Bonavoix
War Child
OK. After quite some time (weeks) of debate, I've decided to post this here. Maybe someone will actually read it... 
It's not finished yet, but this is what I've got so far.
Flaming June has been reading this privately. Note, FJ, that I changed the title... it didn't go in the direction I had originally planned... Anyway, enough out of me. Here it is.
*nervous*
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Take Me Away (Tear Me Down)
I?ve just spent the last few hours trying to convince myself that I?m not a masochist. I keep losing. I did choose to be here after all. I hate it when I put myself in situations like this, because either way I lose. Isn?t that what always happens when your heart (wretched enemy) sets itself on something it absolutely cannot have? Just call me desperado. Like the Eagles tune.
There are days I regret even agreeing to this tour in the first place. I should have thought about this before I told them I?d open for them. I should have sat down and considered that perhaps certain things would magnify themselves once my relationship with U2 went from fan-idol to peer. Don?t get me wrong, I love touring with them. They?re some of the greatest bunch of guys in this business, and they?re actually partially responsible for my career choice as it is. What I hate about this has to do with me. What I hate about this is that every time he walks past me something inside me shatters. What I hate about this is whenever words roll off his tongue like silk, regardless of whether or not they were directed at me, something inside of me cracks and I lose all ability to think or function properly. To his credit, this hasn?t been such a terrible thing. This entire situation, that effect he seems to have on me has spurned almost half of 24 songs I?ve written since I?ve been touring. Sixteen will end up on my next album. My last single topped the charts and I?ve vowed that Larry Mullen will NEVER find out that he inspired that one. I?d rather sell out. Yep, it?ll go with me to the grave. I suppose Larry knowing about that wouldn?t be such an awful thing. I just really don?t want to have to explain it to him. How do you explain lyrics like ?I wonder how it?d taste to lick the champagne off your lips/more sweetness in your salty skin than in the wine I sip? without coming off as threatening? Or crazy? Or both? Yes, Larry, those lyrics were inspired by you. But it?s not what it sounds like, I swear!! What I really meant was? em? err? That really wouldn?t work. So as long as it?s up to me, he?ll never know about that. But then, he?s used to women lusting after him. I would just rather stay out of the pile. I really don?t want to add to it. Isn?t that exactly what I?m doing? He doesn?t have to know that.
But then with my history, he probably knew before I did. I?m not exactly known for being subtle about these things. It?s typically glaringly obvious to the rest of the world with the exception of me. The very first day, he came up to me somewhere in the bowels of the stadium where they?d decided to open the tour. Within five minutes I realized that Larry Mullen was in reality a hundred times sexier than any picture I?d ever seen of him. EVER. I?ve spent the past two months since hiding from him. He walks into a room, I look away. I bury myself in a book, in my guitar or in music or something? anything to get my mind off of him and how much I?d love to---
Anyway, I?m almost certain he?s figured me out. I think he gets off on teasing me, because he?ll always make a point to sit next to me, and I?ve actually figured out that he uses Biolage shampoo and conditioner, and of course the soap is Irish Spring. Yeah, I know, that?s pathetic that I?ve actually figured that out, but when the man sits down not six inches away from me when he?s fresh out of a shower it?s kind of hard to ignore when it?s the same scent all the time. And this brings me back to me and my masochism debate. I mean, in all seriousness I could just get up and walk away when he comes around me, but I don?t. I choose to stay there and torture myself. And why? Because he?s a wonderful man and I love being around him. And he?s so down to earth it?s dangerous. I feel like within this whirlwind world we all seem to be in at the moment (touring does that to you), he?s the only thing that keeps me from losing touch with reality completely.
The thing about Larry is that he can sense bullshit before it even exists, and he hates it with a vengeance. So the less honest you are with him, the less he likes you. I?m an honest person, and I can?t lie to save my own life. My conscience gets the best of me, I suppose. Lying comes naturally for some people. Not for me. The best I can do is dance around the truth, and in some ways, I really regret that because should Larry ever approach me about this entire situation, I have no way to escape the impending doom of problems that would follow. It hasn?t happened yet, thank God, but still I feel like a fan-girl. Or worse, I feel like I?m in high school. The only difference is that I actually give a damn about his well-being and what happens to him as a result of me. Love is an action. It?s something you do for someone to make sure they have what?s best for them and what?s going to make them at the very least comfortable with their surroundings. And I honestly feel that the last thing Larry Mullen Jr. needs at the moment is an unstable, insecure, impractical woman chasing after his attention. His attention is already split a thousand different ways as it is. Which is partly why I?ve chosen to express this entire thing in songwriting. And I promise you, he will NEVER know that he is my muse.
Back to this honesty thing though, I think I proved my own point last night. I can?t lie, especially to him. Yesterday he had a fan basically launch herself at him, and thank God for security, because she actually tore his t-shirt. Needless to say, that pretty much ruined the remainder of his day. I hated seeing that concerned, hurt scowl on his face after that, so I brought him a beer later. I asked him if he was okay.
Larry sighed and nodded, ?Yeah, I suppose.?
The textbook answer here would have been something to the effect of ?I know how you feel? or ?It?s okay.? But the truth is, I have no idea how he feels. I?m still newer in the music business, and my fan following isn?t quite so large. I?ve never had a fan launch themselves at me, then watched as they were carried away by security with a piece of my torn clothing in their hands. So smiling gently and saying, ?I can sympathize? was out of the question. Instead, I sighed and sat down next to him. ?You know, Larry?? I paused and handed him the Guinness I had brought for him, ?People tend to put you on this pedestal. They objectify you, idolize you, and forget that you?re human. They tend to forget that you have your share of faults and that you can be bruised just as easily as they can. I know, because I did it too. It?s rare, especially in this industry that you find someone who gives a damn about something besides themselves and the money they?re making. It?s rare that you find someone who sees your humanity, you know??
Larry nodded, ?Yeah, I know.?
?I?ll be honest, Lar. I?ve never had that happen to me, what happened to you today. I?ve never had someone launch themselves at me like that. Fame is a very weird, scary thing, and I think if I were in your position, it?d scare the shit out of me.?
?You?re right about that.?
?How do you feel?? I asked.
?Shaken, very shaken.?
I nodded, ?Anything I can do to raise your spirits??
He smiled, ?The beer helped. Thanks?? he paused, ?So does your honesty.?
?I?m not going to give you some pat-on-the-back answer. I hate it when people do that to me because it?s bullshit and it doesn?t help? If I?m concerned about you I?m going to help.?
?I appreciate that, Tess, I really do,? he sighed and looked down into the Guinness bottle. I could tell there wasn?t much else I could do here? so I got down on the floor in front of him and looked up into his face.
?Larry,? I started, ?I know I?m probably not at the top of your list of people to run to when you need it, and I know that it?s hard for me to offer you any kind of comfort just because I don?t know you as well as some other people do??
He looked at me, his eyes dove into mine.
?And I know I?m younger and there?s things you?ve been through and done that I haven?t? but I?ve been through enough to know that life?s a piece of shit sometimes.?
He stared at me.
?I won?t give you bullshit. I promise. I?m an open ear if you need one.?
His eyes brightened and my heart cracked. His lips curled into a smile and I shattered, as usual. Then he spoke, ?Thank you, Tess.?
I love how sometimes, just sometimes he?ll emphasize diphthongs when he speaks. The word ?I? for instance, with Larry it has two syllables blurred into one. I love how every time he speaks different things are brought out. Sometimes vowels are brought out, sometimes it?s the consonants. I just love his accent, period. I think it?s the hard ?r??s that kill me though? Being a trained opera singer it?s hard for me to keep from analyzing his accent like that. I can?t help it. I?ve spent years in studios with teachers who did nothing but rip apart anything I said into tiny little pieces just the way I keep doing with Larry. I got out of opera simply because my voice just isn?t huge enough to do that. Besides, I was always more into singing Boston and The Eagles than I was into singing Puccini. Therefore it should have surprised no one when I picked up a guitar and started doing small sets at open mic nights on campus. I dreamed, but never expected to get this far. Four years ago, I was a confused college kid writing songs and dreaming of a day when I?d be able to walk up to the people who inspired me, not as a fan, but as a colleague. Now, I, Tessa Ann Lytle am opening for U2, one of the greatest rock bands in history. All in four short years. That scares me, because think about it? it took U2 from 1976 to 1987 to rise to the top. Eleven years. And me? I wouldn?t say I?m quite at the top, but I?m a hell of a lot farther than they were at this point. I?ve just always been of the mind that as far as bands go, the quicker you rise, the quicker you fall. When I went into this I intended to be a legend. I wanted to be up there with U2 and Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac? bands who will always be hailed as great regardless of whether they?re still around. I feel now as if the public could forget about me completely if I decided not to do another album. Then again, bands that open for U2 are typically already well established, or they go on to be. Look at Pearl Jam, Garbage? So come to think of it, I would have been bloody CRAZY to turn U2 down this time. My manager would have had me committed. And so I accepted the offer. I told U2 I?d be their opening act, and thusly proceeded to spend several months on the road with them.
And here I sit, with Larry across the hallway from me with a very lucky newspaper lying across his lap. What I?d give to trade seats with that particular copy of the New York Times right about now? I huff briefly at the absurdity of my own thoughts and turn my attention back to what?s in MY lap. My guitar. I finish replacing the strings and I pick it up, slinging the strap over my shoulder and I start to strum, nothing in particular, just some basic arpeggios. I decide to let that evolve into a chord progression, D minor to C major, D minor? I?m really just messing around, with no real direction. Then suddenly a light tapping catches my attention and I realize that Larry?s been improvising a soft rhythm to what I?ve been playing. I realize we?ve created a steady 6/8 meter and just for the hell of it, I start to hum a melody over the chord progression I?ve just invented. I catch Larry?s eye and he throws a smile my way. I use what little strength I have left to respond and then to put a nail in the coffin, Larry speaks.
?You should write lyrics for that,? he says to me, not breaking the rhythm he?s been keeping.
?I?ve got some in mind already,? I hear myself say without thinking. And I have. I cringe after I say this because now he?s going to want to hear them. Not a big deal, but there?s a slight issue here: the lyrics I?m thinking of are about him. And as fate would have it, I cringe at his next sentence.
?So let?s hear it.?
I keep strumming lightly, recovering a few bars while I attempt to keep my lungs from collapsing. Here we go. I inhale completely and start to sing at low volume, ?You, you tear me down/you make me weak/I break at the sound/of your voice? All, all that I build/has flown away/as you have willed/when you pass by? when you pass by? when you pass me by??
I startle a little when a familiar voice echoes what I just sang with a simple ?Oooohh, when you pass by??
I look over and realize that Bono has taken a seat next to me. I bridge for another measure and launch into a chorus, ?And you bring me to my knees with your strength now I pray, won?t you take me, please take me away??
As I play with that last note, Bono improvises another small phrase above me, ?You tear me down??
Two more measures and I keep going with another verse? ?You, you leave me bare/you make me need/to share the air/that you breathe?? and another verse, ?You, from you I hide/from you I run/and keep to myself what?s inside? but you see, yes you see right through to me? don?t you??
I look over at Larry, and he?s watching me intently now, still tapping his original rhythm on his legs. What makes me swallow hard though is the look on his face. His eyes have narrowed and he?s almost glaring at me, and the smile on his face has turned not to a frown, but his mouth is straight and serious. He has the same look on his face as he has in virtually every single group picture I?ve ever seen of U2. Ever seen the Joshua Tree poster? The one with the black background and the gold trim, with that Anton Corbijn picture in black and white in the center? That?s the expression. And if looks could kill, I think I would have been dead five minutes ago.
I don?t know why I feel this way suddenly, but as a final ?fuck-you? gesture, I launch into the last chorus, ?And you break me with one glance from your eyes, now I pray, won?t you take me, please take me away??
And I barely notice Bono?s harmony as my strumming fades into gentle arpeggios again. I keep playing, throwing one last glance at Larry, ?Thanks, Larry.?
The expression on his face hasn?t changed, and he nods at me. Before I know what happened, he?s risen from his seat and he?s walking with a purpose back toward his dressing room. That copy of the New York Times slid off his lap and onto the floor when he got up. I stare at it for a moment, and Bono leans over and whispers in my ear, ?Just keep writing that song.? I look over and he winks at me. Adam is grinning behind Bono. I notice Edge across the hallway with a bemused smile on his face. I hadn?t even noticed that anyone else was there other than Bono. Then I suddenly realize why everyone is so amused: Larry?s my muse, and it?s just been made public thanks to me, my guitar and my goddamned voice.
Adam looks at me, still grinning (Adam?s grin absolutely liquefies me) and he tells me, ?Make sure that song gets onto your next album.?
I lean down and pick up the copy of New York Times that?s on the floor. I glance at it and mutter under my breath, ?You stole my seat.?
Didn?t I say I was going to take that to the grave with me? The whole muse thing? I guess I was wrong. Larry?s uniform for this tour is his typical black pants and a thin white button-down short-sleeved shirt. It has decoration down the front of it, and he usually leaves the shirt open. It?s been years and he still hasn?t lost that long silver chain with the cross pendant. It?s hanging around his neck as he brushes past me, and along with the breeze of Biolage and Irish Spring, he throws me another difficult-to-read look. I feel like melting, partially from that Larry scent that?s conditioned me to, and partially from the look he?s shot at me. He?s determined to make me lose sleep over him, isn?t he? Like I haven?t already. I?ve just finished my set, which means U2 is about to take the stage. For the hell of it, I decided to play that new song on stage tonight. I?ve titled it, ?Take Me Away (You Tear Me Down)? It seemed to go over quite well, and I made a point to mention that U2 helped me write it? in more than one way. At the moment, however, I?m having trouble figuring out if Larry?s upset or just uncomfortable.
I decide to join everyone at the party later, even though I?m thoroughly depressed. All I want to do is go back to my room, get drunk and fall asleep. And maybe when I wake up, my world will be much better than it seems to be tonight. Someone has put on some random mix CD and I look up toward the door just as Larry walks into the room. He?s changed his shirt to a plain white, and as usual it?s hanging half-open. He?s grinning ear-to-ear, and abstractly I wonder if he knows exactly what he does to me when he smiles like that. He looks over in my direction and then I realize I?m still watching him. I shift my gaze down to the margarita in my hands and as I take a long sip of it, I see someone sit down on the couch opposite me out of the corner of my eye. When I set my drink down again, I see that it?s Adam. He grins at me. ?Brave of you to play that on stage tonight.?
?Thanks,? I say. ?They didn?t throw things at me, so I?m assuming that means it?s good.? A few minutes into my conversation with Adam, I?m a little surprised when Larry plops down on the couch next to me. He?s just had a shower, and as he sits down I receive a nice wave of that familiar-scented breeze. His skin has that fresh glow to it too, and I try not to agonize over the way it reflects in his eyes, so I take another long sip off my margarita. He?s not sitting as closely to me as he usually does, and so far he hasn?t even acknowledged my presence. Which is fine, because after the fiasco I started tonight, I?m not sure I want him to. I?m not sure if he?d congratulate me or slap me.
Why is it that scent plays such a huge role in sexual attraction? Even though Larry?s about an entire foot away from me right now, I still feel like every breath I take is saturated with Biolage and Irish Spring. It?s been about twenty minutes since he sat down, and I?ve been sporadically contributing to the conversation he?s carrying on with Adam at the moment. I?ve been trying to seem like myself as much as possible, but I?ve had to fight to do it so far because of the mood I?m in. Even so, I seem to be doing fine. Larry leans forward to reach for something on the coffee table in front of us, and unfortunately for me, it?s on the opposite side of me. The teasing, ladies and gentlemen, has begun. It would have been millions easier if he?d just asked me to hand it to him, but of course, being the miserable tease that he is he just absolutely HAD to move that much closer to me and as he leans forward, his shirt brushes against my bare arm. Suddenly half of me rejoices at the fact that I wore a tank top, and the other half regrets it.
As time goes on, the music gets progressively louder and louder, and finally Larry?s having to resort to talking directly into my ear. Do I need to even describe what that feels like or shall I leave it to the imagination? Adam?s been up and about dancing with everyone else and for some time now it?s been only Larry and I. People walk past us, and we must look a bit like a couple sitting here on this couch together, because he?s awfully close to me? that and talking into each other?s ears and all. And of all the time we?ve been talking, I?m surprised that Larry hasn?t brought up my song or anything else concerning tonight?s earlier awkwardness. In fact, he doesn?t even really seem uncomfortable anymore. I?m finding it a bit odd that he seems as comfortable around me as he does, and right now he?s so close to me that his chest touches my shoulder when he inhales. Suddenly I notice that I?m having trouble breathing and I wonder where the nearest window is and if it?s open. A few hours ago all I wanted was a comfortable bed and a long night?s sleep, but now? I still want that comfortable bed, but screw the long night?s sleep? just give me one long night with Larry. A split second when I realize that my drink has progressed from a margarita to vodka and coke to straight vodka to whatever I?m drinking now and I wonder how drunk I really am. I recognize the first few bars of ?Ruby Tuesday? even though I?m feeling lightheaded, though I?m not sure whether to attribute that to the alcohol or lust. Just then I feel Larry?s voice in my ear and I can?t stand this anymore. I stand up and try walking over to the window, but somehow I can?t seem to keep my eyes on it. And yes, Mick, life is unkind. Because my salvation of fresh air is stolen away when I pass out not three steps away from the couch that I just left a bewildered-looking Larry sitting on.
I wake up slowly. My head is swimming, and I?m not sure how long I?ve been out. As my eyes focus a little I realize that I?m not even sure where I am. Wherever I?m at, it?s dimly lit, and before I have a chance to guess where I am, I feel someone sit down on the edge of the bed next to me. Out of the corner of my eye I see a white shirt and the pale cream color of flesh, and the black of what must be pants. I look up and staring down at me is Larry Mullen. His shirt is entirely unbuttoned, and I opt to look instead up into his face, which is looking moderately stern. I think, however, that this time he?s more concerned than anything. There?s a softness in his eyes which the cynical side of me automatically attributes to whatever alcohol must be in his system. His arm is stretched over me and his hand rests on the bed behind me.
?Hi,? I manage to squeak out.
?How are you feeling?? he almost whispers.
?What time is it?? I have to know, and I lift my head in search of a clock.
Larry brushes his hand up and shushes me, ?Shh, shh, shh? Lie down,? and I obey. ?It?s four o?clock in the morning.?
?How---?
Larry cuts me off, ?You passed out. You?ve been out for almost three hours,? he?s still speaking very softly and I wonder why.
The room has come a bit more into focus now, or at least enough so that I can tell I?m not in my own hotel room. There?s a suitcase on a chair against the wall across the room from me, and judging by what I can see, I?m guessing that I?m in Larry?s room. Everything that led up to this comes rushing back to me and I close my eyes. ?I?m sorry, Larry.?
?Why?? I hear him respond and he continues, ?You got up and just fell back. I barely caught you before you hurt yourself, and I carried you up here---?
?No, Larry,? I stop, realizing my own rudeness, ?Thank you. But that?s not what I was apologizing for.?
I open my eyes, and he?s staring down at me. Neither one of us moves for a moment longer, then slowly he nodds.
?I?m sorry,? I repeat again, and this time I make sure to make eye contact.
Larry sighs, ?What exactly for??
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off again.
?No, seriously. What exactly have you done to merit an apology? Did you honestly think I didn?t know?? he?s no longer whispering. He?s right. ?I?m flattered,? he continues. ?I?m glad to know that I inspired a song like that. Tessa, what do you think songwriting is all about? Turning the mess of emotion inside you into something beautiful.?
?Thank you,? I make an attempt at a smile.
?I just wish you?d quit torturing yourself over me,? Larry says rather forwardly.
?I just don?t want to get in the way, Larry,? I close my eyes again. ?I don?t want to cause you any problems.?
?Why would you??
?Because it?s the fabric of my entire history,? I hear myself say that before I?ve had a chance to consider it. But it?s true. Every single time I?ve gone through this with a man, I end up doing nothing but causing problems. My own desperado has woven my entire history. I open my eyes and his eyes have narrowed. He?s tilted his head slightly to one side, and I can tell he?s trying to process that last comment. My head is still swimming, but I have to probe again, ?Why did you do this, Larry??
?Do what?? he asks, not moving.
?Why did you stay here with me tonight??
?I wanted to be sure you were okay,? he says.
?Why?? I ask, wondering to myself why I insist on probing him like this.
He pauses, and there?s a quiet moment where he leans down closer to me. Once again, his shirt brushes against my belly, and the carnal side of me notices his flexed biceps while he supports himself on one arm. I?m not sure what his original intention in leaning closer to me was, but he?s stopped suddenly and says quietly, ?Because history doesn?t always repeat itself.?
He stands and walks away from the bed, and in my half-intoxicated state I?m much less inhibited about watching and loving the way he walks. I sit up with the intention of leaving and going back to my own room, but my source of light has been cut off. It?s pitch dark in this room now, and as my eyes adjust to the moonlight peeking through the curtains, I see Larry walk over to the suitcase against the wall, ?No, stay in here tonight,? the words roll off his tongue like silk. With his back to me, he slides his shirt off his shoulders and I watch the muscles in his back as he folds it and places it on top of the suitcase. I can see a hint of the tattoo on his shoulder, and I lie down again and close my eyes as I hear the sound of what must be Larry removing his pants. There?s another moment of random rustling around the room, and I turn over in my mind that Larry Mullen stood up off that couch and leaned forward in time to catch me as I fell. He picked me up and carried me, unconscious in his arms, up to his own hotel room and sat with me for three hours, when he could have been downstairs having a better time. And did I just watch him undress? My heart jumps when I feel the weight of another body adding itself to this bed, and I realize that this room only has one bed in it. Again, I hear his voice, ?Good night.?
I respond half-heartedly, ?Good night,? as I turn everything over in my head once more. I sigh heavily.
?Say it, Tessa,? his voice is soft but still surprising to me. My stomach turns and I pause. ?Say it.?
I turn my head toward him, and his eyes are right there, waiting expectantly. I inhale and obediently, I say it, ?I love you.?
Something in his eyes changes, and there?s another silent moment when the only sound I hear is the sound of my heart trying to dig its way out of my chest. It?s almost as if he wasn?t expecting me to actually say it. I?m not quite sure what to expect from him, and I wonder how on earth I have the courage to maintain eye contact. I finally decide that the ceiling is a safer place for my eyes.
When I hear his voice again, it?s even softer than it was before, ?I really don?t want to see you hurt.?
?Why do you think I was avoiding you?? I retort quietly.
I hear him huff lightly at that, and I look back over at him. He?s lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow. Even through the dark I can make out a smirk on his face, ?Funny, I thought it had something to do with my charm.?
I shake my head and laugh, reaching out and with a hand to his chest, I push him off his elbow. He?s lying on his back laughing, and before I can protest, my eyes have already marveled at the shape of his body beneath the blankets. Even for a guy, the curves in his chest and belly seem graceful. He reaches over and takes my hand suddenly, and he?s stopped laughing. He places my hand on his bare chest, holding my hand with his against his smooth skin. I look up at his face and his eyes are serious again, ?I told you to stop torturing yourself.?
?Force of habit,? I tell him.
?Then you need new habits,? he deadpans. I?m not quite sure what he means, but that seems like the type of comment that gets made in cheesy romance novels just before Romeo decides to embark upon an erotic adventure with the Juliet of his choice. And part of me waits for Larry to do something or make some kind of move that way, but he doesn?t. And the whole of me is relieved. This is not a Sandra Brown novel. This is reality, and my hand is still resting on Larry?s chest. His skin is warm and smooth, and he?s still staring at me. I let my hand slide down his belly and across, stopping at the edge of the blanket. A moment where I pause, and he lifts the blanket up and rolls onto his side. I?m a little surprised when he moves closer to me and wraps an arm around my waist. He pulls me into him and I wonder if he knows how fast my heart is pounding. Can he feel it? Because now I can feel his breath on my face, I can smell the vodka he?s been drinking. I take slight comfort when I feel something silky brush against my legs. Boxers. Thank God he doesn?t sleep naked. The next moment I?m realizing that tonight I was wearing jeans and by that logic, I shouldn?t have been able to feel that. When did he take my pants off? The bed feels warmer, I feel a little safer and every time Larry exhales I can smell vodka. The closer he gets to me, the more it hurts. My heart won?t slow down and I feel like crying; I can even feel the start of a lump in my throat, which grows when I hear his voice again, ?Tessa.?
I open my eyes and once again, his are right there.
He speaks again, gently, ?Stop it? please don?t do this to yourself.?
Well then what am I supposed to do? I wonder. I close my eyes, afraid that I?ll start crying.
I feel his forehead and the tip of his nose against mine, ?I don?t want to be the reason you fall apart.?
That accent again. Ah-pahrt. I take a deep breath, intending to reply, but he interrupts me by brushing his mouth across mine. I can?t believe he?s doing this. Before I can say anything else, he?s kissing me. I respond and suddenly I don?t even care what city or what part of the world I?m in anymore. Everything else in the world that matters has suddenly disappeared into insignificance, because the man I?ve been losing sleep over for years has me in his arms. He?s pushed me onto my back and then he stops, but his mouth still lingers a moment. He?s looking down at me. I reach up and brush my finger along his jawline.
?Larry?? I prod one more time.
?Yes?? he?s closed his eyes at my touch.
?I?m not a charity case,? I take my hand away from his face.
He opens his eyes, and the look in them is worth a thousand words. He?s confused. I can almost feel the sword I?ve taken to his side. ?No,? he says sternly. I can tell he wanted to say something else, but instead he leans down and kisses me once more. He moves back over beside me again, and I think that perhaps now is a good time to get up and leave. His hand on my waist stops me. I turn around. ?Stay here tonight,? he says again.
I hesitate, then lay back down again. Against every will in my body, I turn and face away from him. I sigh, however, when I feel his arm snake its way around my waist, and his chest against my back.
?At any rate, your hotel is across town,? he says, barely above a whisper.
?Thank you, Larry.?
I feel him sigh in response. I start to pull away from him, but he pulls me back down and leans over me. ?Look me in the face and tell me you don?t feel better when you?re close to me this way,? he almost spits at me. The look in his eyes stills me. If looks could kill. I say nothing. ?Why do you insist on torturing yourself?? he says more gently.
I relax back into him and he lay down again. ?I?m sorry,? I tell him, and I turn over to face him.
?If I didn?t want to be close to you, I wouldn?t do this,? his eyes dive into mine. ?You?d sleep more soundly here.?
He?s right. I settle more, and I wrap my arm around his shoulder. He kisses me one more time. The bed feels warmer, I feel a little safer and for the first time in years, I fall asleep quickly.
It's not finished yet, but this is what I've got so far. Flaming June has been reading this privately. Note, FJ, that I changed the title... it didn't go in the direction I had originally planned... Anyway, enough out of me. Here it is.
*nervous*
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Take Me Away (Tear Me Down)
I?ve just spent the last few hours trying to convince myself that I?m not a masochist. I keep losing. I did choose to be here after all. I hate it when I put myself in situations like this, because either way I lose. Isn?t that what always happens when your heart (wretched enemy) sets itself on something it absolutely cannot have? Just call me desperado. Like the Eagles tune.
There are days I regret even agreeing to this tour in the first place. I should have thought about this before I told them I?d open for them. I should have sat down and considered that perhaps certain things would magnify themselves once my relationship with U2 went from fan-idol to peer. Don?t get me wrong, I love touring with them. They?re some of the greatest bunch of guys in this business, and they?re actually partially responsible for my career choice as it is. What I hate about this has to do with me. What I hate about this is that every time he walks past me something inside me shatters. What I hate about this is whenever words roll off his tongue like silk, regardless of whether or not they were directed at me, something inside of me cracks and I lose all ability to think or function properly. To his credit, this hasn?t been such a terrible thing. This entire situation, that effect he seems to have on me has spurned almost half of 24 songs I?ve written since I?ve been touring. Sixteen will end up on my next album. My last single topped the charts and I?ve vowed that Larry Mullen will NEVER find out that he inspired that one. I?d rather sell out. Yep, it?ll go with me to the grave. I suppose Larry knowing about that wouldn?t be such an awful thing. I just really don?t want to have to explain it to him. How do you explain lyrics like ?I wonder how it?d taste to lick the champagne off your lips/more sweetness in your salty skin than in the wine I sip? without coming off as threatening? Or crazy? Or both? Yes, Larry, those lyrics were inspired by you. But it?s not what it sounds like, I swear!! What I really meant was? em? err? That really wouldn?t work. So as long as it?s up to me, he?ll never know about that. But then, he?s used to women lusting after him. I would just rather stay out of the pile. I really don?t want to add to it. Isn?t that exactly what I?m doing? He doesn?t have to know that.
But then with my history, he probably knew before I did. I?m not exactly known for being subtle about these things. It?s typically glaringly obvious to the rest of the world with the exception of me. The very first day, he came up to me somewhere in the bowels of the stadium where they?d decided to open the tour. Within five minutes I realized that Larry Mullen was in reality a hundred times sexier than any picture I?d ever seen of him. EVER. I?ve spent the past two months since hiding from him. He walks into a room, I look away. I bury myself in a book, in my guitar or in music or something? anything to get my mind off of him and how much I?d love to---
Anyway, I?m almost certain he?s figured me out. I think he gets off on teasing me, because he?ll always make a point to sit next to me, and I?ve actually figured out that he uses Biolage shampoo and conditioner, and of course the soap is Irish Spring. Yeah, I know, that?s pathetic that I?ve actually figured that out, but when the man sits down not six inches away from me when he?s fresh out of a shower it?s kind of hard to ignore when it?s the same scent all the time. And this brings me back to me and my masochism debate. I mean, in all seriousness I could just get up and walk away when he comes around me, but I don?t. I choose to stay there and torture myself. And why? Because he?s a wonderful man and I love being around him. And he?s so down to earth it?s dangerous. I feel like within this whirlwind world we all seem to be in at the moment (touring does that to you), he?s the only thing that keeps me from losing touch with reality completely.
The thing about Larry is that he can sense bullshit before it even exists, and he hates it with a vengeance. So the less honest you are with him, the less he likes you. I?m an honest person, and I can?t lie to save my own life. My conscience gets the best of me, I suppose. Lying comes naturally for some people. Not for me. The best I can do is dance around the truth, and in some ways, I really regret that because should Larry ever approach me about this entire situation, I have no way to escape the impending doom of problems that would follow. It hasn?t happened yet, thank God, but still I feel like a fan-girl. Or worse, I feel like I?m in high school. The only difference is that I actually give a damn about his well-being and what happens to him as a result of me. Love is an action. It?s something you do for someone to make sure they have what?s best for them and what?s going to make them at the very least comfortable with their surroundings. And I honestly feel that the last thing Larry Mullen Jr. needs at the moment is an unstable, insecure, impractical woman chasing after his attention. His attention is already split a thousand different ways as it is. Which is partly why I?ve chosen to express this entire thing in songwriting. And I promise you, he will NEVER know that he is my muse.
Back to this honesty thing though, I think I proved my own point last night. I can?t lie, especially to him. Yesterday he had a fan basically launch herself at him, and thank God for security, because she actually tore his t-shirt. Needless to say, that pretty much ruined the remainder of his day. I hated seeing that concerned, hurt scowl on his face after that, so I brought him a beer later. I asked him if he was okay.
Larry sighed and nodded, ?Yeah, I suppose.?
The textbook answer here would have been something to the effect of ?I know how you feel? or ?It?s okay.? But the truth is, I have no idea how he feels. I?m still newer in the music business, and my fan following isn?t quite so large. I?ve never had a fan launch themselves at me, then watched as they were carried away by security with a piece of my torn clothing in their hands. So smiling gently and saying, ?I can sympathize? was out of the question. Instead, I sighed and sat down next to him. ?You know, Larry?? I paused and handed him the Guinness I had brought for him, ?People tend to put you on this pedestal. They objectify you, idolize you, and forget that you?re human. They tend to forget that you have your share of faults and that you can be bruised just as easily as they can. I know, because I did it too. It?s rare, especially in this industry that you find someone who gives a damn about something besides themselves and the money they?re making. It?s rare that you find someone who sees your humanity, you know??
Larry nodded, ?Yeah, I know.?
?I?ll be honest, Lar. I?ve never had that happen to me, what happened to you today. I?ve never had someone launch themselves at me like that. Fame is a very weird, scary thing, and I think if I were in your position, it?d scare the shit out of me.?
?You?re right about that.?
?How do you feel?? I asked.
?Shaken, very shaken.?
I nodded, ?Anything I can do to raise your spirits??
He smiled, ?The beer helped. Thanks?? he paused, ?So does your honesty.?
?I?m not going to give you some pat-on-the-back answer. I hate it when people do that to me because it?s bullshit and it doesn?t help? If I?m concerned about you I?m going to help.?
?I appreciate that, Tess, I really do,? he sighed and looked down into the Guinness bottle. I could tell there wasn?t much else I could do here? so I got down on the floor in front of him and looked up into his face.
?Larry,? I started, ?I know I?m probably not at the top of your list of people to run to when you need it, and I know that it?s hard for me to offer you any kind of comfort just because I don?t know you as well as some other people do??
He looked at me, his eyes dove into mine.
?And I know I?m younger and there?s things you?ve been through and done that I haven?t? but I?ve been through enough to know that life?s a piece of shit sometimes.?
He stared at me.
?I won?t give you bullshit. I promise. I?m an open ear if you need one.?
His eyes brightened and my heart cracked. His lips curled into a smile and I shattered, as usual. Then he spoke, ?Thank you, Tess.?
I love how sometimes, just sometimes he?ll emphasize diphthongs when he speaks. The word ?I? for instance, with Larry it has two syllables blurred into one. I love how every time he speaks different things are brought out. Sometimes vowels are brought out, sometimes it?s the consonants. I just love his accent, period. I think it?s the hard ?r??s that kill me though? Being a trained opera singer it?s hard for me to keep from analyzing his accent like that. I can?t help it. I?ve spent years in studios with teachers who did nothing but rip apart anything I said into tiny little pieces just the way I keep doing with Larry. I got out of opera simply because my voice just isn?t huge enough to do that. Besides, I was always more into singing Boston and The Eagles than I was into singing Puccini. Therefore it should have surprised no one when I picked up a guitar and started doing small sets at open mic nights on campus. I dreamed, but never expected to get this far. Four years ago, I was a confused college kid writing songs and dreaming of a day when I?d be able to walk up to the people who inspired me, not as a fan, but as a colleague. Now, I, Tessa Ann Lytle am opening for U2, one of the greatest rock bands in history. All in four short years. That scares me, because think about it? it took U2 from 1976 to 1987 to rise to the top. Eleven years. And me? I wouldn?t say I?m quite at the top, but I?m a hell of a lot farther than they were at this point. I?ve just always been of the mind that as far as bands go, the quicker you rise, the quicker you fall. When I went into this I intended to be a legend. I wanted to be up there with U2 and Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac? bands who will always be hailed as great regardless of whether they?re still around. I feel now as if the public could forget about me completely if I decided not to do another album. Then again, bands that open for U2 are typically already well established, or they go on to be. Look at Pearl Jam, Garbage? So come to think of it, I would have been bloody CRAZY to turn U2 down this time. My manager would have had me committed. And so I accepted the offer. I told U2 I?d be their opening act, and thusly proceeded to spend several months on the road with them.
And here I sit, with Larry across the hallway from me with a very lucky newspaper lying across his lap. What I?d give to trade seats with that particular copy of the New York Times right about now? I huff briefly at the absurdity of my own thoughts and turn my attention back to what?s in MY lap. My guitar. I finish replacing the strings and I pick it up, slinging the strap over my shoulder and I start to strum, nothing in particular, just some basic arpeggios. I decide to let that evolve into a chord progression, D minor to C major, D minor? I?m really just messing around, with no real direction. Then suddenly a light tapping catches my attention and I realize that Larry?s been improvising a soft rhythm to what I?ve been playing. I realize we?ve created a steady 6/8 meter and just for the hell of it, I start to hum a melody over the chord progression I?ve just invented. I catch Larry?s eye and he throws a smile my way. I use what little strength I have left to respond and then to put a nail in the coffin, Larry speaks.
?You should write lyrics for that,? he says to me, not breaking the rhythm he?s been keeping.
?I?ve got some in mind already,? I hear myself say without thinking. And I have. I cringe after I say this because now he?s going to want to hear them. Not a big deal, but there?s a slight issue here: the lyrics I?m thinking of are about him. And as fate would have it, I cringe at his next sentence.
?So let?s hear it.?
I keep strumming lightly, recovering a few bars while I attempt to keep my lungs from collapsing. Here we go. I inhale completely and start to sing at low volume, ?You, you tear me down/you make me weak/I break at the sound/of your voice? All, all that I build/has flown away/as you have willed/when you pass by? when you pass by? when you pass me by??
I startle a little when a familiar voice echoes what I just sang with a simple ?Oooohh, when you pass by??
I look over and realize that Bono has taken a seat next to me. I bridge for another measure and launch into a chorus, ?And you bring me to my knees with your strength now I pray, won?t you take me, please take me away??
As I play with that last note, Bono improvises another small phrase above me, ?You tear me down??
Two more measures and I keep going with another verse? ?You, you leave me bare/you make me need/to share the air/that you breathe?? and another verse, ?You, from you I hide/from you I run/and keep to myself what?s inside? but you see, yes you see right through to me? don?t you??
I look over at Larry, and he?s watching me intently now, still tapping his original rhythm on his legs. What makes me swallow hard though is the look on his face. His eyes have narrowed and he?s almost glaring at me, and the smile on his face has turned not to a frown, but his mouth is straight and serious. He has the same look on his face as he has in virtually every single group picture I?ve ever seen of U2. Ever seen the Joshua Tree poster? The one with the black background and the gold trim, with that Anton Corbijn picture in black and white in the center? That?s the expression. And if looks could kill, I think I would have been dead five minutes ago.
I don?t know why I feel this way suddenly, but as a final ?fuck-you? gesture, I launch into the last chorus, ?And you break me with one glance from your eyes, now I pray, won?t you take me, please take me away??
And I barely notice Bono?s harmony as my strumming fades into gentle arpeggios again. I keep playing, throwing one last glance at Larry, ?Thanks, Larry.?
The expression on his face hasn?t changed, and he nods at me. Before I know what happened, he?s risen from his seat and he?s walking with a purpose back toward his dressing room. That copy of the New York Times slid off his lap and onto the floor when he got up. I stare at it for a moment, and Bono leans over and whispers in my ear, ?Just keep writing that song.? I look over and he winks at me. Adam is grinning behind Bono. I notice Edge across the hallway with a bemused smile on his face. I hadn?t even noticed that anyone else was there other than Bono. Then I suddenly realize why everyone is so amused: Larry?s my muse, and it?s just been made public thanks to me, my guitar and my goddamned voice.
Adam looks at me, still grinning (Adam?s grin absolutely liquefies me) and he tells me, ?Make sure that song gets onto your next album.?
I lean down and pick up the copy of New York Times that?s on the floor. I glance at it and mutter under my breath, ?You stole my seat.?
Didn?t I say I was going to take that to the grave with me? The whole muse thing? I guess I was wrong. Larry?s uniform for this tour is his typical black pants and a thin white button-down short-sleeved shirt. It has decoration down the front of it, and he usually leaves the shirt open. It?s been years and he still hasn?t lost that long silver chain with the cross pendant. It?s hanging around his neck as he brushes past me, and along with the breeze of Biolage and Irish Spring, he throws me another difficult-to-read look. I feel like melting, partially from that Larry scent that?s conditioned me to, and partially from the look he?s shot at me. He?s determined to make me lose sleep over him, isn?t he? Like I haven?t already. I?ve just finished my set, which means U2 is about to take the stage. For the hell of it, I decided to play that new song on stage tonight. I?ve titled it, ?Take Me Away (You Tear Me Down)? It seemed to go over quite well, and I made a point to mention that U2 helped me write it? in more than one way. At the moment, however, I?m having trouble figuring out if Larry?s upset or just uncomfortable.
I decide to join everyone at the party later, even though I?m thoroughly depressed. All I want to do is go back to my room, get drunk and fall asleep. And maybe when I wake up, my world will be much better than it seems to be tonight. Someone has put on some random mix CD and I look up toward the door just as Larry walks into the room. He?s changed his shirt to a plain white, and as usual it?s hanging half-open. He?s grinning ear-to-ear, and abstractly I wonder if he knows exactly what he does to me when he smiles like that. He looks over in my direction and then I realize I?m still watching him. I shift my gaze down to the margarita in my hands and as I take a long sip of it, I see someone sit down on the couch opposite me out of the corner of my eye. When I set my drink down again, I see that it?s Adam. He grins at me. ?Brave of you to play that on stage tonight.?
?Thanks,? I say. ?They didn?t throw things at me, so I?m assuming that means it?s good.? A few minutes into my conversation with Adam, I?m a little surprised when Larry plops down on the couch next to me. He?s just had a shower, and as he sits down I receive a nice wave of that familiar-scented breeze. His skin has that fresh glow to it too, and I try not to agonize over the way it reflects in his eyes, so I take another long sip off my margarita. He?s not sitting as closely to me as he usually does, and so far he hasn?t even acknowledged my presence. Which is fine, because after the fiasco I started tonight, I?m not sure I want him to. I?m not sure if he?d congratulate me or slap me.
Why is it that scent plays such a huge role in sexual attraction? Even though Larry?s about an entire foot away from me right now, I still feel like every breath I take is saturated with Biolage and Irish Spring. It?s been about twenty minutes since he sat down, and I?ve been sporadically contributing to the conversation he?s carrying on with Adam at the moment. I?ve been trying to seem like myself as much as possible, but I?ve had to fight to do it so far because of the mood I?m in. Even so, I seem to be doing fine. Larry leans forward to reach for something on the coffee table in front of us, and unfortunately for me, it?s on the opposite side of me. The teasing, ladies and gentlemen, has begun. It would have been millions easier if he?d just asked me to hand it to him, but of course, being the miserable tease that he is he just absolutely HAD to move that much closer to me and as he leans forward, his shirt brushes against my bare arm. Suddenly half of me rejoices at the fact that I wore a tank top, and the other half regrets it.
As time goes on, the music gets progressively louder and louder, and finally Larry?s having to resort to talking directly into my ear. Do I need to even describe what that feels like or shall I leave it to the imagination? Adam?s been up and about dancing with everyone else and for some time now it?s been only Larry and I. People walk past us, and we must look a bit like a couple sitting here on this couch together, because he?s awfully close to me? that and talking into each other?s ears and all. And of all the time we?ve been talking, I?m surprised that Larry hasn?t brought up my song or anything else concerning tonight?s earlier awkwardness. In fact, he doesn?t even really seem uncomfortable anymore. I?m finding it a bit odd that he seems as comfortable around me as he does, and right now he?s so close to me that his chest touches my shoulder when he inhales. Suddenly I notice that I?m having trouble breathing and I wonder where the nearest window is and if it?s open. A few hours ago all I wanted was a comfortable bed and a long night?s sleep, but now? I still want that comfortable bed, but screw the long night?s sleep? just give me one long night with Larry. A split second when I realize that my drink has progressed from a margarita to vodka and coke to straight vodka to whatever I?m drinking now and I wonder how drunk I really am. I recognize the first few bars of ?Ruby Tuesday? even though I?m feeling lightheaded, though I?m not sure whether to attribute that to the alcohol or lust. Just then I feel Larry?s voice in my ear and I can?t stand this anymore. I stand up and try walking over to the window, but somehow I can?t seem to keep my eyes on it. And yes, Mick, life is unkind. Because my salvation of fresh air is stolen away when I pass out not three steps away from the couch that I just left a bewildered-looking Larry sitting on.
I wake up slowly. My head is swimming, and I?m not sure how long I?ve been out. As my eyes focus a little I realize that I?m not even sure where I am. Wherever I?m at, it?s dimly lit, and before I have a chance to guess where I am, I feel someone sit down on the edge of the bed next to me. Out of the corner of my eye I see a white shirt and the pale cream color of flesh, and the black of what must be pants. I look up and staring down at me is Larry Mullen. His shirt is entirely unbuttoned, and I opt to look instead up into his face, which is looking moderately stern. I think, however, that this time he?s more concerned than anything. There?s a softness in his eyes which the cynical side of me automatically attributes to whatever alcohol must be in his system. His arm is stretched over me and his hand rests on the bed behind me.
?Hi,? I manage to squeak out.
?How are you feeling?? he almost whispers.
?What time is it?? I have to know, and I lift my head in search of a clock.
Larry brushes his hand up and shushes me, ?Shh, shh, shh? Lie down,? and I obey. ?It?s four o?clock in the morning.?
?How---?
Larry cuts me off, ?You passed out. You?ve been out for almost three hours,? he?s still speaking very softly and I wonder why.
The room has come a bit more into focus now, or at least enough so that I can tell I?m not in my own hotel room. There?s a suitcase on a chair against the wall across the room from me, and judging by what I can see, I?m guessing that I?m in Larry?s room. Everything that led up to this comes rushing back to me and I close my eyes. ?I?m sorry, Larry.?
?Why?? I hear him respond and he continues, ?You got up and just fell back. I barely caught you before you hurt yourself, and I carried you up here---?
?No, Larry,? I stop, realizing my own rudeness, ?Thank you. But that?s not what I was apologizing for.?
I open my eyes, and he?s staring down at me. Neither one of us moves for a moment longer, then slowly he nodds.
?I?m sorry,? I repeat again, and this time I make sure to make eye contact.
Larry sighs, ?What exactly for??
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off again.
?No, seriously. What exactly have you done to merit an apology? Did you honestly think I didn?t know?? he?s no longer whispering. He?s right. ?I?m flattered,? he continues. ?I?m glad to know that I inspired a song like that. Tessa, what do you think songwriting is all about? Turning the mess of emotion inside you into something beautiful.?
?Thank you,? I make an attempt at a smile.
?I just wish you?d quit torturing yourself over me,? Larry says rather forwardly.
?I just don?t want to get in the way, Larry,? I close my eyes again. ?I don?t want to cause you any problems.?
?Why would you??
?Because it?s the fabric of my entire history,? I hear myself say that before I?ve had a chance to consider it. But it?s true. Every single time I?ve gone through this with a man, I end up doing nothing but causing problems. My own desperado has woven my entire history. I open my eyes and his eyes have narrowed. He?s tilted his head slightly to one side, and I can tell he?s trying to process that last comment. My head is still swimming, but I have to probe again, ?Why did you do this, Larry??
?Do what?? he asks, not moving.
?Why did you stay here with me tonight??
?I wanted to be sure you were okay,? he says.
?Why?? I ask, wondering to myself why I insist on probing him like this.
He pauses, and there?s a quiet moment where he leans down closer to me. Once again, his shirt brushes against my belly, and the carnal side of me notices his flexed biceps while he supports himself on one arm. I?m not sure what his original intention in leaning closer to me was, but he?s stopped suddenly and says quietly, ?Because history doesn?t always repeat itself.?
He stands and walks away from the bed, and in my half-intoxicated state I?m much less inhibited about watching and loving the way he walks. I sit up with the intention of leaving and going back to my own room, but my source of light has been cut off. It?s pitch dark in this room now, and as my eyes adjust to the moonlight peeking through the curtains, I see Larry walk over to the suitcase against the wall, ?No, stay in here tonight,? the words roll off his tongue like silk. With his back to me, he slides his shirt off his shoulders and I watch the muscles in his back as he folds it and places it on top of the suitcase. I can see a hint of the tattoo on his shoulder, and I lie down again and close my eyes as I hear the sound of what must be Larry removing his pants. There?s another moment of random rustling around the room, and I turn over in my mind that Larry Mullen stood up off that couch and leaned forward in time to catch me as I fell. He picked me up and carried me, unconscious in his arms, up to his own hotel room and sat with me for three hours, when he could have been downstairs having a better time. And did I just watch him undress? My heart jumps when I feel the weight of another body adding itself to this bed, and I realize that this room only has one bed in it. Again, I hear his voice, ?Good night.?
I respond half-heartedly, ?Good night,? as I turn everything over in my head once more. I sigh heavily.
?Say it, Tessa,? his voice is soft but still surprising to me. My stomach turns and I pause. ?Say it.?
I turn my head toward him, and his eyes are right there, waiting expectantly. I inhale and obediently, I say it, ?I love you.?
Something in his eyes changes, and there?s another silent moment when the only sound I hear is the sound of my heart trying to dig its way out of my chest. It?s almost as if he wasn?t expecting me to actually say it. I?m not quite sure what to expect from him, and I wonder how on earth I have the courage to maintain eye contact. I finally decide that the ceiling is a safer place for my eyes.
When I hear his voice again, it?s even softer than it was before, ?I really don?t want to see you hurt.?
?Why do you think I was avoiding you?? I retort quietly.
I hear him huff lightly at that, and I look back over at him. He?s lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow. Even through the dark I can make out a smirk on his face, ?Funny, I thought it had something to do with my charm.?
I shake my head and laugh, reaching out and with a hand to his chest, I push him off his elbow. He?s lying on his back laughing, and before I can protest, my eyes have already marveled at the shape of his body beneath the blankets. Even for a guy, the curves in his chest and belly seem graceful. He reaches over and takes my hand suddenly, and he?s stopped laughing. He places my hand on his bare chest, holding my hand with his against his smooth skin. I look up at his face and his eyes are serious again, ?I told you to stop torturing yourself.?
?Force of habit,? I tell him.
?Then you need new habits,? he deadpans. I?m not quite sure what he means, but that seems like the type of comment that gets made in cheesy romance novels just before Romeo decides to embark upon an erotic adventure with the Juliet of his choice. And part of me waits for Larry to do something or make some kind of move that way, but he doesn?t. And the whole of me is relieved. This is not a Sandra Brown novel. This is reality, and my hand is still resting on Larry?s chest. His skin is warm and smooth, and he?s still staring at me. I let my hand slide down his belly and across, stopping at the edge of the blanket. A moment where I pause, and he lifts the blanket up and rolls onto his side. I?m a little surprised when he moves closer to me and wraps an arm around my waist. He pulls me into him and I wonder if he knows how fast my heart is pounding. Can he feel it? Because now I can feel his breath on my face, I can smell the vodka he?s been drinking. I take slight comfort when I feel something silky brush against my legs. Boxers. Thank God he doesn?t sleep naked. The next moment I?m realizing that tonight I was wearing jeans and by that logic, I shouldn?t have been able to feel that. When did he take my pants off? The bed feels warmer, I feel a little safer and every time Larry exhales I can smell vodka. The closer he gets to me, the more it hurts. My heart won?t slow down and I feel like crying; I can even feel the start of a lump in my throat, which grows when I hear his voice again, ?Tessa.?
I open my eyes and once again, his are right there.
He speaks again, gently, ?Stop it? please don?t do this to yourself.?
Well then what am I supposed to do? I wonder. I close my eyes, afraid that I?ll start crying.
I feel his forehead and the tip of his nose against mine, ?I don?t want to be the reason you fall apart.?
That accent again. Ah-pahrt. I take a deep breath, intending to reply, but he interrupts me by brushing his mouth across mine. I can?t believe he?s doing this. Before I can say anything else, he?s kissing me. I respond and suddenly I don?t even care what city or what part of the world I?m in anymore. Everything else in the world that matters has suddenly disappeared into insignificance, because the man I?ve been losing sleep over for years has me in his arms. He?s pushed me onto my back and then he stops, but his mouth still lingers a moment. He?s looking down at me. I reach up and brush my finger along his jawline.
?Larry?? I prod one more time.
?Yes?? he?s closed his eyes at my touch.
?I?m not a charity case,? I take my hand away from his face.
He opens his eyes, and the look in them is worth a thousand words. He?s confused. I can almost feel the sword I?ve taken to his side. ?No,? he says sternly. I can tell he wanted to say something else, but instead he leans down and kisses me once more. He moves back over beside me again, and I think that perhaps now is a good time to get up and leave. His hand on my waist stops me. I turn around. ?Stay here tonight,? he says again.
I hesitate, then lay back down again. Against every will in my body, I turn and face away from him. I sigh, however, when I feel his arm snake its way around my waist, and his chest against my back.
?At any rate, your hotel is across town,? he says, barely above a whisper.
?Thank you, Larry.?
I feel him sigh in response. I start to pull away from him, but he pulls me back down and leans over me. ?Look me in the face and tell me you don?t feel better when you?re close to me this way,? he almost spits at me. The look in his eyes stills me. If looks could kill. I say nothing. ?Why do you insist on torturing yourself?? he says more gently.
I relax back into him and he lay down again. ?I?m sorry,? I tell him, and I turn over to face him.
?If I didn?t want to be close to you, I wouldn?t do this,? his eyes dive into mine. ?You?d sleep more soundly here.?
He?s right. I settle more, and I wrap my arm around his shoulder. He kisses me one more time. The bed feels warmer, I feel a little safer and for the first time in years, I fall asleep quickly.
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it!
Good work! Cant wait for the next installment! 
Wow... all I can say is I'm like buttah right now, just like buttah...
And no, this is not the end quite yet.
Thanks!!!!
