Billy Hargrove - You Came Here For Me

Eleven PM. Billy's place.

You know his Camaro before you know the address - parked out front, dark, engine off, driver's door still open like he just got home. Upstairs apartment, one light on - amber through the blinds. The rest of the block dark.

You pound anyway. Hard. Loud enough because if you don't do it loud you won't do it at all.

It takes three seconds. Door opens.

And then you forget how to yell.

Billy Hargrove. 22. Shirtless. Jeans riding low on his hips, undone, belt hanging loose, top button open. Hair wet like he just got out of the shower, dripping down his chest, down his stomach. A bottle of Jack loose in one hand, almost empty. He smells like cigarettes and cheap soap and whiskey and that cologne he wears that gets stuck in your clothes for days. His apartment smells like him behind him - smoke, leather, laundry he never folded.

He doesn't look surprised to see you. He looks you up and down. Slow. Deliberate. From your face, down your throat, down your chest, down your legs, back up. Like he already knows why you're here and it's not the reason you think.

"What." His voice is wrecked. Rough. Not a question. A warning.

"Steve," you snap. Because you have to say it before you lose it. "Locker room. After. You hurt him. Tell me it's not true."

And he... glazes over.

That's the worst part. You scream. You actually scream - about bruises and cowards and how Steve flinches now when someone raises their voice, how he can't sleep on his right side, how he looked at you like he was ashamed for getting hit - and Billy just stares.

He leans against the doorframe, bottle dangling, eyes never leaving your mouth.

Jaw ticking.

Drinking you in. Not listening. Watching. The way your chest heaves when you're angry. The way your hands shake. The way you showed up at his place at eleven PM for him.

He takes a slow sip of Jack, throat working, eyes still locked on you. He doesn't blink.

"You done?" he says finally. Quiet. Low. Dangerous.

You aren't. You try to keep yelling and your voice cracks.

He steps forward out of his doorway, into YOUR space. You step back automatically and your back hits the railing of the landing. He doesn't touch you. He doesn't have to. He puts one hand on the railing next to your head. Cages you right there at his front door. Big body blocking the light from his apartment, blocking the stairs down. Close enough you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough you can see the water still on his chest.

His gaze drops to your lips. Then your throat. Then back up to your eyes. Dark. Hungry. Like he's memorizing you angry.

"Because you didn't come here for him," he murmurs. "Don't lie to me, sweetheart."

He sets the bottle down on the floor by your feet. Too careful. Too slow. The clink is loud. No one else here. Just you two on the landing. Door still open behind him, apartment empty.

"You came here for me," he says, and his voice is almost soft now, which is worse than cruel. "At eleven PM. Alone. Pounding on my door like you needed me to open it. So stop saying his name."

His other hand comes up - not touching you, not yet - hovering near your jaw, near your neck, like he's asking permission to ruin you right here at the door.

"Tell me why you're really here. Looking at me like that."

Your heart is hammering so loud you're sure he can hear it. You came to confront him.

You're not yelling anymore.

Your move.

You stayed. You shouldn't have.

Morning. Billy's apartment. 8:17am and the sun is brutal through the cheap blinds, cutting straight across his unmade bed, across your bare legs, across the mess on the floor - your clothes, his jeans, the bottle from last night knocked over.

It's quiet. Too quiet after last night. You can hear the old AC rattling, the street downstairs, a dog barking. You can feel the sheets - they smell like him. Cigarettes and laundry detergent and sweat. Your neck stings where his mouth was. Your throat is raw.

You sit up and he's not in bed.

He's in the little kitchen, two steps away because the whole place is one room. Shirtless again. Same low jeans, but now he's got a cigarette tucked behind his ear, hair still messy from your hands. He's at the stove making eggs like nothing happened. Like you didn't scream his name against that door. Like you didn't beg him not to stop.

He doesn't turn around. He knows you're awake. He always knows.

He slides the eggs onto two plates. The scrape of the spatula is loud.

"Eat." His voice is morning-rough, lower. "You're gonna need it."

He sets a plate on the little table for you. Black coffee next to it, made exactly how you like it - you never told him how you like it. He noticed.

He finally looks at you. Eyes red from no sleep, but dark, possessive, satisfied. His gaze drops slow - your messy hair, your swollen lips, the marks on your throat he left, the sheet pulled up to your chest.

He smirks. Slow. Mean. Proud.

"You're about to go lie to Harrington."

As if he summoned him -

Knock knock knock. Front door. Three soft knocks. You know that knock.

"Billy? Hey - you seen -" Steve's voice. Through the door. Tired. Worried. "You seen her? She didn't come home last night, I'm -"

Billy doesn't move. He just looks at you. Then at the door. Then back at you. That grin getting wider, crueler.

He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes locked on you, and raises his voice just enough.

"Yeah, she's here."

Your blood runs cold.

Steve goes silent on the other side. You can hear him breathe.

Billy mouths at you: Your choice. Then louder: "You gonna answer it, sweetheart? Or you want me to tell him where you slept? How you sounded?"

You're in his shirt. You smell like him. The floor is cold under your feet. Steve is two feet away on the other side of a thin door.

Your move.

Diner. Main Street. Wednesday afternoon, slow as hell.

You can hear the AC humming too loud, the fryer hissing in the back, the bell over the door every time someone comes in. Smells like old coffee and french fries. Vinyl booth sticky under your legs.

Steve is across from you.

He looks bad trying to look okay. That bruise on his cheek is still yellow-green, almost gone but not. He keeps touching his ribs without thinking - the ones Billy cracked in the locker room last week. He's wearing that soft gray sweater you like, sleeves pushed up, hair perfect like always. He ordered for you - fries you didn't ask for, Coke with extra ice because you like the crunch.

He hasn't looked you in the eye for five minutes.

"I should've told you right away," he says finally, voice low, staring at his hands. "About what happened. In the locker room." He swallows. "I was embarrassed. I didn't want you to think I couldn't -" He stops. Tries again. "I didn't want you to see me like that."

He finally looks up at you. And he looks so tired. So earnest. So hurt.

"I told you because I trust you," he whispers. "You're the only one I told."

He reaches across the table. Slowly. Like he's asking permission. His fingers almost brush yours.

Bell over the door jingles. Cold air rushes in.

You don't need to turn around. You know that cologne. Cigarettes and leather and that cheap body wash that shouldn't smell good but does. You know the sound of those boots.

Steve sees your face change before he sees Billy. His hand stops mid-air.

Billy Hargrove walks in. White t-shirt, oil on his hands from the garage, jeans low, leather jacket over his shoulder. He looks like he didn't sleep. He looks straight at your booth.

He doesn't stop at the counter. He doesn't order. He walks right to you.

He stops behind you. One hand lands on the back of your booth, right behind your head. Possessive. Claiming. You can feel the heat of him, smell the smoke on him.

He leans down and kisses your temple. Slow. Deliberate. Right in front of Steve. His lips linger.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says quietly, but loud enough for Steve to hear. "Didn't know we were doing lunch with Harrington."

Steve goes completely white.

His eyes drop to your neck. To the faint red mark half-covered by your hair. The one from last night. The one you tried to hide with makeup.

He sees it. He knows what it is.