pleased

I'm a be on the next level

I'm a be rockin' over that bass treble

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I've got my guns and horses;; for deadhandfan
pft
imabianca
Thanks to Drew Torres, a few filthy texts, and a semi-convincing lie ("omg i 4got we have a project 2 do 4 english class") she had Adam's number. 

Thanks to the corner gas station manager having no morals and her "perky ass titties" she had a bottle of tequila she was pretty sure hadn't even been drugged.

And, thanks to her sister's boyfriend being in town for break and not giving a shit where he left fucking anything, she had a relatively untraceable number.

But worst of all, thanks to Adam, she couldn't stop thinking.

Which is what the booze was for--kicking thinking right in the ass. She was knee-deep in drunk, lately, cause mid-way through the bottle it didn't much matter if Adam's face was a little softer-looking than the other guys. And hell, she could even think "other guys" without flinching--she could believe it. Gracie was just... was... whatever. An echo, maybe.  Lines, and rules, and labels, and all that shit? Who cared, really. Who really sat down and said that boobs made a girl and a dick made a guy. Cause some guys totally had boobs, and she'd seen some really ugly dicks.

She knows she'll think about it, when she drinks.

And she drinks anyway.



Bianca is on her stomach, on her bed, taking shots of tequila. This is not a good time to be within arms distance of two phones. Not when she is thinking about what Adam looks like naked.

Smooth. She thinks.

Maybe he doesn't shave. More manly. (She liked how he smelled, close, dancing. His hands were nice, too. She didn't think of girl's hands. What do girls hands feel like, anyway?)

The alcohol burns, and she doesn't chase it. Makes herself picture him--under the bandage.

Her eyes narrow. She drinks again.

Picks up a phone (who cares which).

Dials.

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Adam is - all too aware that he shouldn't answer his cell when he doesn't recognize the number, but he can never stop himself. He's always curious who it is this time and what they're going to say. Wonders if they've got anything new.

And sometimes he gets a few hits of his own in, and that pretty much makes it worth it. Plus he'd rather know what's being said about him than be in the dark.

But his tone is wary when he answers, says "Hello?" His manners are too ingrained to answer "Who is it?" immediately. Thanks, Mom.

She scrambles. Grabs her sheet, prays it'll muffle her voice, contort it, something enough to mangle any sense of Bianca.

Deep exhale.

"Hey."

He blinks. He hasn't gotten a just breathing call in a while - oh, never mind.

"Uh, who is this?"

More tequila just became a mandatory part of this phone call.

"Not important."

She licks her lips, tastes sour.

"You're wearing jeans, right? You usually wear jeans."

"Yeah, I'm not going to tell you what I'm wearing if you won't ever tell me who you are. Sorry."

And he's pretty much never gotten this type of call.

Groans.

Not making this easy.

"Who would you want to ask you what you were wearing, Adam."

Wut?

"...Is that a serious question?"

"Just. Think."

So. Drunk.

"I can't think of anyone I'd want to call me and ask what I was wearing that would actually do it."

"Mmph--" She rolls over, undoing the sheet and spilling some alcohol on her bed. "Shit."

"Just-- Maybe you should stop thinking, then. And tell me what the fuck you're wearing."

"You were right. Jeans."

He answered, more than a lot confused.

"-Bianca?"

"Undo the top button."

She took another swig.

"And don't ask questions."

"I..." thought you didn't want this. That could probably be counted as a question.

He takes a second to think. On the one hand, this is really kinda stupid and screwy. On the other... Why not?

"Okay."

The word ricochets through her stomach, like fire.

Okay.

"Jesus."

"If that's who you're looking for, you've got the wrong number." Weak, but there.

"No, thanks."

She closes her eyes, presses the still-cold bottle against her forehead.

"You're sitting? At the computer, maybe?"

"Standing, actually. I was in the kitchen when you called, now I'm in my room."

"You asked me to unbutton my pants. Do you think I'd do that with the door open?"

Half-giggle, cut short by her intense, almost scared-sounding whisper.

"Adam I'm going to undo the zipper okay, I'm going to be gentle, is that what... would that be good?"

"You don't have to...Yeah, yes, that would be- good."

He exhales.

Fuck-- finishes off the bottle, but her eyes are still closed, and its shockingly easy to picture him infront of her, like so many other guys.

"Completely different," she mumbles, scrambling for a narrative thread.

Licks her lips.

"Tell me. Are you hard for me?"

Okay. Okay, this is really not inside Adam's comfort zone. And there's that little voice in the back of his head repeating 'cannot end well,' but what can he say. He's weak. And if this is how... if this is what she wants, he can do this. Even without sounding like he's having a fit or something.

"Yeah."

Which is not at all the same as being good at this.

Also completely not registering on her scale of awareness: any notion of his not being 100% into this. Just his voice is enough to keep her going, with this much alcohol in her.

"I bet you've thought about this."

"Right now, I'd bet you have too."

It's not that he's not enjoying this - he is. But he can't help thinking 'what the hell is going on?' too.

She breathes out.

"You can't make me say I have."

"I still know."

Which is a victory, and, honestly speaking, at least as much of a turn on as 'Undo the top button. And don't ask questions."

Another rough exhale.

"Yeah."

She shifts on the bed, can't sit still for long. Presses handprints in the quilt and smooths them out.

"You ever touch a girl?"

"Not the way you mean... Not to the point that it counts."

One very awkward 7 minutes in Heaven game and maybe two accidental gropes. Also awkward.

"Undo your zipper."

She...She's gotta think. "No," she whispers. Shakes her head. "Just do it."

Louder: "But you wanted to. You want to."

"You didn't. You really, really didn't want to."

Blearily opens her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about." And it comes out more sluggish than mean. Disappointed? No. Never.

He could push. He could try and figure out exactly what's going on. He thinks about it for a second or two, but it oddly enough feels more invasive to try and find out what she's thinking than... all the other talk that's happened so far. So he sighs, and says, "Okay. Fine."

She stumbles to her feet, the rush of blood to her head dizzying.

"Whatever, queer. Hang up the fucking phone." And she hits a button with her thumb... a few buttons, throws the phone to her bed.

"Shit."

She's drunker than she's been in days, a headache is already kicking in.

Her panties are soaked.

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