Like Loving the Dead - Peter Steele

If She Loved Me

Peter brought the lips of his wine bottle to his own and he tipped it back, getting the last drops of the dry liquid on his tongue before swallowing it down his throat as he stared at the words scrawled across the lined paper of one of the beat up notebooks he carried around with him in his luggage for whenever he got inspiration to write. Once the bottle was empty he tossed it aside as he licked his lips, ignoring the beat of music emitting from the club outside the bus as he reread the words carefully back to himself.

'If she loved me she'd be here right now.'

What next? More words...or a bassline? He could grab up Kenny's guitar or Josh's keyboard if it suited him. It was the very thin silver lining of being alone there on the bus...the freedom to create undisturbed after he got the initial rage out of him, his knuckles raw from punching a couple of dents in the side of the bus.

Fuck.

What next?

Peter frowned to himself as he brought his hand up to his face and scratched the stubble on his chin.

Nothing.

Peter sighed as he tossed the notebook down and stood, his tall frame wobbling beneath his feet before he leaned over the side of the sofa of the back lounge to fish out another bottle from his hoard back there. He frowned again as he pulled a bottle out. Only three remained after that one. That meant he had drunk how many bottles that night?

Peter shook his head. He didn't want to think about it as he sank back down to the sofa.

Corkscrew. Where the fuck was it?

Peter patted his lap down before his free hand that wasn't gripping the neck of his new bottle began sliding around, exploring the leathery seat of the sofa. Where the fuck was it? Had he dropped it?

He looked down and sure enough there it was in the middle of the mattress he had pulled out for himself to sleep on when he was one the road. He could barely fit in the bunks of the bus, and when he tried it always felt like he was sleeping in a coffin. So he would claim the back lounge for himself, sliding a mattress and its bedding right up against the sofa. Then he frowned when his eyes met the second mattress shoved up against his.

The one he had claimed for her.

So they could sleep as comfortably as possible next to each other while traveling. Usually spooning with his long arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close and knees bent as if she were sitting on his lap.

But other times they'd face each other, and that's how he liked it best. Their legs intertwined and his nose above the crown of her head inhaling the sweet scent of her ginger hair, leaving his lips in perfect position to kiss her porcelain cinnamon-freckled forehead in the morning between her side swept bangs.

"Lizzy, come back to me, baby," Peter murmured to himself as he swallowed thickly, and he remembered her words, telling him she was done and his heart split again like glass and he felt another piece of his soul slip through the crack. He inhaled a shaky breath and whispered, "Did it give you pleasure to steal my soul?"

'Hey, that's pretty good. Better write that one down,' Peter thought to himself with a frown as he scratched the words down onto the lined paper when he heard boots climbing the steps of the tour bus. His brows furrowed deeply as he seethed through his teeth. He dropped his pen before he gripped the corkscrew again and jammed it into the soft material of the cork and twisted it till it came out with a pop. He then heard a knock on the wall of the divider of the bus and his brow furrowed once again as he growled, "I said I don't want to be bothered."

Then he was overcome with a vision of her being on the other side of the divider. His angel just wanted his love and his protection, but more importantly...wanted to love and protect him. He grimaced to himself as he realized how harsh his words must have sounded as they slipped through his lips when the divider pulled open and he was met with the sight of Phil.