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Stuck

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We heard the music before we got there. Loud, obnoxious and distasteful – just like its owner.

“Looks like it’s already started,” Jay observed sagely, nodding in the direction of the house. It looked exactly the same as all the other ones we were passing: large, luxurious and lavish with a capital L. The people of Dryden Concourse certainly knew how to live in style.

I grunted in response. The party was going to be a dud. We hadn’t even gotten there and already I wished that I’d stayed at home to watch grass grow. I most definitely had not wanted to come, and I’d made sure that all of the car’s occupants knew about it.

I was pressed against the door of the ratty old commodore, and the guy sitting next to me turned and grinned, the streetlights reflecting the white of his teeth. He placed a clammy hand down on my bare leg, slowly beginning to massage higher.

I slapped my hand on top of his and peeled it off, giving him a deadly glare. “Dear God,” I said, disgust lacing my tone as his stale cigarette breath washed over me.

“Jayden,” I said fiercely, leaning forward so that my head was right next to his, “your friend – who is more than likely already pissed, which means we’re going to have to ride home with his spew in the car – is feeling me up. I have a headache, my uterus feels like it’s going to drop out and I want to-fucking-go home!”

“You’re such a bloody bitch, Rome,” he replied, without any real malice.

“Yeah,” another guy piped up, on the other side of Fag Breath. “I think you should just—”

An eyebrow raised, I leant around the middleman to get a good look at him. He too, was heavily inebriated and I could smell the alcohol radiating from his pores. “Excuse me?”

He shifted his eyes to the scene outside the window. “Nothin’.”

“That’s what I thought,” I sneered, slumping back against the worn synthetic seat.

The car rolled to a stop outside a capacious brick house. April pulled up the handbrake and turned to look at her passengers.

“All right; everyone, get out! Out! Outta my car,” she hissed as Fag Breath only moaned and slumped to the side. Evidently I’d been wrong in assuming he was just drunk.

I heaved a sigh and pushed the car door open. People were spilling out onto the front yard, and the Henderson’s prized petunias were now crushed without hope of salvation.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I whirled around, my fists ready to inform them that I didn’t appreciate the gesture.

“Fuck,” Jay exclaimed as I narrowly missed his pretty-boy face. “Liven up a little, Romy. I brought you here to get a fuckin’ life, you know, not to attack random people.”

“They’re all morons, anyway,” I replied scornfully. “Look at that girl over there – pushing her boobs up in that guy’s face, when anyone with eyeballs can tell that he’s a fag. And I know that is not a sleeping pill that guy is adding to his drink. Fuck-ing-mor-ons,” I enunciated slowly, in case Jay didn’t quite understand what I thought of his so-called ‘friends’.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I hear you loud and clear,” he said as the others began to wobble off. “Now, why don’t you do us all a favour and get a drink, find a guy and get fuckin’ laid, or something?”

My look was stony. “Was I, or was I not, just telling you about how my uterus is trying to slowly kill me?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Then get a girl. Whatever, I don’t care.” And with that, my supposed friend stalked off, no doubt to try and find someone to chat up.

I was left standing in the middle of the house’s ominous shadow, while oblivious people around me sucked face with their respective ‘buddies’ for the night. One couple – who looked a couple of years too young to even be attending the party, let alone to have brought something to drink – stumbled into me, and I decided it was time to face my fears and enter ‘the House of Doom’.

The second I barged through the door I regretted it. There were people gyrating against each other everywhere, and some poor fucker had just slipped a John Farnham CD on. And worse still, nobody seemed to care at the atrocious lack of taste these people were presenting.

“What, Farnsy’s not your thing?” someone whispered in my ear and I turned around to face the man that put the Doom in the House of Doom.

“How do these people not just get instantly turned off by this shit?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. Instead of risking going through the sexed-up crowd, I moved down the hallway towards the kitchen to grab a drink.

Bentley Henderson shrugged. “They’re horny; what do you think?”

“Of what – them being horny or about the definition?”

The smirk that crept up his face was indubitable. “When you put it like that—”

“Oh, shut up, you fucker,” I slapped his arm and threw myself into a seat at the kitchen bench. It was probably the only room in his house that had a maximum of ten people, and even then it was only because he’d locked one door and put all the eskies out on the back patio.

He swung the refrigerator open and pulled out two cans, offering me first a Bundy and then a lemonade when I shook my head.

“As if anyone actually believes April Fawkner is going to stay sober during a party,” I said by way of an explanation. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to die just because the bitch couldn’t stomach a few beers.”

“Right,” he said pretentiously, raising an eyebrow. “So why’d you come then? Thought this ‘wasn’t your scene’?”

“Somebody had to get them home safely,” I drawled over the top of my drink.

“You? Caring about other people? Surely not!”

“Yeah, Henderson, you’re funny; real funny.” His gaze remained trained on mine and I rolled my eyes. “Jay promised me tickets to the Funky Chickens’ last concert.”

His grin was condescending. “You should’ve stayed home, then.”

My own expression could have melted ice. “What, miss out on this lovely show?” I gestured to our surroundings. A few more alcohol-fuelled people had poured into the room since we’d commandeered it, and they’d rendered the Henderson’s previously beautiful white tiles an ugly pink.

“Well,” he said at last, sliding down from his position on the kitchen bench, “thanks for pointing that out – and volunteering to clean up. I’d help, but, you know… people to see, people to do.” His smug grin threatened to cover his entire face. “Toodles.”

“You are not—” I bellowed, but apparently he was, because with one self-satisfied glance over his shoulder he had disappeared into the wave of people, blending in until I could no longer see him.

I fumed aloud, and the people that had come into the kitchen in hopes of refuge began to disperse. There was no fucking way I was going to clean up what was, essentially, his mess.

“And if you think that I am,” I yelled to no one, “you’ve got another few hundred things coming! Starting with this,” I picked up a vase that looked as though it had been placed there with the primary intention of keeping it safe and threw it across the room. It shattered into hundreds of tiny bits and I felt my anger begin to dissipate. After all, it wasn’t really his mother’s fault her son had turned out to be such a dickhead.

The noise didn’t bring Bentley Henderson back into the room, but it did attract someone else.

“Oh, good,” the evening’s chauffeur said upon witnessing my venting with the vase, “I found you.”

“Whoopee,” I murmured sarcastically, waving an imaginary banner around.

April didn’t appear to notice – in fact, it looked as though she’d already had a few too many beers to notice such a trivial thing like that. She tossed me the keys haphazardly, and I only just managed to catch them. “Listen, Romy, you haven’t had anything to drink tonight, have you?”

I held up my lemonade. “What does it look like?”

She giggled; atypical of a sober April, but it was nevertheless a high-pitched squeal that made me want to cover my ears and bitch-slap her for being so annoying. “No, I meant alcohol.”

I stared expressionlessly at her and repeated my words. “What does it look like?”

“That’s – oh,” she said, realisation flying across her face as though a light bulb had just gone off. “Well, you need to drive tonight. I swear, I wasn’t planning on drinking,” she added when she finally saw my stormy face.

“Right,” I said, “that’s why you brought the six-pack.”

“God,” she hissed breathily. “Why you’re always so anal, I don’t know—”

“What?”

“I said—” my tone seemed to register and she stopped dead in her tracks. “I mean,” she quickly amended, “you never seem to loosen up. You’re always so scary – I mean, serious,” she said with a straight face, swaying in the non-existent breeze.

I raised my eyebrows. “I scare you?”

“Well… yeah,” she admitted drunkenly. “I mean, you’re always yelling, and laughing at people in that totally not-nice way—”

“I see,” I interrupted, then turned to the few remaining people left in the room. “Do I scare anybody else?”

“See?” April continued on. “That’s what I’m talking about – you just shout and shout and shout—”

“Yes,” several people said flatly, including one or two whom yelled it from inside the corridor.

“Right then,” I announced, setting my empty drink atop the counter, “I’ll prove to you all that I can ‘liven up’. I’m not afraid,” I elaborated, pointing a finger at April, “of a challenge. And I am not anal,” I seethed with a glare of molten lava directed towards her.

She cowered, but the girl had balls because she said, “Okay then. There’s some cans in the fridge; Bentley said to tell you to help yourself.”

Prick. Of course he had. “Well, if he’s being that generous…” I pulled the refrigerator door open and scanned its contents. A mouldy lettuce, a bottle of tomato sauce and a carton of milk that upon closer inspection had lip marks around the rim and was past its due-by date by ten days.

Then there was the array of alcohol – Jim Beam, VB, Johnnie Walker – even a couple of Cruisers, though I doubt he’d expected anyone to see them. He wasn’t exactly an ‘out and proud metrosexual’ kind of guy. I pulled out the first one my fingertips touched and cracked it open. VB, and it tasted – and looked – like cat piss.

April’s blonde eyebrows were raised expectantly.

I held the can out and gave her a sardonic smirk. “There you go,” I snapped, “this is me. Loosening up.”

“One sip doesn’t count,” she informed me, as though shocked at the audacity I’d had to dare consider one sip worthwhile.

“Whatever,” I said heatedly, “why don’t you just fuck off?”

She blinked, once, twice, and then regained her composure. “Whoa,” she held her hands back as though fending off a savage dog. “Touch-y.” And then she was backing away towards the other wise of the room, muttering under her breath about rabid bitches.

I tossed the still-full can towards the sink, missed, thought about cleaning it up then decided against it. Bentley Henderson could do it himself, the fucker. Giving me full run of his fridge – he’d known the only thing it would do was piss me off, but he still had to go ahead and get the last-fricking-word in.

I left the room that had quickly become my shelter from a rambunctious and overly zealous crowd (all of whom were now eagerly bopping to Abba’s Waterloo) and headed for the lounge, in search of Jay. He could round up the passengers himself – I had the keys; albeit to someone else’s vehicle, and I was going home with or without them.

Pushing my way through the crowd, I glared at anyone with enough tenacity to meet my eye. Hell, my eyes were shooting sparks even at the people who had the care to move out of way. The music was turned up to such a volume that the walls themselves were pulsing, and I couldn’t even hear myself think, let alone stop to ask someone if they’d seen a short skinny guy recently.

“Move – out – of – my – way!” I snarled, elbowing a heavy-set guy who wouldn’t move quickly enough.

Hell, even tickets to bloody U2 wouldn’t have been worth coming to this party. I hated nearly everyone in attendance, hated the beverages, and I even hated the host. And if I got my way, by the end of the night my friends would be hating me for driving off in their car.

I made my way to where the throng was thickest, deciding that if I hadn’t seen anyone familiar in ten minutes I’d cut my losses and leave without bothering to tell them. Screw them – they could sleep the night if they had to.

Suddenly a glimpse of neon-blonde flashed across my vision, and I shoved through the rapidly thickening crowd until I was at the front. Instead of seeing my good friend Jayden, I was confronted with possibly the most hideous sight to grace my vision in my eighteen-and-a-half years.

There, enrapturing everyone from what looked to be under-aged boys to women in their late twenties, was Bentley Henderson, pawing some girl with peroxide-blonde hair and looking as though he was having the time of his life.

The girl herself must have been so drunk she had no idea what was happening, because not only was she willingly making out with Bentley Henderson, of all people, but the strap of her flimsy top had fallen down and one of her boobs was exposed for all the world to see. And then there was the maniacal laughter erupting from her throat every so often.

I stood, rooted to the stop in abject horror. Watching as he continued practically violating the poor skank, I began to feel bile rise in my throat. The scene afore me was truly disgusting.

They pulled apart for a moment, regaining their breath, when all of a sudden Bentley pulled his head up and scanned the crowd – which meant, unfortunately, that his eyes came to rest upon my own.

If I hadn’t felt so utterly repulsed I might have found it in me to give him my best revolted sneer. As it was all I managed was a weak glare, although my eyes felt as though they could go up in flames at any second.

He smirked, and then – without taking his eyes off of mine – he leant down and pressed his lips on the girl’s underneath him.

Fuck him. If he thought he was going to get a reaction, then he was sorely mistaken. I raised an eyebrow and gave him a diffident smile, before whirling on my heel and heading back the way I came.

“You’re back,” April said with some surprise when I barged through the entrance. “You know, I’m really sorry—”

“I need a frickin’ drink,” I snapped at her, throwing myself in a chair and rubbing my temples tiredly.

Her eyes widened. “But—”

“Now!” I hissed.

She nodded, still glancing at me in slight trepidation. “Why…” she trailed off hesitantly upon handing me a can.

I stared her down. “No reason,” I replied to her unasked question and she nodded, mumbling a non-committal excuse before hightailing it out of the room.

Bentley Henderson was a prick. It was a solid, unequivocal, widely known fact. And the way he treated girls was atrocious. It wasn’t even as though they fawned over him wherever he went – back in high school last year he hadn’t made the annual Top Forty Hottest Guys list – and there were only eighty of them in our grade.

But while Bentley Henderson was a prick with a capital P, I was considered his female version. Every offensive thing he said, I made sure to come up with something twice as bad. Before long we were having regular competitions – who could make the most people cry in the space of a minute; who could intimidate the ‘socialites’ first; who would be the first get Mr Kinseki’s neck vein to pop out.

People worshiped him because they were scared of him. You never knew if he was going to puncture your tires, drop a can of paint over your head or turn the agriculture hose on you. They revered him because they thought that as long as they stayed on his ‘good’ side, he wouldn’t cause them any trouble. Dickheads. Of course he didn’t take any of that shit into account when he was in his latest rage.

But they were right in assuming he targeted his enemies – all the examples listed above had happened to me, but they hadn’t stopped there. Even now, when we’d finished with high school and logically I should have never had to see him again, the bastard was still making my life a living hell.

I sighed and downed the rest of the can’s contents, then cracked another one open. No sooner had I finished that; I had another one in my hands until there were five empty cans beside me and a sixth in my hand.

I’d never been much for drinking, but when I did I’d discovered that I held my alcohol well. So well, that the only outward sigh of my inebriation was the slight staggering of my body when I stood up and the stench of alcohol on my breath.

“Romy!” I glanced up to see who the latest invader of my sanctuary was. Jay came barrelling towards me, the bright hair that I’d mistaken the slut’s for swaying around his face. “Rome, what the fuck, man? I just saw April and she’s three sheets to the wind—”

I rolled my eyes and laughed mirthlessly. “What, so I’m her keeper now?”

“No,” Jay replied calmly, “but she said something about you being scary and that you were going to drive us home.”

He hadn’t phrased it like one, but he meant it as a question.

I shrugged. “Guess not, hey?”

“Look, I think you’ve had enough—” he reached forward to pluck the can from my hands and I toppled out of his reach.

“Hey! This is me, Romy Jefferson, livening up! I’m loosening up,” I pronounced to the room’s occupants. They looked at me blankly until one drunken moron cheered loudly, falling to the floor with a crush as the alcohol took over.

“Yeah, I think we get that,” Jay snorted derisively. “But seriously, Rome—”

“What the hell?” I interrupted loudly. “You never shut the fuck up about how I’m so fricking anal, and so the one time I follow your orders you’re getting pissed at me? Nuh uh,” I accentuate, “no fuckin’ way.”

Jay groaned and rubbed his temples. “Look, Rome, my last beer was an hour ago or so; I think I’m safe to drive. Go find Henderson and tell him that we’re leaving Rotter and Langley at his place, and I’ll find April. Meet me out front in half an hour, okay?”

“You think you’re safe to drive? Oh, great, go find a fucking baseball bat now and hit me over the head, at least that way I’ll already be dead before you run us into a tree!”

“Romy,” Jay said patiently, taking a deep breath, “unlike you, I did not drink until I lost control. I’m fine, April’ll be fine, and you’ll be fine once I get you home and some hangover tablets into you.”

“Well then, who the fuck are Rotter and Langley?” I asked scornfully. “They sound like they need a good kick up the—”

“The guys we came with,” Jay told me contemptuously.

I groused and stood up to walk past Jay, thought the better of it and turned around to slap him.

“The fuck? What was that for?” he cried, rubbing his arm.

“That,” I said, grinning smugly at the red hand print my palm had left, “was for being a smart ass. And for dragging me to this bloody party, and for making me talk to Henderson. I hope you die on your way to April,” I snarled incisively.

“Rome—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Jayden,” I snapped at him, turning to complete my assignment. The sooner I found the bastard the sooner I could leave the shit-hole that was his party.

Despite being in my hide-away for nearly two hours, the crowd hadn’t diminished at all. If anything, more people had shown up, so that now I had to battle just to make it through the door.

Being five foot one had its advantages – I could comfortably pass for a child when I wanted to save money on movies, meals and tickets – but trying to swim through a crowd of people with raging libidos and only one thing on their mind wasn’t one of them. I huffed and shoved a guy with all the force I could muster, throwing him into a wall and stepping clear of his sprawled legs before glancing up at the staircase. Up, or down?

I’d just made up my mind to ascend it when someone clapped me on the shoulder. I didn’t appreciate the gesture and this time, unlike with Jay, I didn’t miss, but before I could comprehend what was happening, my fist was sinking into Bentley Henderson’s face.

“God-damn,” he yelled, “fuck! Your hand feels like it was made of fucking steel, or something.”

“That’s right,” I drawled as he pressed a hand tentatively to his face before his expression straightened out and all traces of pain dissipated, “I’m Superman. Didn’t you get the memo?”

“That’s kryptonite, you bitch,” he said without enmity.

“Oh God. You regularly watch it, don’t you?”

“His sidekick has a nice rack.”

“I bet you used to dress up as him, didn’t you? I bet you ran around the house with your undies pulled up over your clothes and another pair on your head.”

“Mm. And I bet you’re enjoying the mental image that brings.”

I scoffed. “I’m not a cradle snatcher.”

His smirk was calculating. “Of course not.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed him. “Whatever. Jay said to tell you—”

“Leaving so soon?”

My glare turned into a look of disbelief. “Fuck yeah,” I told him solemnly, but the effect was ruined when I swayed dangerously towards the ground.

Bentley reached out a hand carelessly and grabbed me by the arm, so hard that it both prevented me from falling and would give me a bruise.

“I hate you,” I said candidly. “I really, really hate you.”

“Mm. The feeling’s mutual,” he assured me.

“God!” I exclaimed, twisting out of his grasp and throwing my hands up. “You’re such a fricking pig! Why can’t you just jump of a bloody cliff and die?” The alcohol was now taking its toll.

“Wow, Jefferson. You’re real articulate tonight, aren’t you? Have much have you had to drink, anyway?”

I eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

“They fuckin’ cost me money,” he said to me. “You’d better cough up, or you’re staying behind to work it off.” His expression was lecherous.

“Like hell I am!” I exclaimed heatedly. “I’m not one of your revolting whores that you can just root whenever you feel like it!”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, fake innocence in place. “I just meant the mess.” He gestured to the litter strewn all over the floor.

I scoffed. “So much for generosity.”

“Mm. Bet Fawkner didn’t tell you that I wanted something in return, did she?” His gaze roamed over my body and I shivered; a feeling akin to covetousness pooling in my stomach.

“You know what, Henderson?” I demanded, not giving him an opportunity to respond. “You are the most – ” I paused. There were so many derogatory names floating through my mind that they jumbled together and I couldn’t get a singular one out. “Bitchiest, fucked-up man-whore I’ve ever met!”

“Yeah? Funny, considering you’re the bitchiest, most fucked-up prude I’ve ever met.” He laughed.

I scowled, ready to render him infertile once and for all. “At least I’ve never had an STD scare.”

“That’s right; and yet still nobody is willing to touch you.”

“That’s right,” I mimicked; “and yet still – here you are.”

Suddenly there was a resounding crash in our ears. I stepped back hastily and turned to glance over. One of Jay’s friends – Rotter or Langley, I didn’t care enough to find out – had stumbled and fallen right on top of a sheer glass coffee table, smashing it to smithereens. He had in his hand some random drug paraphernalia, and I snickered and rolled my eyes.

“What, does that offend you? You don’t have to act like you’ve constantly got a metal pole up your arse,” Bentley Henderson commented unnecessarily. His caught my eye, grinning lazily.

“Get fucked,” I snapped back at him. “And yeah; it does. It makes me wonder why I have to share the same oxygen as all you fucking losers.”

He looked from me to Rotter/Langley and back again. “Well then, if offends you so much, why don’t you just run along, like a good little girl?” he asked, saccharine sweetness oozing from his tone.

There was an empty can lying by my feet and I glanced at it, feeling an overwhelming need to just get away.

I snapped.

“Oh, get bent, Bentley!”

There was silence for a beat, and I couldn’t help myself. The alcohol was now in its most potent stage: the many drinks I’d consumed within a small time frame decided to make themselves noticed.

I cracked up laughing.

He kissed me.

I was so caught up laughing over the ‘play on words’ that I didn’t even see it coming. It wasn’t like those described in romance novels; this one had a little too much uncoordinated tongue and the heavy, bitter taste of a disgusting brand of beer. And yet for some reason, I began kissing him back.

The other Langley/Rotter came stumbling by, and as he did so he tripped – spilling whatever was in his drink all over us. It was as if the cold, wet splash of the liquid woke us up, because by an unspoken mutual agreement we pushed away.

“That,” Bentley said, staring at me from beneath hooded eyelids, “was probably the worst kiss I’ve ever had.”

“I’m going to throw up,” I said, and I did. Right on his expensive, burnished shoes.

He stood reticently for a moment, while I stared at his feet and tried to conjure up some remorse.

“Fuck,” he said, not sounding particularly perturbed with the sight of my evening meal slathered all over his feet.

“I’m not sorry,” I blurted.

He shrugged. “Didn’t expect you to be. But just so you know, you’re now definitely on clean up duty. Fair’s fair,” he smirked when my now somewhat sober face wrinkled in disgust.

“You’re a prick, Bentley Henderson,” I told him flatly.

He raised his eyebrows and smirked. “And you’re a bitch. Glad we got that out in the open. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep tonight otherwise.”

I let out a frustrated huff and turned to walk away. “Whatever. Jay can do his own fucking bidding next time, honestly—”

Bentley interrupted by casually throwing out a hand to catch my wrist. “But then I wouldn’t get to do this,” he pointed out. It was such a cliché line I snorted, until with one smooth movement he flipped me over and onto the floor – so that I was lying flat on my back. Right on top of the puke.

“Thanks for cleaning that up, love,” he said mawkishly. He grinned, revealing yellow-tinged teeth and brushed imaginary lint off of his jeans.

“Fucking—”

Bentley moved to step over me, then paused. Quick as a flash, before it could even pierce through my foggy haze of shock, he bent down and kissed me. Hard and rough, tasting of vomit and beer and illegal substances all together.

“Ah,” he said. “Much better. Well, I’ll just go tell Jayden that you’re staying the night. Toodles,” he added, making him sound so much like a fag I had to question whether or not he’d just attempted to pash me.

“There is no-fuck-ing-way I’m staying at your house!” I screeched after him, but all I got for my efforts was a raised middle finger over a dark head.

I sighed and leant my head drop back against the soggy carpet. Well, I had known the party was going to be a dud. If only I’d known just how much so – I might have at least tried to aim for Bentley Henderson’s face, or made out with him at the beginning and then left straight away. Now I was stuck with the bastard – vomit breath and all.

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A/N: Well. The only reason I concocted (isn’t that a strange word? Concocted. Con-coc-ted.) this little farce was so I could put in the line ‘Get bent, Bentley!’ because when it first popped into my head I thought it hilariously funny. (I’m a freak like that.) Needless to say, a week and five thousand words later, it’s not so amusing any more. And if anyone was offended by the admittedly unnecessary amount of profanity in this, well, tough. Can’t do much about it.