was leaning against the wall because she couldn’t fully stand—or the look in her eyes, which was slightly pained, slightly confrontational, and altogether too familiar to Ali, though Ali for the most part had never been through a rough spot in her life.
It connected to Ali that in some basic way, she and the other girl were the same. Perhaps because the girl shivered, even with a jacket, and though she acted like it didn’t matter, obviously didn’t want to be sleeping in a bar.
She ran a hand through her hair that suddenly seemed much too clean, a gesture she made sometimes when a little overwhelmed, breaking eye contact for a second.
From what she guessed, “I don’t think you want to be going there.”
The girl laughed wearily.
“He’s a bastard,” Ali continued, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “And he’s in a house full of men. They fight all the time, though usually when people aren’t there. But…I don’t feel like Paul can take care of anyone, barely even himself. He’s still getting there.”
They began walking towards the exit. The air rushed full and oddly warm into their faces. The darkness was punctured with lavender-phosphorus-quicksilver afterimages of streetlamps, and seemed a bit more welcome.
The girl’s tension eased outwardly. The eyeliner that had smudged around her sleeping eyes bothered Ali slightly less, seemed normal in the darkness like her odd, spiky bangs. And Bono’s jacket.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” the girl admitted, in the easing silence, absolutely still, her eyes daring Ali to comment. With a touch of that old defensiveness, she said, “I’ve been evicted from my apartment.”
“Why aren’t you living at—“ Ali began, but Ali could sense it would probably not be wise to ask about the girl’s family life.
“House full of men,” the other girl grinned. “Drunks. And it doesn’t matter where I go anymore; I gave up on school when I couldn’t buy my books anymore. It all seemed like a joke. Live in oh-so-perfect society without complaining, working at whatever job you’re lucky to have, and too bad for you if your family is pissed drunk, anything can happen. In this world, you can support an entire family just by hard work and knowledge.” She rolled her eyes. “Fuck that.”
There was a slightly uncomfortable moment of silence. The rising moon, ancient and yellowed, clashing with the glimpses of the city streets, made sudden perfect reflections in the girl’s dark eyes. Ali realized she had probably already guessed what Ali was about to say—why else would they have left the bar and started walking?
Like a hand stretched out, she said tentatively, “You can stay at my place.”
Screw Bono. The sound of the fans beginning to gather outside the bar, and the raucous yell of one of the band members, brought a rush of laughter erupting from Ali’s throat. She couldn’t stop laughing. Bono probably thought she was waiting for him, being a good girl and hanging on his every word, back in the bar. The look on his face when he realized she wasn’t waiting around for him…oh, it was too much.
The other girl laughed a little. Laughter was infectious, anyhow. She then grew serious, the moon-reflections dancing in her eyes as she smiled. “That sounds…wonderful.”
Bono...hmm...that's not all he has to freak about. Besides that Ali's pissed at him.
. Deal? 
