Warnings: Slash, language, sex [in later chapters].

Disclaimer: I own Jaisyn, Abe, Kayne, all of Asphalt, Biblical Proportions, slick juice, and any minor character mentioned [Gina, Wilson, Petey, Keith, etc].  Anything remotely recognizable as something I could never own, I most likely don't own.

Feedback: Please.

AN: The characters have NOTHING to do with any other story I have written, unless it's labeled in the underground universe. The first chapter is slow and somewhat tedious but it sets up the main character and his idiosyncrasies. POV's are at the beginning of each chapter.



body part bets


Okay, my right eye will not stop twitching.

It has been continuously throbbing for the past hour and it will not stop. My guess at what this means? I suppose it means something is going to happen today and it's probably going to be huge based solely on the fact that I can't see out of my right eye. Three words for this body function: annoying as hell. Although, I will mention that whatever this 'big something' is, it hasn't happened yet for the sole reason that I am bored out of my fucking mind and have been ever since I showed up for work at eight o'clock this morning. Part of me is wondering why I even decided to get out of bed and come to work today but another, louder part speaks up and comes to a decision that dares to utter the fact that the store would've been swamped if I hadn't come to work thus earning myself a frantic phone call from a very pissed Abe. So I guess being bored at work is a good thing. Yeah.

I don't think I've ever been this bored before. Well, I probably have: I just can't think of any other instances right now. I'm so fed up with the nothingness that this day has provided that I have even conjured up a ridiculous plan that has something to do with God and an unbelievably cruel joke thrown with certainty upon me. My usual daily distractions are gone, no one has talked to me for the past two hours and my imagination can conjure up only so much. As for the now non-existent diversion, I'm guessing that the construction company is finished with the façade of the bank across the street, which sucks and also blows pretty damn hard. I almost want to go over there with a sledgehammer and screw up all their hard work so they can come back and fix it up all appealing again. That would be fun plus I'll get out some of my twitchiness in the process of swinging the sledgehammer. That's good. And then I can watch them drop tools and other various building materials on each other and I won't be so fucking bored. It would be so fun and so unattainable. I don't know where to find a sledgehammer. It's not something I have stored away in my apartment.

I sighed loudly, my chin resting on the palm of my hand as I tapped my fingers against my cheek. Usually, work isn't this…awful. A majority of the time I spend in this place, my little jobs are fun and I find the customers that are to my liking stimulatingly fun. They give me lots of 'stimulation'. Oh yeah…especially the cute ones. So, I enjoy my work. I like my job. Hmm…never thought I'd actually say those four words together in a complete sentence during my lifetime but it's the truth: I do like my job. I get paid to do what I love, which is talk about music, play music and basically just be around music. I couldn't ask for anything better. Unless, of course, the store gets miraculously picked up and moved to a place that isn't so boring. You know, I think I really should find something to do.

Anyway, four days out of the week, I corrupt the American buying public by running the front counter of a music store called Biblical Proportions. What most of those people don't know is that I am also a partner in the store; I own a third of it, which I find to be scary beyond all belief. The only other thing I've actually been mixed up with that involves 'owning' is my car and that whole experience turned out very…interesting. I won't go into massive detail because the situation was quite awkward but needless to say, the other two in this partnership don't let me handle the money. It kind of bummed me out at first, the thought that they don't trust me with the funds but when Abe got sick and I had to handle a majority of the money coming in, I didn't do a very good job. I still haven't found the five hundred dollars I lost and I can't use the register until I figure out what I did wrong. Oops. The truth is: I just don't handle the whole 'taking-care-of-money' thing very well. Never have, most likely never will.

So, I'm sure you are wondering about the, how shall I say it, unusual name. The truth behind the moniker is that all three of us wanted an interesting and somewhat unforgettable name that would catch the public's attention and our alcohol-saturated minds came up with Biblical Proportions. It clicked and over the past few months its grown on me and I like it but if you think it's bad, you should hear the one's we came up with when we were sober. Awful they were. I still shudder when I recall them.

My hours are good, mostly because I control my own and minus the regular mind-numbing boredom, working here is fun. But, as I've said many times before, nothing is happening at this moment in time. No spicy men, no remarkable events, nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. I had thought about creating my own amusement after I chucked the whole sledgehammer thing out the window but the thought was quickly squashed. The last time I tried to amuse myself, I got a lecture from the fire chief. Abe was pissed and I'm not allowed near the coffee pot anymore. I don't think I'm allowed near a lot of things. That makes me sad.

I guess I should probably give out some background.

About a year and a half ago, my two best friends and brothers from another mother, Abel and Kayne Emerson, and I moved out to L.A. to start up a business that revolves around the things we love. We all just happen to know a shit load about music so we decided to open a music store but not a store like those big, money sucking chains that cater to the masses. We wanted a seedy place, a place that we were both proud and embarrassed to tell our parents about. Needless to say, the Emerson family is not impressed and the family I have left could care less.

Besides owning the place, we all have our own special jobs that focus on what we think we are good at. With me: its guitars, basses, and any odd instrument that people ask about. I've probably tried whatever they ask for in one of my ADD moments, which happens to be very often, the urges sneaking up on me when I least expect them. Stupid urges. Kayne is a DJ so he knows absolutely everything about the art so if someone's got a question about what turntable or whatever they need, they just ask him. He'll talk anyone's ears off too so I usually send customers I don't like to him. His twin brother Abe is the musical artist know-it-all. He knows about every type of music, whatever or whoever it may be. He knows about bands I've never even heard of and he can even match a band to your style, which totally freaks me out for some reason. He won't explain his little 'gift' to me and I've given up trying to figure it out. It makes my brain hurt.

When everything is going smoothly, this is a great place for us; it's become our second home. It's not dark and dirty but classy and welcoming. My art projects litter the dark blue walls, a mess of realistic pieces and completely abstract ones. Kayne begged me to put some of my canvases on display because he said they were "fucking awesome" and "people needed to see how fucking brilliant" I was. I refused at first since most of my paintings are personal but after hours of endless pleading, I gave in, mostly just to shut him up. Four sold canvases later he still rubs in the fact that it was his idea. You know, its at times like those I realize that deep down inside, he is the spawn of Satan, solely put on this earth to annoy the piss out of me. Most people skip the art though, opting instead for the music. I don't really care myself. After all, this is a music store, not my art gallery.

Guitars, basses, drum kits, every musical instrument possible to import is either set up against the walls, behind the counter, or hanging from the ceiling. For the people who don't play but prefer to listen, there are CDs, records, vinyls, and tapes of unknown artists, new artists, and mainstream artists. But upstairs is the key attraction for most of our customers. Next to a display of bass guitars, a metal staircase leads up to a small café above the music store, a quiet place where any new talent could showcase his or her stuff. Sometimes I even play there, egged on by Abe and his begging, although it's a rare occasion since, like my art, my music is personal. I swear that the Emerson's have bred a vast amount of the begging gene into their children. I hate them for that.

The three of us were complete business virgins when we moved out here. Absolutely clueless. It took us three months to find a suitable place that passed Abe's high standards. Only three months. Believe me when I say that I never want to visit a real estate office or do any sort of building web searches again. I would rather gouge my eyes out with a red-hot poker and eat the crispy remains. I hate it, I do. Once the three of us settled on an appropriate structure, Kayne and Abe poured every penny they had accumulated in their twenty-two years into the deed for the two-story brick building. I gave what little I could and even then, it was what they would allow. Both of them hated the fact that I had to filter three thousand dollars out of my college account. I didn't like it either since my mom had worked two jobs to earn that money for my education but I had to do it. I think though, that the risk paid off.

Of course, like most businesses it didn't rake in the cash at first. We were spending more then what was being made; a fact that took us weeks to realize. Like I said, we were virgins. After suffering the humiliation of calling home, Kayne and Abe went over everything and somehow over-night became business savvy, which is something that amazes me to this day considering the fact that they used those 'guidebooks for idiots'. I never realized that those books really do work.

We got the money figured out and had our big opening and now we're one of the hottest things around. To say we're popular would be an understatement. We've had our names and faces plastered across the pages of Rolling Stone, People, and countless other magazines, all proclaiming the feel good story of three boys from Washington D.C. making it in the capital of music, Los Angeles. All the magazines tell the happy little stories about our business venture but I think they left out the fact that we nearly killed each other with sharpened pencils. That's not so happy.


I quickly snapped out of my memory-induced haze and looked up at my best friend, an apologetic smile already plastered on my face.

"Sorry Abe."

He glared at me through narrowed brown eyes, not amused at all by my quick apology. "What is it with you and the zoning out? It's kind of, I don't know, freaky."

"I don't really notice when I do it."

"Well, I do and it's odd. You get this weird look on your face and your eyes go all glassy. It's…unnatural."

I shrugged. "I'm just thinking about things."

"That's even scarier."

Visibly shuddering, he headed towards the front of the store, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. I frowned. I'm not scary when I think. Everybody thinks. I just tend to get more into it then other people, that's all. Absent-mindedly, I watched as he flirted with Kate Beck, one of the many college students that spend a lot of their time in the café upstairs. He's positive she has a crush on him but I won't be the one to tell him that she has a girlfriend. Leave him in suspense: he'll find out soon enough. I'll have to clear my calendar when it happens; I want to see the look on his face when she tells him. He has priceless rejection expressions.

Sighing softly, I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers smoothing the long, ratty dreds that always seem to take on a mind of their own when it's humid and here, it just happens to be humid nearly all the time, which sucks. Thank you, stupid pollution. Tugging at a few tresses, I examined the colorful last few inches of the strands. I only like to dye the tips and this week, I decided that my hair should be blue, green, and orange; leaving the rest my natural hair color: brown that some people swear is red. To silence the critics, I say its auburn. Tossing the dreds back over my shoulder, I gathered up my mass of hair and tied it in a knot, exposing my neck to the cool draft of the air conditioner above my head.

My hair is only the foundation of the so-called sweet person that people swear I am, but let's just say that the jokes on them, shall we? I'm confident that I have more man-made holes in my body and more tattoos then the entire workforce of this store. Half the people we employ are terrified of needles so that gives me a little bit of an advantage in both departments. My ears have been stabbed countless times along with my tongue, bottom lip, and I'm embarrassed to mention the next one: my left nipple. A little word of advice from someone who's been there: never, ever bet body parts, okay? It's a bad, very bad thing to do. Trust me.

My tattoos are basically just a bit of color and expression that I decided to have permanently stamped onto my skin. I think I have nine in all, and that is a serious 'I think'. I lost count after the first one and I don't feel like searching my body only to find a tattoo of Elmo on my ass or something like that. I'm too scared to look and if I do find Elmo, it seriously wouldn't surprise me. I'm usually drunk when I visit the tattoo parlor.

My mind is wandering yet again and I'm sure I have the glazed-eye look that Abe despises. Snapped back into reality, I watched in amusement as Abe tried, in vain of course, to get Kate's phone number. He was trying really hard, I was finding it absolutely hysterical and I figured that Abe got cocky because Kate was trying her best to leave politely. Before going, she turned to look at me, visibly uptight. I shrugged helplessly and she rolled her eyes. She knows I know. She also knows that I won't tell him, leaving the task up to her. I waved as she exited the store, her pace suggesting that she was obviously relieved to be out of the presence of the one and only incredibly intense Abel Emerson. He turned to look at me, his face betraying his naivety.

"She wants me."

Maybe I should do her a favor and tell him because I really, really want to. "No, she doesn't. She just ran out of here. I mean, she actually ran."

He shrugged. "She's playing hard to get."

That's it. I'm telling him. "She's a lesbian, Abe."

He stared at me for a moment before shaking his head. "Nah."

I placed an advertisement for a new artist on the giant bulletin board behind the register before I looked back at him. "Seriously, she came in here last week with her girlfriend."

Maybe I should be sympathetic to his feelings but I don't think I will. I know why I'm saying these things. It's all I have to do to control my fist from knocking sense into his head: both of them. With Abe, well, he's just completely clueless when it comes to something he wants. He gets the blinders on and he will not be happy until she is in his bed screaming his name. I shuddered at that thought; my bedroom is right next to his and our apartment has really, really thin walls. For the rent we pay you would expect better building materials but no, we get thin walls. Suffice to say, I hate our apartment.

"She doesn't like guys, Abe."

He pouted for a moment, his bottom lip poking out. Suddenly he smiled evilly; a smile I knew meant he had some devious plan or something equally horrifying.

"Abe…what are you thinking about?"

He smiled wider as he walked past me. "Threesome."

I closed my eyes and groaned. "At her place. Please."

He stopped for a few moments and looked at me; the expression on his face clearly saying, 'Are you telling me that I have to wake up in her bed?' "My bed's more comfortable and besides, it's springy."

As he continued towards the back, he didn't notice me banging my head against the counter again and again but he had to hear me do it. I was slamming my head against the glass pretty hard.

"Damn it."

I fucking hate it when he brings girls over to our apartment. Although, I will admit that it used to be a hell of a lot more before Kayne decided to stick with just one chick and moved out. Nonetheless, I need my sleep and their screaming does not a good lullaby make. It's all so fucking loud and so fucking annoying; I haven't had a good night's sleep in months. If I was straight I would most likely get off on the screaming but I don't and yes, I am gay. It's nothing new. The guys, they know about my sexuality and they're cool with it but you don't see me bringing my guys over and creating a new soundtrack for 'Gay Sex 2003', do you? No.

I'm nice like that. Considerate. Yeah.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I haven't been with anyone physically since I left D.C. all those months ago. No quickies, no whores, no nothing. If anyone dared to ask I wouldn't be ashamed to confess that I miss the closeness, the intimacy, and of course, the sex in any sort of relationship but I wouldn't admit that I'm lonely. And I'm sure with all the loneliness vibes that float around me now-a-days, Kayne and Abe are certain I'm still caught up on my ex-lover but I'm not; I'm really not. They just like to think that I am so they can say they were right about something. Also, if I do mention my isolation from the dating world, Ty, the king of must-set-my-friend-up-on-the-worst-blind-dates-known-to-man would rear his ugly head and I would not be happy. Killing him though, would make me ecstatic. Granted, I would still be lonely but I would be happy.

Glancing around and finally finding the store free of customers, I smiled, smoothing the front of my lucky red t-shirt, my fingers moving over the graphic of a sick monkey with the words 'damn bananas' printed underneath. My brother Kai got me this shirt. It has always been my favorite out of the entire collection he's brought me home when he went away to train, which was often. I guess all the t-shirts were his peace offering for being gone and also because he knows I like them. I haven't gotten any lately, my brother refusing to talk to me since we had our big blowout last year. Suppressing a yawn and a sudden burst of hurt, I slowly stepped out from behind the long counter, making my way to my favorite place in the entire building.

Almost always covered in some form of sunlight, the front of the store is crowded with big frumpy chairs, couches, and scratched wooden tables that welcome anyone to come inside, enjoy some good coffee, and just relax. I love to do that on a slow day; just lounge in front of the big windows with a big ass cup of caffeine and watch people go by. I know I'm not going to sleep tonight because I've already done that twice today and it's only three o'clock. Right now though, my favorite chair is calling my name again and I am powerless to stop the hold that the leather chair has on me. With a content sigh, I sank into the large, hugging my knees to my chest, hands resting on my bare feet. It's impossible for me to sit normal, like, with my feet on the floor. I have to be hugging one leg or have my feet up on a table and it's an awfully bad habit. Resting my head on my knees, I closed my eyes as the sounds of Prince began to filter through the sound system. I sang softly as my fingers picked at each other, intent on finding a broken nail. Another bad habit: I can't sit still. Ever.

After a few minutes of Purple Rain, some band that only Abe knows about, the lead singer whining about unrequited love, replaced the crooning of Prince. I sighed, knowing it to be just another guy singing about what he doesn't know and what he has never known. Few people know the trueness of unrequited love. This whiny guy should try it sometime; it's oh so fun.

I wonder if I can go home early.

As if answering my question, the front door opened slowly, setting off the small green frog motion detector. I inwardly groaned. Damn it, he found it again. No matter what I do, Kayne always seems to find that stupid thing. I guess the dumpster wasn't a good hiding spot. When it first appeared, Kayne tried to get us to keep it with the argument that we could hear it if we were in the back room or something. Abe aligned with him when he found out that some of the girls that frequent this place thought it was cute, which means I'm out numbered now. What I'm wondering though, is why can't we just get a bell? It does the exact same thing and I could handle a little ringing every now and then. But this? Wincing, I thumped my head against my knees. Fuck, I'm mad at a plastic frog. I think I've lost my sanity. I slowly opened my eyes and looked up, my gaze focusing on the stupid frog that would not stop making the horrendous noises that I even hear in my sleep. I cannot tell you how many dreams I've had involving men and frogs. Truly traumatizing.

"One of these days, that fucking thing is going to push me over the edge and I'm going to kill something or someone."

Visions crept into my head of Kayne and Abe lying in a pool of their own blood, visions that made me grin eagerly. Wonderful… Though, don't get me wrong, it's not that I would actually kill them. Maybe just torture them by forcing them both to listen to the stupid frog for a while. Maybe forever. Until their ears bleed. Ah yes, that would be sweet revenge.

One of the new patrons laughed, forcing me out of my torturous thoughts. "Aww, it's not that bad."

Shaking my head, I laughed cynically. "Listen to it all day and then come tell me that 'it's not that bad'. Trust me, you'll be converted."

I placed my feet on the floor and leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh looking from the now wonderfully silent frog to the strangers, my eyes instantly locking with an ice blue colored gaze. Oh god… My heart instantly skipped more beats then it should, my breath catching in my throat.

Holy fuck.

to be continued…