#writing about my stash of denim here made me go back up and add a jean quilt option

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all! My next plushie project is a little purple monster with a flower crown and (if I can figure out how to do it) a spiky denim vest, but I'm not sure what quilt project I want to do next, so I'm looking for input!

edit: I forgot scrap management as an option so that's the "something else" option now lol

[angrylizardjacket]

dirtbags // 1: Charlotte

Summary: Motley Crue High School AU with The Pack (Lola, Charlotte, Peach, & Eileen); Winter, 1984. Charlotte’s halfway through her Junior year of High School when Lola arrives in town, and becomes a part of Charlotte’s life almost by accident. 

Tommy seems to fall for any girl he hasn’t grown up with, Nikki and Charlotte are in agreement that their friendship becoming public knowledge would be social suicide for them both, Vince is a tool, and Eileen is still mad at him for what happened over Summer. 

A/N: 8829 words. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO @misscharlottelee this has literally been in the works for what’s felt like a year, but i decided that i can’t keep putting it off forever, so here. part 1. i think im going to try and put these out weekly?? maybe sooner?? but i adore you and i of course absolutely adore @josaphinebaker so i’m glad to finally let you all enjoy the long-awaited, multi-part HS AU (me, not posting writing for months: AND WHAT’S THIS? THE HS AU WITH A STEEL CHAIR --) ft. a softer world quotes

who said life can’t be an adventure? because whoever said that is probably the villain.

There’s a place for everything, and everything has it’s place. That’s they way the world works, at least, that’s the motto the rest of the cheerleading team seems to adhere to almost religiously. Charlotte, who’s been on the team for almost a full year and a half, since the start of her Sophmore year, can’t see the world so black and white. It’s not that she signed up to be a Cheerleader to fulfil some bitchy, blonde stereotype, it’s more that she had free time to fill and thought it would be fun. It took her a few months to find her footing once she’d been offered a place on the team, and was quickly thrust into her school’s the social spotlight, but she managed in the end, and had been managing ever since, mostly.

“Charlie, you’re so lucky,” Tommy, her cousin, lamented to her, driving her home after cheer practice, and marching band, had finished for the day. He was still in his uniform, as was Charlotte, and she gave him a sidelong glance, picking at the nail polish on her thumb. She doesn’t even give him an answer; ever since she’d joined the team, he had felt the need to wax poetic about the other cheerleaders and their uniforms. It’s so familiar that she doesn’t even need to prompt him into mooning over seeing Pamela in the cafeteria that day.

“She’s never going to date you if you don’t talk to her,” Charlotte’s smile is sly as her gaze slides back to the road, and the sun drifting towards the horizon.

“If Pam ever found out I’d looked at her, she’d probably just spit on me, call me pathetic or some shit,” Tommy’s eyeroll is implied by the flatness of his tone, but Charlotte can’t help but laugh.

“Oh Tommy, everyone looks at Pam,” she reminds him, and Tommy lets out an annoyed whine.

“I know,” he groans, clearly not cheered by that fact, feeling ever the more hopeless, and they fall into silence. Charlotte reaches down beside her seat and lifts a lever, pushing the seat back so she could comfortably rest her feet on his dashboard.

“Did you hear someone finally bought the MacCready burger joint? Dad was talking about it yesterday,” Tommy says mildly, making a left-hand turn onto their street. Charlotte raises her eyebrows, intrigued, but doesn’t speak. Tommy knows her well enough to take her silence as an invitation to go on, “Mrs Mac is going into hospice care and apparently some guy bought it and moved into town.”

“Oh shit, poor Mrs Mac,” Charlotte muses, and crosses her ankles on the dash, “hopefully their food is edible now.”

“Their burgers were great!” Tommy protested loudly.

“Their burgers were trash, Tommy! You’re just a rat -!”

“I’m not a rat!” He argues back, pulling into the gas station around the corner from their house. Tommy pulls up beside one of the pumps, and Charlotte gets out to browse the various snacks on offer inside the service station.

“Afternoon, Mick,” Charlotte calls out to the gas station attendant, the guy who’s been working here since he was fourteen, who’s currently got an electrical apprenticeship every other day. Charlotte realizes she might know too much about him considering he barely communicates in grunts most of the time. It’s not that he can’t speak, it’s just that he has a well documented dislike of her over exuberant cousin.

As expected, Mick doesn’t look up from his copy of Rolling Stone behind the counter, but makes a noise of acknowledgement.

Before Tommy has finished filling the tank, an unfamiliar figure enters the gas station, breezing past Charlotte and snatching up a packet of pork rinds, moving to the drinks fridge and taking a can of lemonade. The person is a young woman, though Charlotte doesn’t get a good look at her face; she’s got silky, black hair down to the small of her back, beneath a backwards baseball cap, and she’s the most notable of her clothes are her scuffed, black boots, and her oversized, black denim jacket littered with patches and pins. 

When she puts her items on the counter in front of Mick, she pauses, frowning at the display, and Tommy enters the shop with an oblivious smile, asking if Charlotte had decided on anything.

“Can I help you?” Mick asks flatly, and the girl holds up a single finger, the universal signal for wait, and Mick huffs, but remains quiet. The girl adds a packet of gum to her haul, and leans her elbows on the counter.

“And a pack of Marlboros.”

Mick scowls.

“How old are you?”

“Are you being paid enough to care?” She responds, voice a low, challenging alto, and after a moment of deliberation, Mick actually shrugs, and turns to the cigarette display, picking out a pack for her as she pulled a few bills from her back pocket. After everything’s paid for, and the various food and drink had been stashed in the numerous pockets of her jacket, the girl is quick to open the cigarettes. 

“They’re for my dad,” she explains, taking one out and putting it between her lips, grinning, “mostly.”

She passes a bewildered Tommy and Charlotte on the way out, giving them a flat look over, eyebrow raising minutely at the sight of Charlotte’s cheerleading uniform, but she’s quickly out the door. Tommy, flabbergasted at her display of confidence, marches straight up to counter and leans on it like he’d seen the woman do.

“A pack of -”

“Fuck off,” Mick tells him, before Tommy even finishes his sentence. Charlotte snorts a laugh, approaching the counter with a bottle of diet coke. 

“Fifteen bucks on pump three,” Tommy sighs, pulling out his wallet, “and Charlie’s drink.”

“Do you know her, Mick?” Charlotte asks, still smiling, mind playing over the interaction.

“Do I look like I know her?” Mick grumbles, counting the handful of quarters Tommy had passed him with a ten dollar bill. Tommy, however, has never in his life taken Mick’s constant foul mood to heart, even when he probably should.

“He loves me, secretly, I know he does,” Tommy grinned when they were back in the car, heading to Charlotte’s house to drop her off, “we’ve known each other for five years, we’ll be friends any day now.”

“Tommy, he’s three days away from just decking you when you go to pay.”

“Which is a step up from when you said he’d throw me in front of traffic,” Tommy, ever the optimistic dumbass, chooses to look on the bright side. Tommy wears his affection on his sleeve, and seems to find himself trying to befriend anyone who would sooner fight him, if his hero-worship of local punk Nikki Sixx is anything to go by. It’s with a painful clarity that Charlotte realizes if he ever meets the girl from the gas station, he’s going to fall in love with her almost immediately.

Which makes Charlotte’s accidental and secret friendship with Nikki Sixx awkward.

“Oh Miss Lee,” Nikki whistles at her the following morning, wearing a grin that’s all teeth, “you know just what a guy likes to see on a Thursday morning.” He’s leering at her, leaning on the mesh of the fence, fingers hooked into the metal as he presses himself against it, his gaze trained on the pleat of her cheer uniform split upon her thigh over her tights.

“Every time you speak, I consider vehicular homicide,” Charlotte tells him with a sigh, straightening out her skirt, already resigned to the fact the rest of her free period was about to be co-opted. 

“Then I’m glad you can’t drive,” Nikki’s still grinning, throwing his bag over the fence, into the garden Charlotte had thought was peaceful enough to study in.

“It’s the only thing keeping you alive,” she says, plastering a fake, sweet smile on her face, closing her biology textbook as Nikki vaults the fence a few feet away from her. She pulls her jacket a little tighter around herself, in an attempt to ward off the slight chill of the end of semester air.

Never in Charlotte’s life would she have intentionally tried to befriend Nikki Sixx. How was she supposed to know that two of her free periods coincided with when he liked to show up to school? And that the secluded garden area out behind the library where she liked to study in said free periods was the easiest place to sneak in? 

She’s threatened to turn him in more times than he can remember, and he spits back that she should just find a new place to study, but she keeps showing up, and she never turns him in, and by now most of Nikki’s flirting is harmless.

They were both very much of the opinion that having a public friendship would be bad for the both of them; Nikki’s got more than a reputation of his own, both because his name technically isn’t Nikki, but he fights anyone who calls him Frank, and because he’s kind of a slut. Also there’s still an unconfirmed rumour about him being expelled from his first high school back in Seattle, since he’d joined their school a semester in Freshman year. Everyone’s too afraid to ask. Charlotte knows the cheerleaders aren’t above making hell for one of their own if they were caught fraternizing with someone like him. 

That being said, Nikki had made it very clear that he’d rather saw off his arm than admit that they were even acquaintances, scoffing about how he’d lose any and all street cred he’d ever had if his friends found out he was hanging around Miss Everyone’s Best Friend Charlotte Lee. At the time, she’d taken offence to his tone, but she quickly came to learn that that’s just how Nikki is sometimes.

He offers her a cigarette from the pack in his pocket like he always does, sitting opposite her on the picnic bench instead of going to class, his bag still on the grass where he’d thrown it. Like always, Charlotte turns it down, but it does remind her-

“Saw a girl yesterday at Mick’s gas station that reminded me of you,” Charlotte flips to the back page of her notebook, which was already littered with little drawings, and starts scribbling idly.

“She hot?”

“I guess?” Charlotte says after a moment of consideration, “didn’t get to see her long enough to really be able to tell.” Nikki hums thoughtfully, and Charlotte, without looking up, “she asked Mick for cigarettes and he was like ‘how old are you?’ and she was like ‘are you being paid enough to care?’“ 

Nikki takes a long draft from his own cigarette, and kindly turns to the side to blow smoke into the wind, instead of directly into Charlotte’s face, as he used to do, or like he does when he’s annoyed.

“Mick would have mad respect for a move like that,” Nikki snorts, and when Charlotte looks up from her notebook, she sees him looking off into the distance, giving a genuine smile at the mental image. Maybe this is why she puts up with him, these rare genuine moments. He raises the cigarette to his lips again, and looks back at her, eyebrows raised, as if prompting her to go on. Charlotte looks back at her notebook.

“It inspired Tommy to try and buy smokes too, but Mick shut him down fast; I swear, if we show up when he’s clocking off, he’s going to K.O Tommy the first chance he gets.”

“Which is a step up from when you said he’d throw him in front of traffic,” Nikki notes, and Charlotte pauses, frowning. She hadn’t realised her hyperbolic threats on Mick’s behalf were a standard unit of measurement for how much he did or didn’t like her cousin. They were bullshit! Why did anyone take them seriously? Charlotte’s often astounded at her own credibility, and how much people tend to take her at her word without question.

“What’s she look like?” Nikki asks, flicking his ash into the grass, bringing Charlotte out of her thoughts.

“Who?”

“The girl from the gas station.”

“Oh,” Charlotte pauses, thinking, finally settling on, “she was wearing heaps of dark shit, had black hair, maybe that’s why I thought of you. I don’t know who she is though, didn’t recognize her from anywhere.” She adds, and Nikki hums thoughtfully, nodding. With his free hand, he snatches her pen out of her grip, despite her yelp of protest, and begins doodling pentagrams on the back cover of her notebook. 

“You free tomorrow night?”

“I’d rather die than date you.”

“Charlie, you’re not my type -”

“Nikki, your type is tits and a heartbeat.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d fuck you, but I’d rather be castrated than date you,” Nikki responds flatly, and Charlotte quickly shuts up, scowling, “but my band has a gig at a place that doesn’t card, so if you and that overgrown Labrador you call a cousin can sneak away from mommy and daddy for the night, you’re more than welcome to come party with the big kids.” He smirked, flicking Charlotte’s pen back at her. Charlotte’s annoyance has simmered down at his offer, considering his words. 

“Nikki Sixx inviting me to see his band,” she mused, sly smile curling at the corners of her lips, mischief glinting in her eyes, “you like me, don’t you? You like Miss Everyone’s Best Friend. Soon I’m going to be your best friend too!” At least she was self aware enough about her people-pleasing tendencies to poke fun at his scorn.

“I like that you’re cousin’s obsessed with me, so bring him too,” Nikki’s quick to correct, but his heart’s not fully in it, if the smile he’s failing to repress is anything to go by, “I’m just in it for the ego trip, sweetheart.”

Charlotte gags at the pet name; the bell rings.

“She smells like an ash tray,” is the first thing Charlotte hears when she sits herself with the rest of the cheer squad at lunch, and she’s terrified for a moment that Heather, the Vice Captain of the squad, is talking about her. Discretely, Charlotte sniffs at her hair, worried that the perfume she’d spritzed to hide any of Nikki’s lingering smoke had worn off quickly. Heather’s not even looking at her, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially to the other gathered girls.

“Heather, half the people at this school smell like smoke,” Eileen cuts in as the voice of reason, taking a dainty bite of her food to punctuate her point. Heather’s expression sours.

“Yeah, but she’s pretty, why would she smoke?”

“Heather, you smoke,” Eileen rolls her eyes, and Heather sits back, crossing her arms, long, dainty fingers resting on her perfectly tanned and toned biceps.

“Yeah, but at least I have the decency not to smell like the bottom of an ashtray,” Heather raises an eyebrow, as if offering some form of challenge, and Charlotte watches Eileen bite back on a scathing retort, simply offering a withering smile, and continuing on with her lunch, “anyway,” Heather rolls her eyes, and starts up a new conversation with the girls on her other side, who were hanging onto her every word like it was gospel.

It’s quite possible that the tensions between Heather and Eileen may never actually die down, Charlotte considers, fiddling with the plastic-wrapped straw of her juice box. The thing is that Heather had only scored the position of Vice Captain of the cheerleading squad after Eileen, practically a shoe-in after two years on the squad and a pretty impressive acrobatic repertoire, publicly turned down the offer, quit, and joined the swim team the very next day, refusing to give a reason for any of her actions. A vicious joke circled the school about Heather being sloppy seconds, and despite Eileen never actually contributing to the joke in any way, or even acknowledging it, part of Heather still obviously resented her. The fact that Eileen still chose to sit with the cheerleaders despite not being one anymore, might also play into that, like she’s rubbing it in Heather’s face, even though she never would intend to do that.

Charlotte’s known Eileen for what feels like forever, since Summer camp in Grade School, living close enough to maintain a friendship, but not close enough that they were in the same district for Grade or Middle School. Both academically and socially minded young women, they’d found themselves in a number of clubs in those years that brought them face to face at meet or competitions, and thankfully, their local high school drew from a wider range of districts, finally bringing them together as allies, rather than competitors. 

“Who were they talking about?” Charlotte asks quietly, stabbing her straw into her juice box, trying to keep their conversation discrete.

“A girl transferred into our grade -”

“On a Thursday?” Charlotte scoffs a little, “with three weeks left to go before Winter break?” And Eileen makes a noise in the back of her throat, an I know, it’s weird, right? Without saying any actual words. 

“Something Fields; we just had French with her,” Eileen nods to where Heather’s now happily chattering with the other cheerleaders, earlier disagreement seemingly forgotten.

“Something?” Charlotte asked wryly, and Eileen gave her an amused look.

“Madame Laurent’s accent would butcher the name Sally, I’m surprised I managed to understand Fields,” and okay, she has a point, Madame Laurent’s French accent was half the reason any of the students studied the language, if only to understand her, because her English, while technically good, was sometimes incomprehensible. 

“The girl didn’t correct her?”

“Nah, just kept quiet, embarrassed, I think,” Eileen mused, and Charlotte hummed thoughtfully, “though she did sit herself right next to Heather; bold move, I’ll applaud her for that.”

“Bet Heather didn’t like that,” Charlotte snickered quietly, and Eileen’s smile stretched into a full grin.

“She straight up moved the moment the girl put her bag down.”

“The poor girl,” Charlotte shook her head with a sigh, before clarifying, “not Heather, obviously.” Eileen snorted a laugh.

“What’s the new girl like?” Charlotte finds herself asking, intrigued.

“Quiet,” is Eileen’s immediate answer, “couldn’t get a good read on her, but she knows a decent amount of French.” But she deliberates for a moment, “looks kind of mean.” And for the barest moment, Charlotte frowns, mind flashing to the girl she’d seen at the gas station yesterday... it couldn’t be.

“Black hair?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I saw a girl at the gas station yesterday, black hair, kind of mean looking, Mick didn’t know her,” that was the big tip; Mick seemed to know all the gas station regulars, so she must be new. Eileen catalogued this information in her mind, but had no comment on it beyond a shrug, before reminding Charlotte that they had debate after school, and asking if Tommy would be sticking around to give her a lift home. 

“He will be, he’s got practice until four too,” Charlotte said with a half smile, “and yes, he can give you a lift home too... Will Peach be needing one too?” She asked, referring to Eileen’s younger sister, but Eileen shook her head.

“She’s staying back until five every day this week to finish her science fair project, mom’s happy to pick her up - something about magnets this year - but I don’t want to wait around.”

“Wait, how long until the science fair?” Last year, Eileen, Charlotte, Tommy, and Vince Neil, who they’d still considered something of a friend at the time, had all come to support Peach in both her first year of high school, and her first science fair. Peach had come third, with a rather impressive display about which various household liquids killed plants fastest, and all three had cheered when she’d been given her ribbon, and Tommy and Vince spent the entire ride in the back of Peach and Eileen’s mom’s station wagon ranting about how she should have won, and scheming about how to best put a dead houseplant in their science teacher’s bed, like some low budget, home depot Scarface. Tommy may have become their friends via his place as a constant fixture in Charlotte’s life, and Vince simply because he had grown up as something of her neighbour and Tommy’s close friend, but their loyalty was absolute. Well, almost absolute. Vince was noticeably absent from their current roster of friends however, the then-four of them how vowed to make it a habit, and they could all tell Peach had been touched by the gesture, and Eileen, Charlotte, and Tommy were, at the very least, going to uphold that promise. A small smile plays on Eileen’s face.

“Next Tuesday, she’s so excited.”

if you put your mind to it, you can do anything. but you won’t. 

So according to Eileen, Vince Neil is throwing a party on Saturday, and seeing as Charlotte’s parents still think the world of Vince after he’d been so kind of her after everything happened with her ex at the start of the year, she’s allowed to go. They went to middle school together, though he was always a year younger than her, in Tommy’s grade, and their parents were passive-aggressive PTA friends for a few years there, and, as mentioned before, he’d been genuinely sweet when she was at her lowest. Her parents don’t know that a week and a half into Summer break, right after he’d taken her to prom and promised to key her ex’s car if she asked, he started surfing, starting hanging out at the beach with the rest of the pretty, mean jocks spending their Summer in the sun, and had turned into a vain asshole. Or, well, more of a vain asshole than he already was. 

Vince’s family was well off, and his parties were legendary, which is what made her parents agreeing to let her go so strange. 

What they didn’t, and would never agree to, was letting her go to Nikki’s gig, so she didn’t even bother to ask. Instead, she asked to spend the weekend with Tommy and Athena. Her mother calls to confirm that that would be okay, Charlotte packs a duffle bag with outfits for the weekend, and her mother reminds her to take care of herself at the party the following night, kissing her on both cheeks when Tommy turns up in his beat up Vista Cruiser. 

“Why are you hanging out with us tonight?” Tommy asks, frowning, still in the clothes he’d worn to school. Charlotte’s grip tightens on her duffle bag.

“Because we’re going out tonight.”

Immediately, Tommy’s posture straightens, and his expression lights up; he was delightfully easy to excite. Suddenly he was brimming with questions as he drove, fighting to keep his eyes on the road, and Charlotte let herself relax a little, glad to see he was onboard.

“Nikki Sixx’s band -”

“- is playing tonight!” Tommy finishes her sentence, his voice breaking on the last word out of excitement, though Charlotte kindly doesn’t comment, and it doesn’t stop Tommy’s eyes from sparkling, “he wrote it in sharpie in pretty much every bathroom in the school; you want to go?” Yeah, that sounds about par for the course for Nikki Sixx’s brand of advertising.

“You’re half in love with the guy,” Charlotte ignored Tommy’s spluttered protests, “so I wanna see what the hype is about,” she lied easily. She wasn’t a fan of lying to Tommy, he deserved better than that, but he also might crash if he knows that Nikki had personally invited them.

Tommy begs his mom to let them go, promising to be safe and be back by midnight, and the moment Charlotte vouches for him, his mother’s concern melts into agreement, and Athena complains that she’s never allowed to go anywhere. Tommy sticks his tongue out at her, and she kicks him in the shins, scowling, until Charlotte asks her to help her get ready, and Athena brightens considerably. 

“Charlie you look like a badass!” Tommy delights when he steps out of the bathroom, hair all teased up, eyeliner expertly applied his waterline, wearing an outrageous outfit. He was going to fit in easily. 

“Holy shit, dude, so do you -”

“Tommy! That’s my shirt!” Athena accused, storming over to him, trying to pull the tight, black tank top with the hot pink diamante lightning bolt off of him, despite his jacket over it, while he tried to slap her away.

“It looks better on me!” Tommy snapped, escaping her grasp and trying to hide in the bathroom. 

“Dude, she’s thirteen, give her the shirt back, you can borrow one of mine,” Charlotte sighed, standing back from it all. 

“Never!”

His mother called out if everything’s okay, and while Athena yelled that Tommy was stealing from her, Charlotte called back that she’d take care of it.

“Charlie, please,” Athena sulked, leaning against the closed bathroom door, while Tommy told his sister to piss off. Charlotte sighed, before giving the young girl an evaluative look.

“Would you let him wear it for five bucks?” 

Athena squinted at her, seriously considering the offer; if Tommy had made it, there would be no way she would have accepted, but she knew Charlotte was good for it. 

“Fine, but if he stretches it, I’m telling mom about his stash of Playboys,” she threatened, to which both Tommy and Charlotte made noises of surprise, Charlotte because she hadn’t known about that, and Tommy because he clearly didn’t think Athena knew about it either. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” Tommy hisses, wrenching the door open. Athena turns arms crossed, smile smug, and gives him her best try me look. Tommy wrinkles his nose, but stalks into his room, grabbing a five ones from his wallet and giving them to Athena, who Charlotte had never seen so pleased before.

“I hate her,” Tommy seethed, and Charlotte petted his shoulder in solidarity.

“I know,” and then, “aren’t you going to be cold?” 

“I’ve got another jacket.”

The pub, Kings’ Hotel, sits on the border between suburbia and the CBD, and Charlotte’s been past it a million times, has spent a considerable amount of time idly staring out the window of MacCready’s Diner across the road, but never actually been inside. Speaking of MacCready’s, there’s a ton of scaffolding around it that Charlotte definitely doesn’t remember, and the sign’s been taken down, so it appears Tommy’s gossip about it being under new management was true. 

There’s no bouncer, but high schoolers and music were already spilling from the building by the time Charlotte and Tommy showed up. The music is decent, if a little heavy, but Charlotte knows she could definitely get into it if she wanted to. When she approaches the building, she notices a gaggle of vaguely recognizable people all in a cluster, huddle together while they smoked to keep warm in the cold night air. 

“Hi Heather,” Tommy calls out to one, putting on his most winning smile, and when Charlotte gets a proper look, yeah she can see Heather with her hair sprayed up and lipstick shiny, give her cousin a sceptical look. She does, however, notice Charlotte, and her expression shifts to something faux sweet and coy, a show of being amicable to someone obviously associated with a fellow cheerleader, and she gives them both a wave.

“I thought you had a thing for Pam,” Charlotte asks quietly as they push their way into the pub.

“Charlie, I’m into any and every cheerleader I’m not related to, why should I deprive any of the other lovely young ladies by only focusing on one girl?”

“Gross,” was Charlotte’s only comment. Tommy ignored her. 

It was kind of overwhelming at first, between the loud music, the crush of people she half-knew, the fact that the bartender didn’t even blink when Tommy ordered a beer, or the fact that Nikki Sixx was on stage in skin tight leather pants, playing bass like it was his God given mission in life.

Her ex and his best friend had also been kind of obsessed with Nikki and his band, and she was coming to understand the hype. Between the swirling lights, the people on the dancefloor, and the heat of the crowd, it was almost hypnotizing to be a part of.

“You should get a drink,” Tommy urges, and Charlotte hesitates. She’s had spiked punch before, half a glass of wine at a family get together when her mom had been tipsy and feeling indulgent, and a couple of sips of beer that her ex had offered her when they’d gone to parties together, but she’d never really...

“I don’t know what to order,” she admits, hesitant, but still raising her voice over the music. Tommy offers her his beer to taste, but Charlotte was already well aware of the fact that beer tasted like piss, and she turns him down. She tries to think back to what people order in TV shows and movies, and tentatively approaches the bar.

“Could I get a jack and coke?” She asks, just thankful that her voice doesn’t shake. The bartender looks her up and down, checking her out without a hint of subtlety, and Charlotte fights the urge to pull her jacket tighter around herself.

“Of course, honey, that’ll be five-fifty,” the bartender smirks, and Charlotte gives an uncertain smile back, thanking him and passing over a ten dollar note. He gives her a five change, along with her drink and a wink. Gross.

“What’d you get?” Tommy asks, when she finds him again, standing against the opposite wall, already halfway through his drink. Charlotte’s holding hers in her fingertips, nervous, taking a sip and scrunching up her whole face at the taste.

“Jack and coke,” she hisses as the alcohol burns. Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up at her bold choice, and asks if he can try it. She offers it easily, and he too makes a face as he drinks, but pretends like it’s great. 

They see more people they recognize, people confused but glad to see them out. They’re almost immediately accosted by Keanu, yet another face Charlotte hadn’t been expecting to see, and he wraps them both up in a hug; he’s all dark hair and wide, easy smiles, somehow everyone’s friend in a way that’s so different from how Charlotte seems to be everybody’s friend, but he and Tommy get on like a house on fire. There’s a resilience they both seem to have, and a shared enthusiasm, despite the fact that Keanu was a Senior, a year above Charlotte, and a full two above Tommy, but his good nature seemed to override these boundaries; the moment Tommy mentions he’d been thinking of heading to the dancefloor, Keanu’s more than happy to join him.

Immediately Tommy gulps down the last mouthful and beer and the pair of boys see fit to start cutting shapes on the dance floor with wild abandon, and so Charlotte finds herself at a table at the back of the room with Heather, a few other cheerleaders and their boyfriends, and surprisingly, Vince. He’s in white leather pants, and they look cool as hell, but also it’s Vince, and Charlotte’s fighting back the urge to laugh.

“Charlotte Lee, you’re looking fine tonight,” Vince slide into the space beside her, and Charlotte doesn’t roll her eyes, or make a comment about how he looks like a greasy snowman, no matter how much she wants to.

“Surprised to see you here, Vince, where’s all your popular little surfer pals?” She asks sweetly, and Vince raises his eyebrows at her, a retort on the tip of his tongue.

“I forgot you two knew each other,” Heather says, and she pauses, clearly deliberating, something dangerous in her eyes, “didn’t you used to date?”

“No,” Charlotte blurts quickly, though Vince is just as quick to deny it, “we’re friends- we were friends; not anymore. We went to prom together, yes, but we never dated.” She clarifies quickly, body language all tight and uncomfortable, which manages to go all the way over Vince’s head, and his hand comes to rest on his heart, expression reading betrayal.

“How long have been known each other, Charlie, for you to say we’re not even friends -”

And maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the alcohol, but Charlotte snapped.

“We were friends for years, Vinny, then six months ago you decided to spend all your time with a bunch of tools and bragged about taking me to prom because I was a cheerleader, and also - oh yeah, remember this? - made one of your best friends cry,” Charlotte hissed venomously, shoulders still tense, fingers gripping the edge of the table. Vince scowled.

“Peach wasn’t-” the words spill from him automatically, but there’s a flicker of something that may just be shame in his eyes, so he drops his gaze and starts again; “my friends are not tools -”

“The Vince who was my friend wouldn’t skip school three days a week to get high and fuck on the beach!” 

“It sounds like you two have a lot to work out...” Heather seems genuinely surprised, and while she’d been fishing for gossip, this was too much, and she graciously backed out of the conversation, pulling one of her friends over to the bar. Charlotte was suddenly aware of how hot it was in the bar, how sweaty and oppressive it all felt.

“People can fucking change, Charlotte,” Vince scowled.

“You didn’t change for the better, Vince, whatever the opposite of character growth is, it’s what happened to you.” Charlotte spat, and turned on her heel before he can respond. She didn’t want to stand on the side side of the road out the front, so she heads for the door labelled Beer Garden, and steps into the cool night air. 

Once outside, she realises how quiet it is, and when she sees Nikki Sixx at one of the tables with a blonde girl giggling in his lap, she comes to the conclusion that the band must be on break. The Beer Garden is mostly populated by smokers, the people around Nikki being the cool, intimidating, stoner punk rockers that she’d figured would be here, but that she can’t bring herself to approach. It’s nice to take a moment to be alone, she finds, breathing in the crisp night air, head feeling clearer for it, looking up at the stars glittering overhead. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Vince is a fucking tool. He’d made Peach cry the week they got back to school, and Charlotte had vowed to never forgive him for it. 

After a few minutes, Charlotte takes the time to really look at the people milling around, wondering if she actually recognised anyone. Much to her surprise, in the back corner of the courtyard area, she did. 

Side by side, Mick from the gas station, and the mysterious girl who’d bought cigarettes from him, sitting on the edge of a planter full of dead shrubs, both smoking, neither speaking, reading one magazine between the two of them.

Charlotte’s not quite sure who’s more likely to stab her, between Mick and the girl, and Nikki’s band of misfits, but she hedges her bets and heads to the pair at the back.

“Having a good night, Mick?” Charlotte asks tentatively, before giving pause. They’re reading a ratty old copy of Hustler. Mick looks up, and lets go of his side of the magazine, letting the girl take it, to keep flipping idly through.

“The band’s okay,” Mick muses, and seems to realise that his cigarette has gone out when he tries to take a drag on it, and he pulls out a lighter and relights it, “how’s your night been?”

“It’s been alright, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Charlotte gives an awkward laugh, looking to the magazine, which Mick seems to either have forgotten about, or not realise that he’s reading porn in public, but finally the girl looks up.

“Someone cut out all the tits,” she’s got an accent Charlotte hadn’t noticed back at the gas station, and still can’t quite place, but that’s not the part she focuses on.

“What?” 

The girl flips the magazine around to show a Farrah Fawcett look-alike posing suggestively, with her entire torso cut from the magazine, just leaving a hole where the cologne ad on the next page can be seen. 

“Found it on the side of the road on the way here,” Mick says, like it suffices for an entire explanation. Instead of elaborating, he offers Charlotte a cigarette.

“No thanks, I don’t smoke,” an awkward silence follows, Charlotte with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, while the girl close the magazine with a resounding slap and threw it over her shoulder into the dead shrubs, “I’m Charlotte.” Charlotte offers her hand. The girl looks at it, then to Charlotte’s face.

“From the gas station, the cheerleader” she says, tone unreadable, giving Charlotte a scrutinizing look, like she’s waiting for the blonde to shirk under it’s intensity. Charlotte doesn’t back down, and the girl finally gives her a firm handshake, “Lola.”

Silence followers, chatter filters over from the various other groups, Nikki’s laugh, loud and clear, above the rest. Neither Mick nor Lola makes room for Charlotte, so she sways idly from side to side, people watching the rest of the courtyard.

“Didn’t pick you for this type of scene,” Mick muses finally, crossing his ankles and fixing Charlotte with a strangely neutral expression, cigarette almost burned down to the butt where it’s poised between his lips, “that over-eager cousin of yours, sure, but this doesn’t seem like it’s your style.”

“Oh, Tommy is here,” Charlotte’s quick to clarify, looking around as if he were about to jump out of the bushes and irritate the rarely amicable Mick, “but, I don’t know,” she shrugged like coming out tonight wasn’t her idea, “I’m more than happy to give anything a go at least once; people at my school are kind of weirdly obsessed with the bass player, so I guess I wanted to see what the hype was about.”

Mick finished his cigarette as he considered her words, giving a pensive look to the bass player himself, still surrounded by a gaggle of fans, and eventually stubbed the last of the ash out against the edge of the planter he was sitting on, letting the butt fall, crumpled, to the ground. 

“He’s the only one with any ounce of talent,” voice gruff, Mick’s approval comes as a surprise to both Charlotte, who’s eyes go wide at the statement, and Lola, who barks an unexpected laugh, that ends with her choking on the smoke in her lungs. Mick thumps her on the back, and she roughly when her breathing clears, tears watering in her eyes. 

“Whoever writes their songs is half decent,” Lola points out, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, after which she dropped her own mostly burnt-out cigarette, crushing it under the heel of her boot. Yes, she has a point, but Charlotte’s curiosity gets the better of her.

“Can I ask...?” At her tentative tone, Lola immediately tenses, growing defensive, “are you Lola Fields?”

“Why?” Lola immediately snaps, and Charlotte raises her hands in surrender. Mick’s arms are crossed, looking with interest between the two girls.

“I think you go to my school,” Charlotte quickly clarifies, but Lola’s scowl deepens, as if wondering how she knew that, “do you take AP French with a tall, ginger girl?”

“I don’t really know who else is in the class,” Lola slowly tells her, but it’s not a no, which is all that matters. Charlotte nods, but doesn’t press the subject, “it’s weird that you know that much about me.” Lola adds.

“It’s barely anything,” Charlotte points out, baffled at the sudden defensiveness. 

“You know my last name and that I do AP French,” Lola says, and her gaze shifts from Charlotte to the gaggle of fans surrounding Nikki, as they all started to head inside.

“Well,” Charlotte doesn’t let her resolve falter, smiling, “my name’s Charlotte Lee, and --”

“Oi, Cheerleader, you coming inside? We’ve got another set to go!” Nikki Sixx’s voice rings out through the courtyard area, and Charlotte visibly cringes at the sound of it, turning slowly on her heel, still wincing when she faces him. 

And yes, he was talking to her, his hands are still cupped around his mouth like a megaphone, a tunnel showing off his smug and toothy grin. She hadn’t realised he’d even noticed her, but he had, and he needed her to know he had.

“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” she calls back, irritated. Nikki lowers his hands, and even from this distance she can see him raising his eyebrows.

“But you’re here, aren’t you?” He leaves the because I invited to you as an implication only she would hear, knowing she would hear it nonetheless. Charlotte sighs deeply, shoulders sagging with resignation, and Nikki, feeling as though he’d won, turns sharply on his heel and marches inside.

“I hate him,” Charlotte groaned.

“You know him?” Mick seems rather surprised, enough that the emotion could be heard in his voice. Charlotte turns back, not quite sure what to expect when she faced them. Mick is watching Charlotte with actual interest. Lola was watching the spot where Nikki had been, expression carefully blank.

“He’s a pain,” Charlotte says, defeated, and Lola’s gaze flicks to her, expression turning amused, but before she can get a word in -

“There you are!” The door to the now mostly-empty beer garden bursts open, and Tommy makes himself known. He’s left Keanu somewhere inside, apparently, now that he was on the hunt for his cousin. Mick sighs so heavily that it’s all he can do to lean back into the planter, arms crossed over his chest like a vampire, as if the very sight of the kid exhausts him. From this position, the packet of cigarettes in his pocket is exposed, and Lola steals one.

“I’ll owe you,” is all she says, as Tommy approaches, in less of a beeline, and more of an unsteady wave, more than a little tipsy. Christ, his mom is gonna kill them both.

“I was looking everywhere for you,” his wide eyes betrayed his concern, despite his current state, but his concern turns to joy, upon seeing her company, “hi, Mick!” Mick does not answer, laying with his eyes closed, in the shrubs. 

“He’s dead,” Lola supplies without missing a beat, pulling out her lighter and lighting the stolen cigarette, and Tommy’s expression falls.

“We should help him -”

“I can help him, don’t worry,” Lola assures, with faux seriousness, before her tone shifts to something light, easily distracting the tipsy boy, “you were in the gas station the other day with this one, weren’t you?” She gestures with her lighter towards Charlotte; Tommy looks to his cousin before looking to Lola.

“I- yeah, oh, shit, you’re- hi,” suddenly flustered as he finally remembered where he knew her from, he offers his hand, “Tommy.”

“Lola,” there’s a new edge to her smile, sparkling in her eyes as she taking in Tommy and his whole look, which has something strangely protective flare up in Charlotte’s chest. But then Lola catches the slight frown on Charlotte’s face, and it’s like she knows exactly what she’s thinking, because she lets go of Tommy’s hand and her expression betrays on the faintest hint of amusement. 

“Lola,” Tommy nods very seriously, as if committing the name to his memory in his current state was quite the task, but he persisted nonetheless. After a moment, however, he seemed to remember his original mission, “Vince thought you’d headed home -”

“Fuck Vince,” Charlotte spits automatically, venomously, a knee-jerk response, and Tommy’s stunned into silence. 

“Do you want to go home?” Tommy’s far too earnest and concerned for his current state, and Charlotte feels momentarily guilty for her outburst, hanging her head and letting herself breathe for a moment.

“No, the music’s good, we just got into a fight -”

“You guys used to actually be good friends,” Tommy hesitates, confused, and Charlotte gives him a rueful smile when she looks back at him.

“Then he decided that being nice to the people who have been friends with him for years was lame.”

“He’s nice to me,” Tommy says, sounding a little put out, and Charlotte shrugged, crossing her arms.

“And he’s still nice to me, doesn’t mean he’s not a tool; I’m a cheerleader, and you’re a guy, of course he’s still going to be nice to us.”

Tommy still doesn’t get it, but Charlotte decides to head back into the pub with him, throwing over her shoulder that it was nice to meet Lola. She could almost swear she heard a muttered ‘fuckin’ teenagers’ from Mick, all of nineteen years old himself, which just has Charlotte rolling her eyes. Mick taps Lola’s arm when Charlotte glances over her shoulder, while the rest of him still lays flat in the dirt, and Lola passes him the cigarette obligingly, crossing one leg over the other and smirking at him.

it doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty. i am gonna drink it through this crazy straw!

“Vince is on the warpath,” Eileen’s always been able to remain composed while unreasonably drunk better than any person Charlotte’s ever known, and the following night, while Vince’s house party rages around them in the living room of his house, is no exception. She won’t say how many vodka sodas she’s had, or who supplied her with the vodka, but the way she was unable to suppress the amused twist of her lips was a dead giveaway that she was a little more than tipsy.

“Oh?” Charlotte’s eyes were roaming from face to face at the party, never sticking to just one, hands clutching a red solo cup full of cheap wine.

“Someone told him the person who keyed his car was here,” Eileen’s close to laughter, and Charlotte’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Does he -”

“No,” Eileen shakes her head, taking another delicate sip of her own drink, “he thinks it’s one of Duff’s friends.” She says, before her eyes going wide, and she slaps her free hand over her mouth - “sorry.” Charlotte, who’s too tipsy to care about the mention of her ex, is more confused than anything else.

“Because of me?” She actually snorts, skeptical, “as if Duff or any of his friends cared about who took me to prom after everything happened, enough to key Vince’s car.” It’s been long enough now that she can laugh at it, and the warped logic of it all, knowing full well that the girl sitting beside her was the real vandal of Vince’s shiny, red car. 

“Can you believe Vince asked me to invite Peach? After all that shit he pulled on her after Summer? I almost clocked him in the middle of the carpark!” Eileen’s movements were relaxed and uncomplicated, so unlike her usual demeanour, so easy-going, so honest, sometimes drunk-Eileen’s openness caught Charlotte by surprise, “told him to invite her himself if he wanted her there so bad.”

“I’m in awe of your restraint,” Charlotte mused, leaning into Eileen, letting her eyes fall closed in an attempt to keep the room from spinning in her vision, “he’s such an ass; I’m surprised you’re even here.”

“The nerve on him, acting like he’s too good to be seen with her because he’s got new friends,” Eileen shook her head, wrapping her free arm around Charlotte’s shoulders, securing her, still people watching, “I should have keyed him,” for a moment, she hiccups, and when Charlotte cracks her eye open for a moment to guage her friend’s current state, she sees Eileen glaring into her mostly-empty cup. 

“I’m still deciding if I should pee on something he cares about,” Eileen says, tone so serious that Charlotte can’t help but dissolve into giggles.

“What?”

“‘s why I’m here,” Eileen was so earnest in her declaration that Charlotte was a little nervous, if only because drunk-Eileen would absolutely do something as undignified as pee on something of Vince’s in an act of revenge.

“Would you key Duff’s car for me?” Charlotte asked to change the topic, all soft and teasing, and she can hear rare, unrestrained the smile in Eileen’s voice when she assured Charlotte she would in a heartbeat, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

Despite it still being early in the night, Charlotte knew that if she seemed drunk when she got back to Tommy’s house, her Aunt would tell her mom, and that’s the exact opposite of what she needs. Tommy can get legless if he wants, he only has to face the wrath of his weirdly supportive parents; if Charlotte comes home obviously drunk, she won’t be allowed out of the house until college. So she decides to get water.

There’s bodies everywhere, and Charlotte’s struggling to move through them, even with Eileen guiding her to the kitchen.

Charlotte’s been in and around this house so many times, it should be second nature to her; she and Tommy had spent what felt like half their childhoods in this house, within it’s pristine, white walls, and expensive, leather furniture, playing pretend trying to imagine what their future would turn out to be. None of them would have pictured this, of Charlotte, of Charlotte hating Vince and still stumbling, drunk through his house, nor had they seen Vince, playing pretend with popularity, tossing them all aside for a set of conceited fair-weather friends. Tommy’s never been able to predict his own future, too willing to go with the flow to be too certain of anything. 

Away from the living room, and the record player, the music is muffled, and the chatter is quieter, as people are here for drinks, or snacks, while most were choosing to dance in the crush in the living room, or making regrettable, teenage decision upstairs. 

Eileen tops up her drink with obviously spiked punch. Half vodka and soda, half spiked fruit punch. Gross. Charlotte looks on in disgust as she sips water, and Eileen acts like there’s no difference between taste, but she interrupts her own performance of stoicism when her eyes widen.

“Fields.”

“What?” Charlotte asks, confused as all hell, following Eileen’s gaze to where the kitchen opens up onto the patio, only to see Lola, in a full face of makeup, hair sprayed to high heavens, wearing all sorts of black, ripped, mesh and denim layers, looking like an intimidating cross between glam rock and crust punk. She was straddling someone’s lap, looking at them intently, what looked to be a black, eyeliner pencil in her hand.

“That’s the girl from my French class,” Eileen sounds a little surprised to see her, and Charlotte smiles a little.

“Her name’s Lola -” but her mouth drops open when Lola, in the dim light spilling from the kitchen, leans in and kisses whoever she’s sitting on. After a beat, both Charlotte and Eileen burst in fits of unsubtle laughter, not having anticipated this turn of events. They’re holding each other for support in their drunken amusement, laughing like this is somehow the funniest thing they’ve ever encountered, thankfully aware enough to set aside their cups. 

“I- we’re intruding right? This is- we should leave-” they’re not even the only ones in the kitchen when Charlotte says this, gasping for breaths between her laughs, but they seem to be the only ones who have noticed what’s happening, or at least the only ones who halfway care.

Until there comes a shout of ‘yeah, get some, Tommy!’ from the bonfire about thirty yards from the patio, and Charlotte very clearly and distinctly thinks ‘oh no’.

Vince is silhouetted by the fire, bleach blonde hair catching the light, but Charlotte can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Shut up, Vince!” Lola’s partner, who is now unmistakably Tommy, calls back, flustered, as Lola hides her grin against his shoulder. Vince and his cronies, none of whom Charlotte knows by name, jeer in response. Then Lola’s leaning back and saying something that Charlotte doesn’t catch, but suddenly Tommy looks inside, his expression turning from flustered and pleased to horrified as his gaze locks with Charlotte’s and they both know that she knows.

Eileen is wheezing with laughter beside her.

Charlotte sees Tommy’s now lipstick-stained mouth mutter ‘shit’. Lola follows his gaze, and waves awkwardly at Charlotte. Charlotte also mutters ‘shit’.

Charlotte tips out her water and gets herself another cup of wine from the back of Vince’s refrigerator. A lot has happened in thirty seconds, she thinks she deserves one more drink for the night.

[camillemontespan]

lost stars [AU. drake, camille, leo and olivia] [part three: sandalwood]

Part Two: Passionfruit if you want to catch up.

I actually loved writing this chapter. I hope you enjoy.

@jovialyouthmusic @pug-bitch @sirbeepsalot @moonlightgem7 @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @dcbbw @notoriouscs @katedrakeohd @carabeth @iplaydrake @drakesensworld @be-still-my-aching-heart 

Warnings: NSFW. 

*******************************************************************************************

Olivia had drank three cups of steaming hot coffee within the hour that she sat down at her desk. The hangover was still torturing her, her head pulsing from pain and she was grateful that her neighbouring desk mate, Penelope, was discreetly passing her tablets to help. 

Olivia knew why she had gotten so drunk. The way Drake and Camille kept joking together, their eyes meeting and lingering, their laughs, has grated on her and she had turned to the bottle of champagne and endless glasses of passionfruit martinis for comfort. 

She decided that it would be best if they didn’t see Camille and Leo for a while. Space might help Drake remember that he actually had a girlfriend and a pretty hot one at that.

Olivia just needed to remind Drake why they were so good together. She supported him in everything he did. She was loyal to him. They laughed a lot. They had incredible sex. 

She thought about the lingerie she had at home. Maybe it was time to add to her collection. Yes, that was what she would do. A smirk appeared on Olivia’s lips. She was going to blow Drake’s mind. 

                ************************************************************

Drake and Leo were sat in the conference room with the rest of their colleagues. The Director of Cordonia Enterprises, Liam Rhys, stood at the top of the room facing everyone. 

Drake liked Liam. They got on well, considering they were so different in their jobs and status, but Liam didn’t treat his employees any different. He was the kind of man who said hello to the cleaner, to the janitor, to the canteen staff. He was never rude and treated everyone with respect. 

‘So, this weekend is Cordonia Enterprises annual benefit for our chosen charity!’ Liam announced. ‘I appreciate all of the hard work you all have put in the past six months to make this the best benefit the company will ever throw. The donations we make on Saturday night will go towards the refugees coming from Syria to help them in need. As you all know, I worked my way up to where I am today and I want to give back. This is the first step towards us helping those innocent people. So let’s make Saturday night one to remember.’

                ******************************************************************

Drake left his AA meeting that evening feeling good. He always felt good after those meetings; they helped him stay on the straight and narrow, away from whiskey. He still allowed himself to drink beer, it was just the hard stuff he needed to avoid. He didn’t like the person he became when he had drank whiskey and it had almost cost him his relationship with Olivia a few months ago.

It had been her idea to attend AA meetings. ‘You can be so much more than this,’ she had told him one day when he had just stayed in bed drinking. She had come home from work to find he had called into his office sick and had been sinking into oblivion. Drake had watched as she poured every whiskey bottle he owned down the sink. She found his secret stash which was hidden in a suitcase in the wardrobe and got rid of those bottles too. 

Drake hadn’t protested. He had been too drunk to do anything; instead he watched her, holding himself up by leaning against the door, swaying. He only saw clearly when she then turned to him, her eyes filled with tears with a distraught look on her face. ‘I love you,’ she had whispered, ‘but I can’t keep watching you slowly kill yourself like this. Please, get help. Please.’

Olivia never cried. To see the tears sliding down her cheeks made Drake realise exactly how hurtful his drinking had been. Not only to his liver but to his girlfriend. The next day, Olivia sat with him at his laptop as they searched for the nearest AA meetings in the neighbourhood. 

He had been going to them for six months and hadn’t touched a drop of whiskey since. 

He wandered down Green Street towards home when he heard someone call his name. ‘Drake!’

He turned and his heart began to pound when he saw Camille walking towards him. She was holding a bouquet of sunflowers in her hand and was wearing a red dress with a denim jacket on top and black suede ankle boots. She looked quite bohemian today; different from her usual elegant attire. 

‘Hey Montespan,’ he greeted her. Camille came up to him and gave him a quick hug. 

‘How are you?’ she asked. 

‘Good, yeah! Yourself?’

‘I’m good. I had a day off work today so been doing Camille things.’

They began to wander along the street. ‘What are Camille things?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘Reading a book in the park, buying myself flowers.’

‘Buying yourself flowers?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Does Leo not buy you flowers?’

Camille turned red. ‘Only if we have a fight..’ she muttered. 

Drake knew not to pursue the subject. ‘Where you off to now then?’ he asked. 

Camille shrugged. ‘I was thinking about getting a coffee. Want to join me?’ the words left her mouth before she could stop them. Drake bit his lip. ‘Um..’

‘It’s okay if you’re busy. I mean, you’re out so you must be busy.’

‘I’ve just had an AA meeting,’ he told her. 

If Camille was surprised, she didn’t let on. She continued strolling down the street beside him. ‘How did it go?’

‘Good. I’ve been going for six months.’

‘That’s awesome, Drake,’ she said. 

‘Thank you.’

They wandered along in silence for a moment. The sun was beginning to set and Camille’s skin glowed from the dusky pink sky. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I’ll join you for a coffee.’ 

Camille smiled. ‘It’s just down here.’ 

****************************************************************************************

Drake got home an hour later to find Olivia cooking spaghetti. ‘Hey honey,’ she greeted him, kissing him on the cheek. ‘How was the meeting?’

‘Really good,’ he told her. ‘I feel good.’

Olivia smiled and continued to stir the spaghetti. ‘You’re home later..’ she said. Drake opened the fridge and took out a bottle of water. He shrugged. ‘The subway was crammed, I had to walk.’

The lie left his mouth easily. He felt instant regret. 

Why did he not just say he had gone with Camille for a coffee? That wasn’t a big deal. But then again, Olivia had been drunk last night and told him she didn’t like the way he looked at her. 

No. Telling Olivia that he went for a coffee - just a coffee, nothing else- was a bad idea. 

They sat down and ate dinner, Olivia telling him about her day. Her hangover had finally subsided after lunch but Ana had been a massive bitch to her the whole day.  ‘Anyway, I’m ready to forget about my stress,’ Olivia told him, sipping her red wine. 

She stood up and left the room. Drake played with his fork. He wanted to put the TV on to see the sports highlights but TV was banned during dinner. Olivia thought it was rude. 

Drake heard her clear her throat and he turned. His jeans instantly tightened.

Olivia stood leaning against the door wearing a black latex bodysuit, fishnets and black heels. Drake stood up with a hungry expression on his face; Olivia, noticing his reaction, grinned like the Cheshire Cat. She strolled towards him, swinging her hips and ran her hands down his chest towards his belt. 

‘You look..’ Drake whispered.

‘Heavenly? Divine?’ Olivia joked, raising an eyebrow.’

‘Forget heavenly, you’re a fallen angel,’ Drake murmured, running a finger along her collarbone. Olivia lead him through to the bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. 

******************************************************************************************

Drake watched as she crawled on the bed towards him. His eyes roamed down her body, taking in the way the bodysuit pushed up her breasts, clung to her figure, showing all of her best angles. 

‘Do you want me?’ Olivia whispered.

Drake nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘How much do you want me?’

Drake smirked and unbuckled his jeans. He pulled his boxers down so Olivia could see his erection. ‘This much.’ 

Olivia pulled aside the crotch of her bodysuit and settled down onto him. He felt her walls around him and he groaned in response. Olivia began to rock her hips slowly, taking him in. ‘I want to fuck you hard,’ she whispered. 

‘I’m all yours,’ he told her. ‘Fuck me hard, I want you to.’

Olivia began to pick up the pace and Drake closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. ‘Drake.. Drake...’

Drake opened his eyes and saw Camille. 

What the fuck. 

She was wearing the black latex bodysuit and fishnets. Her dark hair was tousled and her eye makeup smokey. She wore a look of complete ecstacy on her face. ‘Drake..’ she groaned. 

Drake blinked and her face was replaced by Olivia’s, who was calling out his name as he rode him. Drake placed his hands on her hips, wanting to feel her to remind himself that this was Olivia, this was her body, this was his girlfriend currently on his dick. Olivia. 

Drake focused on Olivia’s groans, which were soon replaced by Camille’s voice. Her face came into his vision again, her brown eyes flecked with gold looking into his. ‘Tell me you want me,’ Camille whispered. ‘Tell me you want to fuck me. I know you do. I see the way you look at me. You want me, Drake. You want to feel me around you, you want to feel my breath against your neck, you want to hear me scream your name.’

Drake began to buck his hips hard, his eyes closed, listening to Camille’s words. ‘You want to feel my body against your hands, you want to taste me, you want to fuck me hard.’

‘Oh god..’ Drake groaned. 

‘You want me so much but you keep denying yourself..’ Camille whispered. ‘You want to see what it’s like. You’re curious. Give in, Drake. Give in.’

Drake’s eyes flashed open to see Olivia, sweat forming on her forehead.

Olivia. 

Focus on Olivia. 

Drake sat up and pulled Olivia into him, his mouth crashing against hers. He needed to taste Olivia. He needed to focus entirely on her and forget about Camille.

Forget her name. 

Olivia ground into him and kissed him, her teeth tugging on his lower lip.  ‘You feel so big,’ she murmured, her blue eyes looking into his. Drake kissed her deeply, their tongues twisting. He inhaled her scent and felt the smoothness of her skin under his calloused fingers. This was Olivia. She was beautiful. He focused on the way she looked in her lingerie, which was new, and how seductive she was. She wanted him; she always wanted him. She was his. 

Olivia tightened around him and Drake, feeling the sensation, felt himself fall over the edge. His groans echoed around the room, soon followed by Olivia. 

As Olivia’s head fell into the crook of Drake’s neck, he opened his eyes, his vision blurry. 

Watching him by the door was Camille, dressed in Olivia’s bodysuit. She gave him a smirk and turned to leave the room, her hips swinging a figure of eight, vanishing into thin air. 

   ************************************************************************************

Camille came out into the living room to show Leo her outfit. It was Saturday night and it was Leo’s work’s benefit that evening at the MET. Leo turned away from the TV to look at her and his eyes widened. ‘Holy shit.’

Camille grinned and twirled around so he could see. She was wearing a black tuxedo dress with pearl buttons, bare legs and silver strappy heels. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, blow dried professionally that day, and her makeup was smokey. Leo stood up. He was dressed in a suit with a teal pocket square. His blonde hair was slicked back. He looked like a model. 

‘I’m so excited to show you off,’ Leo told her. Camille smiled. ‘Shall we head?’

‘No time for a quickie?’ Leo asked. 

Camille shook her head. 

‘Damn it. We’ll just have to do it in the bathroom then,’ Leo joked. Camille rolled her eyes and picked up her clutch. ‘You’re such a horny teenager,’ she told him. 

‘Well, we’ve not had sex in a week. Usually, we’re at it like rabbits.’

Camille turned red and ignored his comment. She hadn’t been in the mood for sex this week; anytime he made a move, it felt like a weird Uncle touching her. 

Camille knew the passion was gone. They had fizzled. She knew she had to end it with him but she didn’t know how. It was never the right time. 

*******************************************************************************************

They reached the MET and were greeted by Liam, who twirled Camille around. ‘You look ravishing!’ 

Camille giggled. ‘She’s mine, Liam!’ Leo joked, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. Liam winked. ‘Keep hold of her, she’s a diamond.’

Camille looked away and her eyes found Drake and Olivia who were standing by the bar. Leo’s eyes followed hers and settled on them. ’Ah, let’s go see Drake and Olivia!’ He pulled Camille’s arm and she reluctantly followed.

He guided Camille over to the couple. Olivia was dressed in a red bodycon dress and black heels with her hair pulled up into a chignon. A gold Chopard gobstopper ring was placed on her middle finger. Olivia felt intimidated at soon she saw her; the woman was like a Queen. 

Drake was wearing a suit and looked handsome, except he kept tugging at the colour. ‘Drake, stop doing that,’ Olivia hissed, before looking up to see Leo and Camille walking towards them. 

‘Well Drake, you suited up!’ Leo said, clapping him on the back. He looked at Olivia and took her hand, kissing it. ‘Olivia, you look beautiful.’

Olivia blushed. 

Drake’s eyes wandered to Camille and his fingers clenched his glass of champagne tightly as he took her in. 

‘Wine?’ Leo asked Camille. She nodded and Leo signalled to the bartender. 

The DJ began to play and Olivia’s eyes widened. ‘I actually quite like this song!’

Drake blinked at her sudden enthusiam. Leo turned to her. ‘I love this song! Want to dance?’

Olivia raised an eyebrow. ‘Will you be able to keep up with me?’

Leo chuckled. ‘I’ll try my best, ma’am.’ 

He kissed Camille on the cheek and led Olivia to the dancefloor. Everyone in the room was dancing, bar Camille and Drake. Drake cleared his throat. ‘Uh.. do you want to?’

Camille looked down at the floor. ‘Well..’

They watched the dancers. ‘I guess we could do the robot,’ Camille said flippantly. Drake smirked. ‘Come on, Montespan. You’re up.’

He walked with her to the side of the dancefloor and they faced each other. Camille placed her hand on top of his shoulder and Drake instinctively placed his hand on her lower back. ‘I thought we were doing the robot..’ he whispered.

Camille laughed. ‘Maybe when everyone’s a bit drunker.’

Drake gently pulled her in close and they began to sway. His heart hammered against his chest and he hoped she couldn’t feel it. He really hoped she couldn’t.

******************************************************************************************

Camille could feel Drake’s heart hammering against his chest. She was so close to him. As they danced, Camille became aware of the way his hand felt around hers; rough, calloused fingers. She could feel his other hand on her lower back, dangerously close to the bottom of her spine, hot against the material of her dress. She could smell his scent; hints of sandalwood and leather. Masculine. 

Stop smelling him, you creep. 

Drake twirled her around and Camille giggled. Drake smiled, his eyes creasing at the corners. ‘You’re a good dancer,’ she told him. 

‘One of the requirements for dating Olivia,’ Drake told her dryly. 

Camille focused on the steps and pushed away thoughts of Drake’s sandalwood smell. She tried to think about Leo’s smell which was always charcoal. 

Camille was ashamed to admit that she preferred sandalwood. 

*******************************************************************************************

Drake held her close, but not too close. He held her close enough to dance the steps. He held her close enough so he could smell the coconut scent of her hair. 

His eyes looked around and he saw Olivia and Leo dancing. They were laughing as they danced, talking animatedly. That was what Drake should be doing with Camille; having a laugh and a good time.

Not smelling her hair. 

Not feeling her body against his and enjoying it. 

Drake’s fingers accidentally brushed Camille’s jawline. She tensed. 

Oh fuck. I did not mean to do that. 

Her eyes met Drake’s and he looked down at her. As their gazes locked, he swore that her brown eyes with gold flecks darkened. Darkened with desire.

But then she blinked and her eyes were back to normal. 

Drake needed to get his eyes checked. He kept seeing things that weren’t there.

[winchesterprincessbride]

The Song Remains the Same-Part 2

Master List

Part 1 (all parts are linked)

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Meg Masters, Castiel Novak, Gadreel, Reader

Text messages are in bold

Madison Square Garden Arena, 2017

The concert had been sold out for months.  Everyone who was anyone was clamoring for a ticket.  The bands latest song, “Hunt You Down” had been number one on the charts for a record-breaking sixteen weeks straight.

Dean had recently been named People’s “Sexiest Man Alive”, and he couldn’t stop talking about it, much to everyone’s annoyance. It just served to add to his already over-inflated ego.

It was time for soundcheck, and the band gradually trickled in. Dean was first with his latest blond eye candy in tow.  Cas and Meg, still together, came in second.  Sam wandered in quietly, talking with Gadreel the lead guitarist in a low voice.

“Where’s Y/N?” Dean demanded. “Dammit, Meg, we don’t have time to waste with her bullshit! This concert is being filmed for Netflix.  We have to be perfect! Find her!”

Meg sighed with annoyance and dialed your number. It went to voicemail.  “You guys start warming up. Lemme try to locate her.” She sent you a text

Meg: Where are you?

Y/N:  In the limo outside.

Meg: Should I come?

Y/N :  Yes, please

Meg found the limo and hopped in.  She took in your tear-stained face and swollen eyes.  “What’s going on, Y/N?”

“I don’t think I can play tonight.” You mumbled, fresh tears pouring out.  “I just came from the doctor.  I’m….I’m pregnant, Meg.”

A huge grin broke out on Meg’s face.  “That’s amazing news! Have you told him yet? He’s gonna be so excited!”

You and Meg had been friends for a long time. Meg knew you wouldn’t disappoint the fans, you just needed a minute to freak out and then you would be fine.

You shook your head sadly, the tears starting again.  “What am I going to do, Meg?”

She gave you an appraising stare.  “Is there something your not telling me?

“How do I tell the man I love that I don’t know if my baby is his or his brother’s?” You sobbed.

Stanford 2007

You worked your ass off for the next three days and mastered the band’s songs like you had been playing them forever.  Dean grudgingly admitted to Sam that you were a very talented drummer.  You were also a huge pain in the ass.  You challenged him constantly and seemed completely immune to his charm.  He wasn’t used to that.

Sam thought you were adorable, all that fire and sass wrapped up in such a small package.  You and he became fast friends.  He secretly loved how you didn’t take any of Dean’s shit.

Cas liked your feistiness, you reminded him of his Meg.  You were a welcome change from the unreliable Balthazar.  Meg knew if she could prevent you and Dean from killing each other, that the band really had a chance of making it. She hoped the guy from Death Siren saw what she did.

You were all sitting around eating pizza when you looked over at Dean. “Can I give you some advice?”

“I suppose,” Dean responded neutrally.

“I don’t think you should do lead guitar and vocals.  You should just focus on vocals.  You have an amazing voice, but your guitar skills are mediocre at best.  Hire a lead guitarist.  My cousin Gadreel is amazing on guitar and he….”

“No.” Dean practically growled, interrupting you.  “You don’t get to come in here after three days and tell me I suck at guitar.  Fuck you! I need some air.” He flew out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Wow, Y/N.  That was a little harsh.” Sam commented.

“It may have been harsh, but it was the truth.  Seems to me everyone kisses Dean’s ass around here.  I’m just being honest.  Nevermind, forget I said anything. I need a break.  I’m going for a walk.” You walked out the other door, in the opposite direction Dean had gone.

The night of the concert came, and everything just gelled together perfectly. Your outfit of denim short shorts, thigh-high black boots, and a black leather vest made Dean do a double take.  “That’s more like it!” He said with a smirk right before you took the stage.

“Bite me, Dean!” You snapped, taking a seat behind your kit.

“Keep dressing like that, sweetheart, and I just might.”

Your adrenaline level after the concert was through the roof. Sam grabbed you in a bear hug backstage. “You sounded amazing, Y/N!”

You gave him a silly grin because the celebratory beer someone had shoved into your hand had gone straight to your head.  You’d been way too nervous to eat before the show. “You weren’t half bad yourself, handsome.”

Sam was about to say something when Meg came running over.  “The rep from Death Siren Records wants to meet you guys!” She said excitedly. “Where’s Dean?”

“I thought I saw him go down the hall there.” You commented, pointing behind you.

“Can you go grab him, Y/N? Sam, can you come with me? You’re really good at kissing up to people.” Meg commented as she grabbed his arm.

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Thanks a lot, Meg.”

You went off down the hall in search of Dean.  You were positive you had seen him come down this way.  “Dean?” You called softly.  No answer.  At the end of the hall, you came to a door that was half ajar. And from the moans and cries that were coming out from behind it, someone was getting lucky.

“For the love of…….” you began angrily.

Marching up to the door, you took a deep breath and stuck your head in.  Dean had a blonde backed up against the wall, her legs around his waist, and he was pounding into her.  She was wailing and moaning like a bad porn star but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Dean! The guy from Death Siren wants to meet us! Meg sent me to find you! Would you put it back in your pants and come on!” You hissed furiously.

He looked over at you and smirked. “Jealous, Y/N?”

“Not even a little, asshole.” You snapped before pulling the door shut.

By the time you got backstage, Dean was right behind you, looking rumpled and gorgeous.  You whispered to him,  “She was totally faking it, you know that, right?  That the best you could do?”

“You offering to take her place?” He asked, giving you a look that suddenly made you shiver.

Before you could respond, Meg saw you and pulled you and Dean over towards a dark-haired man dressed in all black.  “Guys, this is Fergus Crowley, from Death Siren Records.”

“Nice performance.  I like your look and your sound.  I love that you have a female drummer. That makes you unique.  I’d like to have a meeting with you and your manager next week if it’s convenient.  Here’s my card.  Call my office to set something up. I look forward to talking with you.” He handed his card to Meg before departing.

After he had left, Meg grabbed her beer bottle that she had stashed behind a piece of equipment.  She clinked her bottle with yours.  “I knew getting you in the band was our ticket to bigger and better things!  Now let’s go get drunk!”

The five of you stood outside the chrome and glass building that housed the L.A.offices of Death Siren Records.  It was just almost time for your meeting with Fergus Crowley.  

“Okay guys, this is it,” Meg said to the four of you. “This is our chance.  Let’s not blow it.  I have worked too damn hard to get you here.  Try not to be an asshole, Dean, okay?”  Dean just scowled at her.

Cas put his arms around Meg and rested his head on her shoulder.  She visibly relaxed.  “Everything will be fine, Babe.  We got this.” Cas said firmly before kissing the top of her head.

  You marveled at them.  How the prickly, mercurial Meg and the calm, zen Cas worked as a couple you just did not understand.  But they did.  They were one of the most solid couples you had ever seen.

“Are you ready for this?” You asked Sam.

“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.” He replied firmly.  Dean was standing apart from the group, and he looked really nervous. You walked over to him.

“I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up.  You are very talented.  Don’t ever doubt that.  Yeah, the girls are gonna die when they get a load of you, but you are way more than a pretty face.  Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

For once, he didn’t make a smart-ass remark.  He just smiled at you and said, “Thanks, Y/N.  I needed that.“

You tried not to fidget as you sat in Crowley’s office sipping Perrier waiting for him to arrive.  He was running late from a meeting.  You felt eyes on you and when you looked Sam was staring at you.  “What? Is my face dirty?”

“No! Nevermind.” He said quickly, looking away.

Finally, Crowley arrived. “Sorry I’m late, boys…..and girl.” He hastily added.  “So, I think you have just the sound we have been looking for.  We would like to sign you to a 2-record deal and get you into the studio to record a demo.  There is just one change I think needs to be made.”

“And that is?” Meg asked.

Crowley turned to Dean. “I think you should focus on being the lead singer only.  You are good at working the audience, especially the women, and with your looks, we need to play that up. Your guitar skills are good, but not great.  You need to hire a lead guitarist.” 

“I know someone.” You piped up.  “My cousin Gadreel is a great guitarist and is interested in joining the band.”

Dean shot you an annoyed look.  He was waiting for you to say, “I told you so.”

“I’m going to give you a week to get this Gadreel on board. I will book you some studio time for the end of next week if that works for you.” Crowley asked.

“I would like to have our lawyer look over the contract before we sign,” Meg stated regally.

“Of course,” Crowley said smoothly. “I’ll have my assistant give you a copy.  I look forward to hearing from you.”  And he stood up, indicating the meeting was over.  You shook hands with him and left.

As we made the long drive back to Standford in Dean’s Impala, everyone chatted excitedly. Since Sam was pre-law be began reviewing the contact in the car.  Meg’s mother Lilith was a lawyer, and she was going to look over the contact and see if it was legit.

Cas was busy scribbling in the notebook he always carried around with him.  “What are you writing, Cas?” you asked curiously.

“Song lyrics.” He said absently, humming under his breath.

“Don’t bother talking to him, he’s in “The Zone.” Meg joked.  “He barely even knows we’re here.  You should text Gadreel.”

You pulled out your phone and sent off a text to your cousin.

Y/N: Hey Gad, it’s me

Gadreel: Hey Cos, what’s up?

Y/N: We are probably getting signed by Death Siren and need a lead guitarist.  You interested?

Gadreel: Hell yeah!

Y/N: Can you meet us tomorrow morning at 8 to jam?

Gadreel: Sure, where?

Y/N: 5115 North College Ave.

Gadreel: Cool, see you then!

You turned to Meg.  “Gad is in.  He’s coming tomorrow to practice with us.”

“Perfect.” She said happily. You looked up in the mirror and saw Dean scowling at you, his eyes stormy.  He was clearly pissed about something.

“Is there a problem?” You asked.

“I’m not sold on this idea.” He muttered.

“But you heard what Crowley said!” You responded, annoyed.

It was late when we got back to Stanford.  Meg wanted to drop the contract off at her parent’s so she headed out with Cas in tow.  Sam was still trying to keep up with his classes and he had a test to study for so he left soon after.  You decided to get in some practice time since you had too much nervous energy from the long car ride.

After you had let loose on the drums for a good fifteen minutes you looked up.  Dean was leaning against the doorway, long legs crossed, watching you play.  He clapped a few times and you ripped your headphones off.

“Your still here?” You said rudely.

“Watching you let loose on the drums is one of the hottest things I have ever seen in my life.” He said in a low voice, walking towards you.

“Look, Dean, I know you’re mad about Gadreel….” you began.

He was standing in front of you now, his green eyes burning into yours.  “Oh, I’m not mad. I want to do what’s best for the band.  I’m just frustrated.”

You cocked your head to one side.  “About?”

His hand reached out and caressed your face, tilting your chin up.  Your wide eyes met his, and you were almost hypnotized by the brilliant green.   “About how much you piss me off, and yet I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

“Dean….I…..” You started to say.

“Do you ever shut up?” He asked before pressing his lips against yours

@skybinx-blog @percywinchester27 @a-sea-of-fandoms @dorky-and-i-know-it @pinknerdpanda  @atc74 @jayankles  @notnaturalanahi @midnightjazzmine @moonlitskinwalker @we-are-band-sexuals @winchestergirl-love @gecko9596 @ronnie248-blog @essie1876 @bohowitch @just-another-busy-fangirl @jotink78 @captainradicalpassion @keelzy2 @disneymarina @kittenofdoomage @mrswhozeewhatsis @oriona75 @frankiea1998 @akshi8278 @stylinson531 @valynsia @dr-dean @theoutlinez  @imweirdandobsessed @growningupgeek    @luciisthebest  @laurenisnot @maddieburcham1  @canadianjelly @muliermalefici @brewsthespirit-blog @ilsawasanacrobat @nanie5 @weasleywinchester-blog @samisimportant @fatalcrossbow  @violetsamalamb @letmusicguideu @grantsgorgeousgirl @faegal04 @feelmyroarrrr @kay18115 @milkymilky-cocopuff @mikimausiii @the-greatest-temptation @mrsbatesmotel53 @winchesterxtwo @superpanicromancesummer

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 6

summary: It wasn’t an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister’s college graduation. That’s it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale ship: betty x jughead words: 25k chapters: 6/?

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

Well, I've been afraid of changing 'Cause I've built my life around you

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“Knock, knock,” comes a familiar voice, quickly followed by Veronica’s dark head peeking around her bedroom door.

“Hi, V, come on in,” Betty says distractedly, standing back to get a better look at the organized piles on her bed. “Where’s Kevin?”

“Downstairs, being interrogated-slash-interviewed by your mother. She says she wants to do an article on the pageantry of parade floats.” Veronica takes a seat by Betty’s pillow, crossing her legs as she presses one hand into the soft florals of the bed sheets. She’s wearing a short black sundress and her sunglasses are perched on the top of her head. She glances around. “Are we going somewhere tropical?”

Betty looks up. “What? No. I’m just making sure I have everything.”

“There’s like two weeks worth of sun products here, B,” Veronica replies, her lips curling upwards. “We’re going to Sweetwater, not Waikiki; you don’t need four towels and SPF three-thousand.”

“I’m just going through my options,” Betty insists. “Besides, Polly texted me this morning and said she and the kids are going down to the river today too, since it’s so nice out. They need high SPF; they’re so fair.”

“Let Polly bring her own kids’ sunscreen.” Her look is pointed.

“I’m sure she is. I thought I’d have it just in case,” Betty says, throwing the jumbo bottle into a bag anyway. Veronica throws a hand into the air, but doesn’t say anything else. “Anyway, what suit should I wear? I’m sure you have an opinion.”

“Mais oui,” Veronica preens, standing up and coming around to the selection of suits laid out on the bed. She immediately reaches for the stringiest bikini available and dangles it in Betty’s face; a tiny pink thing that Betty hardly ever wears and, right now, wonders why she even still has it.

Betty grabs it out of Veronica’s hands and puts it back on the bed. “Not that one.”

“I thought you might say that,” Veronica grins, something glittering in her eyes. “You’d look so Bikini Kill in it, but I get it. It’s a lot for just Sweetwater. Okay, what about this one? One-pieces are very in right now. I’m wearing one too. Granted, mine has quite a few more cut-outs in it.”

Veronica has selected a simple white one-piece with a low back and high hips, and Betty smiles and takes it, going behind her closet door to change.

As she’s pulling her cutoffs on over the suit, she hears Kevin enter the room and immediately exclaim, “Oh my god, am I going off to war?”

“You two are so dramatic,” Betty huffs, slipping an open pink button up over her arms and coming around the door. “I just wanted to have enough food and sun protection for everyone. You’ll be thanking me when you’re hungry and want one of the sandwiches I made.”

Kevin and Veronica exchange looks. “True,” he admits, shrugging. “Alright, I’m loading up the car. Gimme something to carry.”

Throwing the rest of the snacks into one of her large canvas bags, Betty passes it and the cooler to Kevin, who accepts them with a theatrical grunt and a poorly repressed eye roll.

“I’ll take this one,” Veronica offers, grabbing the second beach bag, and then they’re both gone.

Betty moves in front of her little vanity mirror, staring at herself. She hasn’t quite gotten past catching her reflection in the mirror of her childhood bedroom; amongst the pink flowers on the wall and the old photographs, it feels like a looking glass into time, like she’s sixteen again and questioning everything, especially her own appearance.

But looking at herself now, she actually likes this look—pale pink, light washed denim blue, and crisp white have always been her colors. She reties her ponytail and tugs it through the back strap of her ratty old blue baseball cap, hoists the last bag over her shoulder, as well as her purse, and slips onto her Keds.

When she gets downstairs, her mother is typing away by an open window, a glass of fresh lemonade beside her. “I’m going now, Mom,” she says, and it’s a moment before her mother looks up.

“Have everything?” She asks, folding her hands together. Betty nods. “Sun-block?” Betty nods again, and Alice Cooper returns her gaze to her computer. “Then have a nice day. By the way, the fridge looked a little empty yesterday. Pick up some fruit and milk on your way back, would you?”

“Sure,” Betty says easily, waving goodbye. Kevin and Veronica are waiting for her outside, leaning against her big blue car and gossiping away. They fall suspiciously silent as they spot her, but move aside for her to throw the bag through the open window. Veronica slides into the passenger seat and Kevin climbs into the back, and then they’re off.

“So how was your date last night? I was very patiently waiting to ask until Betty was here so you wouldn’t have to tell the story twice,” Kevin says, leaning forward and resting his chin on the back of Veronica’s seat.

She twists excitedly. “It was quite nice, for a first date,” she says demurely. “We went to that French place in New Paltz you like, Kevin.”

“What does Archie do?” Betty asks, eyes on the road, realizing that if he’s sticking around with Jughead, he must also have some kind of freelance job.

Veronica laughs. “I can’t believe I didn’t open with that. He actually writes commercial jingles. Do you remember that one about the singing vacuum cleaner?”

Kevin and Betty simultaneously burst into the same hypnotically insipid tune, and Veronica giggles again. “Yes, that one. The twins were so obsessed with that commercial. Cheryl took the televisions out of their rooms because they were constantly singing it.”

“How could I forget?” Betty half-gripes. “That sounds like a fun job, though.”

“He says it’s just to pay his bills, and he wants to really be a singer-songwriter,” Veronica adds, with a slight sigh. “Which is cute.”

“Or potentially annoying, if he’s not any good,” Kevin quips.

Veronica waves a hand and her bracelets tinkle slightly. “I don’t think I’ll know him long enough to get annoyed. We’re just having fun. He’s leaving in, what, less than three weeks? How long do you think it’ll take you to fix that truck, Betty?”

“About that,” she says, sighing.

“So, have you slept with him yet?” Kevin asks, a smidge too excitedly.

“I have my rules, Kevin Keller,” Veronica replies with faux-offense. “I’m not quite as prone to playing with my food as I used to be, but I still like to wait a little bit. Probably date two.”

“You’re seeing him again, then? Besides today, obviously.”

Veronica nods. “Tomorrow night. I suppose this could count as a second date, but considering you two sprung his inclusion in our afternoon plans on me, I’m not partial to anything that wasn’t my own idea.”

“Well, it was Jughead’s idea,” Betty says, “and we did check with you.”

She notices Kevin and Veronica exchanging looks again. “Yeah, though we couldn’t exactly say no, with him making such big puppy eyes over at Betty,” Kevin says, after a moment. Betty exhales loudly. “I’m sorry, I know I said I wouldn’t meddle, but—”

“Then don’t,” Betty interrupts. Veronica opens her mouth, but Betty is faster. “Either of you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you two whispering already. Please, guys. I’m not going to be able to unwind at all today if I feel like I need to babysit your twitter feeds. And you both have been on my case about relaxation, so you don’t get it both ways. Pick one and stick to it.”

They stare at one another, then at Betty. “Very well,” Veronica pouts, shifting in her seat so that she faces the road again.

Betty reaches forward and turns on the radio, and the sweet crooning of doo-wop filters through the speakers. She’s always liked the genre; it has the chronic romanticism that can span to relevance of any part of her life, but it’s also as soothing as it is saddening. Like catching the eye of her reflection across the crowded room of her heart and not being able to close the distance.

She slips her hand out the window, undulating it against the wind, and lets her mind clear.

They reach their destination not much later, and it’s still early enough for the parking lot not to be madness. Sweetwater River is an inlet of the larger Hudson River, with a small stretch of patchy water mostly used by kayakers and other boaters, but largely a leisurely stream of floating inner tubes, frolicking families, and warm, coarse sand.

It takes a moment to gather all the things Betty has packed, plus the collapsible and utterly gigantic beach umbrella Veronica insisted on and secretly stashed in the trunk (“I never want to hear another word about my packed lunches, Ronnie.”), but eventually they heave everything out of the car and find an unoccupied patch of beach to drop anchor.

Betty texts Jughead instructions for their location, having gotten his cell number last night, and he replies with a thumbs up emoji, promising Archie is a slow-mover but they’re on their way.

She puts her phone on her towel, while Kevin sheds down to his swim trunks and pulls on an open, cuffed button up and Veronica starts lathering herself with tanning oil. Betty kicks off her sneakers and tucks her knees under her chin, peeking up at the sky from under the brim of her baseball cap.

She watches the trees rustle with an unseen breeze.

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She’s still sitting there, staring at nothing, when she hears a voice over her shoulder. “Hey there, Gilligan,” Jughead says, plopping into the sand beside her.

He’s dressed the same as usual, with dark pants and drooping suspenders, but this time he’s rolled his jeans up to the ankle and is only wearing a white undershirt. He’s still donning the beanie and he’s barefoot.

“You found us,” Betty greets, momentarily distracted by the surprising amount of definition in his arms.

“Wasn’t hard,” he scoffs. “Could spot that thing a mile away.”

They both turn and look at the big beach umbrella behind them. Archie and Kevin are making introductions under it and Veronica looks pleased to see him. Betty gives Jughead another once over, feeling a bit disappointed as a thought occurs to her. “You’re not dressed to swim.”

He rubs behind his neck in what she’s learning is a tell-tale nervous tick. “I’m not much of a swimmer, honestly. I’ve got a pair of trunks in Archie’s backpack, but…mostly I planned to read or write, if I’m lucky.” He pulls a dog-eared paperback and a moleskin journal from his back pockets and gives them a little shake.

She stretches her arms over her bare, tanned legs, sizing him up. “Have you ever swum in a river? It’s not like the ocean. The water is cool and calm and you just float along.”

“I can’t say that I have. Sounds almost nice,” he admits.

“It is. There’s nothing like it. It’s…well, I’m not the writer here, so I’m not quite sure how to describe it. But, peaceful.”

“Well, you make a hard case to argue, Betty Cooper.” She pretends to look offended, and he grins. “I’ve got an image as an aloof miscreant to uphold, but I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll want to once you realize how hot it’s supposed to be today.” She says it lightly, but Jughead’s eyes are lingering on her legs and she feels the heat of the day already. She quickly pulls the cooler over to them. “I brought drinks and water and snacks, also. And sandwiches for lunch.”

“And dinner, and desert, and The Last Supper, by the looks of it,” Jughead says admirably, peering into the snack bag next to it.

“Everyone always makes fun of me, but they all manage to eat whatever I bring anyway,” Betty huffs, halfway between a laugh and indignancy.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Jughead replies seriously. “I think it…I’m basically always hungry. So between my Homo neanderthalensis companion and me, you definitely don’t have to worry about the food getting eaten. On my honor, I swear to thee,” he adds wryly.

“Big words from a guy wearing a wool hat at the beach,” Betty jests, and he snorts, his fingers tracing the edge of his beanie. She reaches over and picks at one of his loose suspenders. “Like, did you confuse Hawaii 5-0 as Hawaii 50 and think it was about old men at the beach?”

“Ouch,” he whistles. “You know, I like my suspenders.”

She does too, but she won’t give him the satisfaction, so she just shrugs coyly.

He shakes his head at her, giving a good show of looking affronted. “So I take it my sacred vessel is in the hands of Joaquin today?”

“Yes, even though I told him I wanted him here,” Kevin says tersely from behind them.

“He wanted the hours, Kev, don’t blame me,” Betty replies, sweeping a look over at him. He’s stretched out on his stomach underneath Ronnie’s giant umbrella and looking downright petulant. He starts to reply, but something catches his eye beyond Betty’s shoulder and he seems to lose the train of thought.

“Oh my god, it’s Queen of the River Styx,” he drawls instead.

Veronica looks over, sighs, and then raises a hand in the air in greeting. “Hi Cheryl!” She calls across the water. Cheryl hesitates, then responds with a half-wave of her hand that is probably the same gesture she uses in a dismissal.

“God, she is so extra. I mean, I love it, but so extra,” Kevin mutters, and this time Betty actually agrees; Cheryl Blossom is floating downriver on a large, bright pink flamingo-shaped raft, wearing oversized sunglasses and a cherry red bikini.

It’s outdoing herself, even for Cheryl.

“I’m gonna go say hi,” Betty announces, mostly because she’s been aching to get into the water but didn’t want to rudely be the first one to leave the beach encampment without good reason.

She peels out of her cutoffs and shirt, tossing her hat onto the sand. Jughead is watching her, but when she catches his eye, he mutters a “have fun” and hastily turns his attention onto his book.

She dives into the water, enjoys a moment of the cool quiet beneath the surface, and then bobs upwards. She always loves that first meeting of the river and the sun. Betty starts swimming towards Cheryl’s raft, where the redhead in question is currently rubbing sunscreen into her pale, glossy skin.

“Hello there,” Cheryl says, not looking up. She deposits the tube of sunscreen into a cup-holder on the flamingo’s wing and trades it out for a bottle of water with a straw in it. She takes a sip, and then uses one finger to push her sunglasses up onto her forehead, finally glancing over.

“I didn’t know you’d be here today, Cheryl,” Betty says, treading water in front of the raft. She grabs hold of it, and it sweeps both of them slowly downriver.

“Came with the fam, don’t forget to come say hi,” she replies coolly. Betty and Cheryl’s dynamic had once been fraught with high school hierarchies, but years of therapy and mood-stabilizers have done wonders for their relationship. Betty is grateful for the shift, considering she’s now related by marriage to her and sees her quite a bit more than she ever expected, still after she and Veronica broke up.

Cheryl even once admitted that, since the split, Betty is the only other person besides her therapist that she talks to about her bipolar disorder—as Jason always tries to fix her and Polly couldn’t be trusted to keep it from him—and ever since then, the two women have grown closer. As close as one can get to Cheryl Blossom, that is; they still have plenty of off-days.

“So, who’s the tall drink of orange juice talking to my ex?” Cheryl asks, in an incredibly poor attempt at sounding casual. Across the water, though now farther away, it’s clear that Archie and Veronica are laid strewn on towels and talking closely.

“Cheryl, you can’t do this again,” Betty warns. “It’s been over a year.”

The redhead sighs heavily, palming her hands along the cool water as she adjusts against her raft. “Oh, spare me the lecture, Olivia Newton-John. I know. I’m not going to interfere, I just want to make sure he’s up to standard.”

“You both mutually agreed breaking up was the right thing to do,” Betty reminds her, because there’s something longing in Cheryl’s expression that worries her. “You know it was. The timing just wasn’t right.”

“Yes, but I always thought, after—well, it doesn’t matter. So who is he? She certainly has developed a type, at least.” She flips her long red hair over her shoulder.

Betty folds her arms on the edge of Cheryl’s pink flamingo raft. “His name is Archie. He and his friend were on a road trip, but their truck broke down in the parking lot of Pop’s. Veronica was covering one of her mom’s shifts, and, well.”

Cheryl sighs and flicks an invisible shred of dust off her bathing suit. “So he’s not sticking around long?”

“Should take me a few weeks to fix it all up, but no. They’ll be gone,” Betty says, digging her chin into her crossed arms.

“Veronica isn’t like us,” Cheryl says, after a long moment of inspecting Betty. Her voice is uncharacteristically tender. “She’s not as picky.”

“Are you serious? Veronica is the pickiest person I’ve ever met, Cheryl, you should know that better than anyone.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Cheryl sighs impatiently. “With shoes and jewelry and dresses, yes, she is, of course. But she gets back on the horse right away. She’s fearless. She sees something she wants, and she goes for it, because she knows she’ll always land on her feet. I always loved that about her. Me…I don’t do anything I can’t control, can’t predict. And neither do you, Betty dear. That’s where we’re alike.”

“I’m not like that,” Betty says quietly, knowing it’s a lie. She’s good Betty Cooper, she who does everything for everyone, but Cheryl has a point. The sun shines brightly on the water and her eyes find Jughead on the beach, his nose in a book.

“Please. Let’s not insult either of our intelligences,” Cheryl insists sharply. “You had a boy down on one knee for you and you practically ran away screaming. So riddle me this, Rapunzel: why wouldn’t you let down your hair for sweet Trevor Brown?”

But Betty can’t answer that. She still doesn’t know how to put it into words, still can’t even begin to form the thought without the feverish flutterings of a panic attack. She presses her lips together, and Cheryl just leans back against the flamingo’s neck, pushing her sunglasses back down over her nose.

“I thought so. I’m not paying my therapist all that money every week for nothing, Cleopatra of denial. Now, give me a nudge. I want to float away my troubles.”

Betty complies, giving the flamingo raft a shove downstream. Cheryl waves her away, tipping her chin up to the sun, and then the current sweeps her lightly down the river. Betty dips her head under water once more, and starts swimming in the opposite direction, her limbs feeling strong and toned as she heads upstream. She finds Polly, Jason, and the kids on a beach not far up, and cuts their way.

She tans herself on the private Blossom beach for a little while, trying very hard not to think about Cheryl’s words, and has a bit of light conversation with her sister and brother-in-law. It turns out that Polly has, indeed, brought her own high SPF sunscreen. The kids are busy with squirt guns, and she indulges them in a bit of warfare before reentering the river.

As she returns to the original stretch of sand, where Kevin is texting, Jughead is still reading, and Archie and Veronica are now splashing each other playfully in the water, Betty is bathed in sunshine and sparkling green water and feels simultaneously so at ease—and so alone.

She desperately wants to blame Cheryl Blossom for planting the seed, but truthfully, she’s lived with this thought for some time now. It’s duplicitous; swimming amongst the reeds and trees along the riverbanks is freeing, anonymous—but humbling, and isolating. She feels so small amongst the pines.

She kicks back towards the shore, past Archie and Veronica, and steps out of the water. Jughead’s head rises slowly from his book, and for a fleeting moment she wonders if he might be looking at her in a way that speaks to the heat in her own belly at the sight of his toned arms.

“Do you guys want to go swimming with me? The water’s really nice,” she asks, glancing between the two of them.

Kevin’s eyes don’t leave his phone. “Maybe in a bit,” he says vaguely, which is Kevin for there’s-something-much-more-interesting-happening-on-Instagram.

She turns to Jughead. “What about you?” His Adam’s apple bobs and he makes a noncommittal sound. She really doesn’t want to go back into the water alone, but she doesn’t want to stay here on the beach either. “Please, Juggie?”

The nickname just slips out, and she’s far too sure she doesn’t know him well enough for it, but it seems to do the trick; he scrunches up his face and then sighs, getting to his feet. He rustles around in a blue backpack near the cooler, says he’s going to go change behind the trees, and disappears.

Kevin finally glances up, but doesn’t say anything. While she waits, Betty decides her wet hair feels too tight on her head, so she pulls out her ponytail and shakes it free.

Jughead returns a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a black pair of trunks and his hat. His clothes are bunched up in his hands, and he dumps them by his book. And then, after a moment of deliberation, pushes the wool beanie off his head as well. It falls onto the sand beside the rest of his things with an unassuming plop.

He stares at it, and then looks over at her. “Okay,” he says, in an indecipherable voice.

She forces her brain to play catch up, because the sight of his bare chest momentarily caused her to forget herself. She swallows. He has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and once again, a surprising amount of lithe definition. Even Kevin is eying him with something like impressed approval.

“Right,” she says, turning on her heel and making her way back towards the river’s edge. She dives under the water and surfaces quickly, pushing her hair back over her head. “Come on!”

She swims out further, but Jughead’s toes line at the sand’s end. “You can swim, right?” Betty asks, because Jughead is behaving strangely enough for her question it.

“Yes, I can swim,” he says flatly, but he hasn’t moved. “How deep does this go? I mean, how deep is the river?”

She cocks her head at him, treading water. “In the middle it’s probably 15 feet, but we can stick to the shallows, if you want.”

In a moment of decision, Jughead splashes into the water and dips his head under. He pops up a second later, flipping his hair back with a force that sends droplets flying. “I’ve just got a thing about not being able to see the bottom or touch down,” he says quietly, swimming towards her. “I know it’s ripe for metaphorical investigation, but spare me.”

“We won’t go too far out,” Betty promises, and for a moment, they’re just treading water, staring at one another. Jughead allows himself to sink slightly so that just his nose and eyes are above the surface. She can’t read his expression, but she feels warm and is unsure what’s the sun and what are her own nerves.

“Well, I’m here,” Jughead says finally. “But I’m not sure I see my way through the hype. What am I supposed to be doing in order to access catharsis?”

She laughs, and shifts onto her back, limbs spread out around her as if she were making a snow angel. “You just float, Juggie. Let the water take you where you want.”

Betty kicks, frog-like, and swims in a circle around him. He watches for a moment with something like amusement, and then mimics her, allowing himself to float on his back.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “So this is nirvana.”

She laughs and splashes water at him. “Shut up.”

Ducking under the surface to avoid his retaliatory splash, she swims further out, though is sure to remain close enough to the shallows that he won’t get nervous. He follows, and they both consent to the current guiding them downstream.

Lazily, she cuts her arms over her head in a half-hearted backstroke, but mostly lets the river’s flow to do its ancient work. After what feels like an hour but is more likely ten minutes, she looks over, and Jughead is grinning at her, his normally downturned lips quirking upwards. 

She’s overcome with a simple thought: he’s hot. And then, slightly more poetically: she likes it when he wears handsomeness around the softness of his eyes. With a face that looks like it’s carried tension for years, relaxation looks especially good on him. 

“Well, alright. This is nice, Ophelia,” he says.

“Leave it to you to make a morbid reference on a beautiful day,” Betty sighs, closing her eyes to the sun.

“I mean it, though,” Jughead says, softer. “This is actually kind of…nice. You’re right, it’s not like the ocean.”

“You’ve been missing out, Jughead Jones,” she replies, eyes still shut, but waiting for him to crack a cynical joke or drop some obscenely large vocabulary, or any of his usual responses.

But he doesn’t say a word.

.

.

.

Finally feeling her fingers and toes beginning to prune, Betty accepts that it’s probably time to pull herself out of the water for a bit, though she has no desire to. She feels so at ease, half-swimming, half-floating in peace with just Jughead by her side, but his stomach gives a loud gurgle and she breaks the silence with a giggle. “Hungry?”

“Always—but, particularly now, yes,” Jughead replies honestly.

“Lets head back, then,” Betty says, performing a half-curl in the water, her legs momentarily the only thing above the surface. She submerges herself fully, allowing a respite of underwater tranquility, and then returns for air.

They both turn and swim up against the stream, and when they reach the shore, everyone has returned to their stations. Kevin’s hair looks wet, so Betty assumes he finally went into the water, and Archie is strumming an acoustic guitar while Veronica suns herself.

Archie looks up as they approach. “Were you swimming, Jug?”

“No, I tripped and fell in,” Jughead replies, pokerfaced. “Yeah, I went swimming.”

“It’s my fault,” Betty intercedes, dropping to her knees and digging around in the cooler for a chilled lemonade. “I practically begged him.”

Archie’s eyebrows briefly knot into a peculiar expression, but he doesn’t seem to dwell on it because Betty has procured sandwiches in each hand.

“Who wants lunch?” Betty asks, only to be met by an affirming chorus of yeses. “We’ve got turkey or chicken salad.” People announce their decisions and Betty starts dolling out the sandwiches.

“I take back anything I’ve ever said, ever,” Kevin says gratefully through a mouthful of chicken salad. “Thank you for thinking to bring food, Betty.” Everyone agrees, and she feels a flush of warm appreciation.

After everyone polishes off their lunch, Archie resumes care of his acoustic guitar and launches into a soft rendition of the Girl From North Country. Jughead mutters in her ear that it wasn’t until two years ago that singer-songwriter Archie Andrews even knew who Bob Dylan was, and she fails to suppress her giggles.

The sun is now high overhead, her skin feels kissed golden, and her eyes fall to his lips as they pull from her ear.

Kevin has placed Betty’s baseball cap over his face while he lies on his back, Veronica is curled towards Archie, watching him play, and Betty and Jughead both lean back on one elbow, the length of their bodies warmed to the sky and facing one another. She watches a stray droplet run down his jaw.

“Remember me to one who lives there,” Archie crones in a gentle, pleasing voice. “She once was a true love of mine.”

Betty tucks a damp, tousled strand of hair behind her ear. Jughead’s eyes follow the movement.

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[olivereliott]

Road Tested: Icon 1000 and Knox upgrade their bestsellers

This week, we’re looking at new and improved versions of two hugely popular pieces of gear: Icon 1000’s new Variant Pro helmet, and Knox’s updated Urbane Pro armored shirt. The originals are mainstays of many riders’ gear closets, but are the new versions better than before?

Let’s find out…

Icon 1000 Variant Pro helmet Icon 1000’s original Variant helmet took cues from the popular ‘adventure’ helmet style, and blended it with Icon’s own brand of hooliganism. And it ultimately became a hallmark piece for the Portland-based company.

So for its sequel, the Variant Pro, Icon 1000 have kept the basic recipe, but tweaked it. The general layout stays the same; a deep jaw area, wide eye port and MX-style peak. But the look is even more sculpted and aggressive than before.

It’s easily the most menacing helmet on my shelf, especially since I picked the black ‘Rubatone’ colorway—Icon’s proprietary matte finish that feels almost rubbery to the touch. The vibe is extremely covert, especially when paired with a dark smoke visor.

You can also get the Variant Pro in a black and white ‘Construct’ finish—a design that shows off the weave of the underlying materials. And if you dig into Icon’s broader catalogue (the ‘1000’ range has a very specific aesthetic), there are some wild liveries on offer too.

The shell itself made from a mix of fiberglass, Dyneema and carbon fiber, with an EPS foam liner inside. The result is a respectable weight of 1700 grams for my XL-sized unit.

Icon’s design department clearly went all-out on the Variant Pro. The chunky mouthpiece and sharp peak look well thought-out, and round the back of the helmet there’s a slightly raised cutaway at the neck, filled in by a hard plastic section that doesn’t seem to serve any other purpose than to look cool. Ditto for the two sharp cutouts on either side of the helmet. They seem like frivolous additions, but view the helmet from various angles, and you’ll notice how the various contours and details complement each other.

The helmet’s cinched down by a tried-and-true D-ring system, but even this has some slick details on it. The D-rings have been anodized red, and the press stud for stowing the excess strap length has Icon’s logo embossed on it.

My first experience with the Variant Pro, was to swap out the stock clear visor for a tinted one that Icon had sent me. It’s a really simple process: release the peak via a button on top of the helmet, rotate it forward, and pull the sides to free it from its mounting points. Then you can access the visor, which is equally easy to remove. The only trick is getting the angles just right, and knowing how much force to apply.

The process does reveal one caveat of the Variant Pro: unlike most adventure-type helmets, you can’t run it without the peak or visor, or with goggles.

Popping the Variant Pro on, it was super comfortable from the word go. Icon run three different shells throughout their size range, with an intermediate oval shape that suits my head well. (Their size chart is dependable too, so I was able to order my helmet blind.)

Icon use their own HydraDry liner inside the Variant Pro—which is both moisture wicking and super plush to the touch. There were no hot spots on my helmet and no need to break it in, and even though I’ve worn it on some hot days, it still smells factory fresh inside. The liner’s also removable, and there are even cutouts in the EPS section to mount Bluetooth comms speakers in.

Ventilation on the Variant Pro is pretty sweet too. You get three vents across the top that, even though they sit under the peak, are easy enough to open and close. And there’s a vent at the mouthpiece too—but its mechanism is a little less logical. To open and close it you need to reach into the jaw to slide it up or down. Personally, I think Icon missed an opportunity to give the Variant Pro a massive, externally operable vent on the mouthpiece. And the internal slider also means that the helmet’s chin curtain is curved up inside to make space for it. It’s not bad… it’s just weird.

Still, the ventilation system works well enough, aided by a couple of exhaust vents around the back. And the Variant Pro’s visor is fog-free as well.

Visibility is good too, thanks to a nice wide eye-port. You’d think that the visor’s bulbous design would create some optic distortion, but it doesn’t. And it has a real positive feel when opening and closing it, clicking into place solidly without the need for any sort of fixture.

Adding a peak to a helmet primarily designed for street use always raises questions about aerodynamics and lift, but Icon have done well here. If you grab the Variant Pro’s peak with your hand and shake it, there is a little bit of a jiggle—but while riding, there are enough air channels directing flow that there’s no vibration or lift.

Like any helmet with a peak, it works best in clean air (on a naked bike) or with a really generous fairing. If you’re riding something with a short screen up front that pushes air straight to your brow, you’ll feel it. And while the Variant Pro is a lot quieter than old-school dirt bike helmets like the Shoei EX-Zero or Bell Moto 3, there’s a bit more wind noise than you’d get from racier street bike helmets.

There’s really not much else to nitpick here. Summed up; the Variant Pro looks radical, works well and is one of the most comfortable helmets I’ve owned.

Price: USD 350 (Rubatone), USD 375 (Construct black or white) | Safety: DOT and ECE certified | Buy

Knox Urbane Pro armored shirt The British company Knox makes some of the best protective gear in the industry. Their armored shirts offer two big advantages over regular motorcycle jackets: the armor covers more surface area, and the skin-tight fit keeps it exactly where it needs to be in a crash.

Knox have traditionally designed these to be worn under an abrasion-resistant outer layer—but their new Urbane Pro shirt adds an extra twist. By using the right materials, they’ve managed to land it CE approval for not only impact, but abrasion resistance too. So it’s fully protective on its own, with no need to layer up.

Knox have also outfitted the Urbane Pro with their proprietary Micro-Lock armor, with CE Level 1 elbow and shoulder protectors, and a CE Level 2 back protector. It’s pretty malleable stuff that hardens on impact, so the shirt doesn’t feel overtly bulky. (There’s also the option of adding a chest pad, that attaches to a velcro strip just inside the jacket.)

The chassis is a combination of tough stretch nylon and ‘arrowmesh’ panels, with additional stretch mesh panels in between. So it’s designed to be form-fitting, but also flexible—and it lets all of the air through too, making it ideal for summer.

As for sizing, Knox’s guide is in the ballpark, but if you’re at the upper end of any particular size range, consider sizing up. I speak from experience; I’m on the cusp of two sizes and would have been happier one size bigger. But since the Urbane Pro is stretchy in multiple places, it’s not the biggest of deals—I can still squeeze into it, and it’s breaking in more with each ride.

(As an aside, our friends at Urban Rider have a habit of writing their own size guides, and their Urbane Pro one is right on the money.)

On the bike, the Urbane Pro feels snug, but not bulky. It is a different vibe from wearing a bigger, more traditional moto jacket though. Sliding into it sometimes involves quickly adjusting the shoulders and elbows to sit just right, and yanking your arms out the sleeves again takes a minute. But Knox have nailed the Micro-Lock armor design, and despite the size of the protectors, they’re not the least bit cumbersome.

Elasticated thumb loops at the cuffs keep the sleeves from riding up too; handy when slipping an extra layer over, or in a crash where there’s a risk of the sleeve (and therefore armor) moving.

The Urbane Pro also has belt loops on the inside bottom edge to cinch them down to your pants, but the system is far too fussy to be practical. You need to weave your belt alternately between your pants’ belt loops and the shirt’s, which is neither a quick nor easy process. A simple elastic loop with a press stud would have done the trick with less hassle. On the up side, Knox have cut the shirt longer in the back, so there’s enough coverage anyway.

Since the Urbane Pro is designed as a standalone garment, Knox have paid a little more attention to details than with past iterations. The YKK zippers have a really slick gunmetal finish, and there are small, tasteful Knox logos sprinkled throughout. You get two pockets too—a chest pocket that fits a smartphone (and nothing else), and a bigger stash pocket at the lower back.

I also own the Urbane Pro’s predecessor (the ‘Urbane’), and the Pro is a solid step forward. The details and heavier-duty fabrics are nice, but that built-in abrasion resistance is the real game changer.

Admittedly, with my, uhm, ‘fuller’ frame, I’m not ever going to wear something as form fitting as the Urbane Pro by itself. And for other riders, the mesh-with-armor look might not be their thing. But the real kicker is that if you do want to layer up, you can wear literally anything you want over it, whether it’s bike-specific or not.

Since the Urbane Pro has great airflow, on hotter days, I’m likely to throw a MX jersey or thin sweatshirt over it and stay cool. And when it gets colder, I can toss something thicker on. With the shirt itself being tough enough to protect me in a crash, my outer layer doesn’t need to be—and that makes it an extremely versatile piece of kit.

Colors: Black, black / denim, black / grey, black / grey / denim | Price: c.GBP 189.98 / USD 210.20 | Buy

Worn with the Knox Jacob base layer (GBP 54.99) Knox doesn’t just make armor—they make outer and inner layers too. So they sent me their Jacob base layer to try with the Urbane Pro. It’s a high-tech garment that uses a fabric called MerinoPerform Advantage. It’s a blend of ultra-soft Merino wool and synthetic fibers, designed to wick moisture and keep you cool on hot days, and warm on cool days.

And it works, too. The Urbane Pro’s tight chassis means that even though the mesh bits flow air, it can get sweaty under the non-mesh bits on really hot days. The Jacob base layer pulls that sweat away from your body, keeping you cool.

It has a really soft feel to it too, which makes it a comfortable way to layer up, and a neutral grey marl finish, which helps it look casual. And since it’s not a completely skin-tight fit, you don’t look like a track day bro when you strip down to it.

Images by Devin Paisley