one.

Glass elevators. Trevor hated glass elevators. This one made him feel as if he were being lifted into the air by a giant skeletal hand--the floor was the palm and the frame of the glass panes made the fingers. The hotel was hollow like a rib cage with the rooms lined up along each rib. Creepy.

Jenifur had spent all day in the bus and would spend all day and all night tomorrow as well. He didn't know why they couldn't just fly from LA to Chicago to start the stupid tour, which would take six hours instead of six days or whatever it was, but the manager said it was a bonding experience. Naturally *he* was flying.

The big band interview yesterday had sucked. Becca and Christy kept going off on tangents, leaving Trevor to answer the actual questions. Mike was doing some kind of cooler-than-thou thing, speaking only in koans; it kind of spoiled the effect when he had to flounder to come up with one. Idiot. And Billy...

Billy was at the end of the hall poking at the wood-paneled soda machines. Trevor could see him right through the side of the stupid glass elevator, and whose idea was it to have a hollow hotel anyway? Jeez.

Trevor picked up his leopard-print backpack and double-checked the room number. 1414. Turn left at the big potted plant.

Trevor looked up as Billy strode past. He had his black cowboy hat and sunglasses on, even though it was well after sunset, and his duffel bag and guitar case slung over one shoulder. He didn't trust his favorite guitar to anyone else.

"Night Billy," Trevor called.

Billy looked up, startled; then raised a hand and gave a closed-mouth smile. He slipped the card in the lock and went inside.

Well, no words from Billy again today. Trevor was beginning to wonder what he had to do to get the guy to talk to him. Billy had been silent all through yesterday's interview apart from the questions directed specifically at him.

"How has the tour been, Billy?"

"How do you like the band, Billy?"

"Which one is your favorite guitar, Billy?"

"How do you feel about Hard Core Logo's breakup, Billy?"

The last question had socked Billy in the gut. Trevor wished he could have jumped in and answered that one too--he *liked* Billy, even if he was an asshole most of the time. He felt protective or something.

Billy had clammed up for a minute, his eyes darting around. Obviously trying to figure out what to say. Finally he said: "I'm sorry things had to end that way."

Fuck. Right? Fuck. Yeah.

Okay. 1414, that was--right next door to Billy. Trevor stuck the card thing in the lock and opened the door.

If he pressed his ear to the wall in his room, he still couldn't hear Billy and he felt like a pervert besides.

two.

Joe flopped down on the bed next to Billy, drumming his hands on the bed frenetically. Billy looked up from his book. "Are you high?"

"No." Joe turned on the TV and flipped through the channels at jet speed. Either he was hypnotized by the lights like a lizard, or he was trying to annoy Billy, or he was high and lying like a fool. Billy picked up Joe's cowboy hat and set it on his own head, low over his eyes to block out the flashing lights.

Joe looked over at him. "Bitch. Give me back my hat."

Billy turned the page pointedly. Joe leaned back and brought his hand up like he was going to smack Billy, and Billy closed his eyes, brought up both hands and clenched them into fists to play the time travel game.

Joe paused before playing. "Billy! Fuck! Where did you go?" He sat up and the bed creaked. "Billy? Billeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Billy opened his eyes to see Joe kneeling at the foot of the bed. He grinned.

"BILLY!" Joe opened his arms and flung himself upon Billy. "Give me my fucking hat back before you travel in the fifth dimension next time, you cock-smoking son of a bitch," Joe said into Billy's chest.

"Will do," Billy said, bringing his arms up around Joe. He felt like playing; why not? It was a good gig and he was in a good mood. Joe slid one arm underneath Billy to lean on his elbow, looking down at Billy with a little smirk. He used his free hand to pinch one of Billy's nipples through his shirt.

"Quit it."

Joe gave him an innocent, wide-eyed look. "What?"

Billy tugged on Joe's ear. Joe wrinkled his nose and turned over, planting himself half on Billy and half off, his head cradled in Billy's armpit and his leg flung over Billy's. He picked up the remote and started flashing through the channels again. His free hand stroked Billy's stomach and played with the waistband on his jeans. Joe was getting frisky.

Billy gave in. "Settle on a channel before I go blind." He brought his hand up and petted Joe's tangled mohawk. He rested his cheek against the soft stubble but didn't kiss it, not yet. Maybe later.

"They have CNN," Joe said. "Let's see if the Great Satan is bombing anyone today."

Billy pressed a finger into the divot on Joe's head under his mohawk. Joe grabbed Billy's hand. "Don't mess with my birth defects. That's not buddies."

Billy just grinned to himself and tongue-kissed the side of Joe's head. Fuck "later."

three.

Trevor was flipping though Spin. Not much else to do on the tour bus; it was late and they were on their way to the next gig. Becca was painting her nails purple, Mike was arguing with his girlfriend on the phone and Billy and Christy were watching one of the videos the record company had stocked the bus with. It was some kind of tribute to the Swans. There was a grunge band plodding through "Failure" at the moment.

Billy and Christy were as far away as they possibly could get from each other on the short couch, Christy with her legs curled under and Billy stretched out like a police barricade across the width of the bus. His fingers were tapping on his arm in that way that meant he was jonesing for a cigarette; they weren't allowed to smoke on the bus.

Mike closed the cell phone with a bang and threw it against the wall. "Becca, if you don't stop painting your nails I'm going to *die* from the smell," he shouted.

Becca cut her eyes at him and held up her hand, fingers spread. "You like this color, Billy?"

"Sure." His head didn't budge.

"Because I can do your nails too," she said, picking up his hand. Mike glared and picked up the cell phone. Trevor buried his head in the magazine.

"I don't really do makeup."

"Nail polish isn't makeup. It's style, baby."

"I don't need style."

"Everyone needs style."

"Tacky," Christy cut in. "You think that's a real skeleton?"

Trevor looked up. There was some kind of goth-punk band on the video now, all black hair and spiked wristbands, thrashing through "Celebrity Lifestyle" with a skeleton beside them. The singer was using it like a big hand puppet, making the skull clack along with the music.

"I think that's a real skeleton," Billy said. He stared at the screen, his hands pressed between his knees, actually seeming interested for once.

"It's got surgical pins in its legs," Becca said, peering at the screen. Christy and Billy stood up and even Mike gave up pouting to check it out. Trevor dropped his magazine and joined them.

"Creepy. Where do you think they got it? From a medical supply place or something?" Christy squinted at it.

"No." Billy rested a hand on the top of the TV, leaning in. "They dug it up from Mount Pleasant Cemetery in Edmonton."

"What?"

"Huh?"

"That's Joe Dick." Billy's face was strange and intense.

"How do you know?"

"Are you sure?"

"It's a fake!" Mike shouted and went to sulk at the driver.

"The pins in his leg," Billy said. "He got those when he crashed a motorcycle when he was nineteen. And the dent in his head that he got when he was born, from the forceps. That's why his hawk had to be so wide."

"You're that sure?"

"Yeah. I know him better than I know myself." Billy's voice was vacant. "Look, the holes in his head are big enough to put your finger in." He pointed at the screen; he stepped back and sat on the couch again.

"Fuck! Billy. Shouldn't we call the cops?" Christy looked at Trevor wide-eyed. Trevor shrugged.

"Why?" Billy's eyes didn't waver.

"Because it's a real skeleton? Because he's supposed to be buried? Because he's a fucking prop? This is creepy."

"What would Joe think?" Becca asked.

"He's dead. He doesn't get a vote."

"Come on, Billy, how would you feel if it were your corpse?" Christy sounded freaked.

"I'd hate it. But then, I wouldn't blow my stupid brains out on a sidewalk either, so nobody would *want* to steal my bones." The skeleton was doing some kind of stop-motion animation thing now. Trevor couldn't look. Billy couldn't look away.

"That's cold." Christy sat back on the couch, drawing her knees up and looking at Trevor.

Becca crossed her arms. "I don't know, this isn't like smoking a joint on Jim Morrison's grave or something. This is serious. And sick."

Trevor watched Becca watch Billy watching Joe. She looked worried and he wasn't even there any more. "Look," Billy said, "you can see where the coke rotted out his nose bones."

"Billy, you're weirding me," Becca said.

Billy didn't respond.

"Billy!"

"What?" He finally looked at her.

"Why aren't you doing anything about this?"

Billy shrugged. "He was a dick. He deserves it."

Becca shook her head and went to sit by Christy. Billy stretched out again, snagging the remote from the middle of the couch. "I don't miss him," Billy said calmly.

Becca started painting Christy's nails silver. Mike was still sulking up front. Trevor picked up his magazine but kept watching Billy over the top.

When the video ended, Billy rewound it and played it again.

four.

The TV was still playing, the sound muted. It looked like an infomercial.

Billy lay on his side on the other bed, wrapped tightly in the blanket, staring at Joe. He was still bleeding. He thought maybe he should get a cab and go to the emergency room. He wasn't sure.

Joe was snoring, since he had gone to bed drunk. The sheets were kicked off and Joe was sprawled naked across the entire bed. Naked except for his boots.

There was blood on his dick. Billy wondered if he'd notice in the morning. Billy wondered if he would *remember* in the morning. There was Vaseline or something still glistening too--he wasn't a total asshole, just 90% of one.

Billy couldn't close his eyes. He could barely blink.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he could have relaxed. Jesus Christ but he wished he had been drunk. He would have had a buffer and an excuse; he could have gone all pudding-soft and just let Joe do what he wanted. He could have told himself he'd done it drunk, instead of admitting he'd done it stone cold sober.

There was half a bottle of whiskey and two beer glasses still on the floor by their pants. Joe had brought him beer. What a sweetheart. He'd figured Joe had wanted another blow job or maybe a circle jerk, but no. No, no, no.

Not that he'd actually *said* no, but he'd meant it, right? Right? Wrong. Fuck, he hadn't even meant no. He would have said yes if Joe had asked. His head was saying yes and his body was saying no. Like a fight, right? His head said "cool!" and his body said "ow!" He figured it would just be like Joe hitting him. Fun in its own way. They had a lot of fun together, him and Joe. He loved the son of a bitch.

Billy blinked fast. His eyes were dry and gummy with smoke.

One beer. Billy thought about the whiskey. He could drink it now in readiness for the morning. If he were drunk it would take the edge off. Maybe if he were drunk he could walk. Maybe if he were drunk he could fight back and win.

Fuck. This was Joe's game. Fighting was Joe's game. Resisting was Billy's part, resisting until he finally gave in, and how fucking goddamn nice of Joe to show him what that was like on his body as well as in his head. It fucking *hurt* and he was *still bleeding.*

He had promised himself he wouldn't ever let anyone do that ever again. Never. He'd kept that promise for a long time, a good fifteen years. But what did promises mean when Joe Dick was around? Not a fucking thing. That was the problem with loving a son of a bitch to the core.

Billy couldn't close his eyes. He couldn't move.

A car honked outside and Billy looked at the window. Fuck. It was getting light. It would be morning soon. He didn't want it to be morning. He hadn't stopped bleeding yet.

He sat up very slowly, bones aching like an old man's, and picked up the whiskey. He turned up the volume on the TV just enough to keep himself company. He tried to figure out what to say to Joe when Joe woke up.

five.

Trevor rested his shoulder against the wall of the bus as he made his way back to the can half-asleep. It was probably 6 a.m., too early for rock stars needing their beauty sleep.

The TV was still on the Swans tribute, whispering the words to "she's alive!" as techno images flickered blue and grey over the dark bus.

He opened the door and blinked as smoke billowed out.

"Morning, Trevor," Billy said. He was sitting on the steel sink with a cigarette butt in one hand and half a bottle of whiskey propped on the counter between his knees. The smoke detector trailed wires down the wall. He still had the cowboy hat on.

"Hey." Trevor rubbed his eyes. "You mind if I...?"

"Piss away." Billy flicked his butt into the open toilet and reached for the pack again.

The bathroom was tiny, but there was just enough room for Trevor to slip in beside Billy. He rested his forehead against the cabinet and his hip against Billy's knees and tugged down his sweat pants. There were a dozen cigarette butts in the toilet, easy.

"I think I'd miss Becca if she were dead," Trevor said.

"It's just too cute of you to bring this up with your dick in your hand." Billy's voice was rough with smoke and liquor.

"Okay, never mind. Jesus." Trevor shook himself dry and pulled his pants back up. "We're just--"

"Don't be anything, kid."

There were only nine years between them, and Billy didn't usually show it. Now he was showing it. He looked like he was carved out of rock, some really crumbly rock with lots of fossils and gravel inside.

Billy's eyes bored into him. "What's your dick named?"

"What?"

"Everyone does it. What's yours named?"

"Nothing. It doesn't have a name." It was "the lizard king," actually.

"Joe's was named Billy." Billy smiled a tight, unhumorous smile. "And there was no way I could name mine anything but Joe, so I didn't name it at all. You get it?"

Trevor shook his head. He had a feeling he didn't really want to get it.

"Go back to bed, kiddo." Billy looked back down at his whiskey bottle.

Trevor wanted to say something else, but couldn't figure out what. "If you turn on the fan, you can probably vent out the bathroom before anyone else wakes up."

"Thanks." Billy took his hat off and set it beside him. He laid a cigarette in the brim.

When Trevor shut the door, he caught a brief glimpse of Billy shutting his eyes and drawing his hands up to his chest like a squirrel. Then he went to bed and didn't think about it any more.

end.