Blondie Wannabe: A Billy Hargrove Fanfic

I Don't Want Revenge

Smut warning, ** these will be around it.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, pressing my thumb to the migraine forming above my brow.

"I'm here for you. Duh."

"How the fuck did you know I was even staying here?"

"Our only phone is in the kitchen, and Max's voice carries." 

His smirk made a ball of anger grow in my stomach, not just at him, but at myself. Why did I tell Sarah to send up anyone who came here for me? I should have anticipated someone other than Max figuring out my hideout. "Go home, Billy."

I attempted to slam the door in his face, but he stuck a boot out, the hard leather toe keeping it ajar. "I need to talk to you," he insisted, his hand gripping the edge of the door, shoving it fully open and stomping in.

"I'll scream," I warned him, backing up to keep space between us.

Billy grinned, a mischievous gleam in his icy blue eyes. "I bet you will scream, but not yet."

Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I wanted to punch myself in the face; how dare my body respond to such a cheap attempt at innuendo. "I'm not trying to be coy or cute or get you to chase me. This is never going to work- it was doomed to fail from the start- and you need to leave me alone."

He folded his arms, jaw locked so tight, I thought his teeth might shatter. Then he deflated, leaving against my dresser. "Okay, fine, but first, could you get me some ice?"

"What? Why?"

"Because of my dad. We got in a... disagreement." He lifted up the hem of his t-shirt, exposing a pinkish-red blotch covering the entire left side of his rib cage.

"Oh my god, oh my god." I reached out to touch him, and he winced, tears springing to his eyes. "Wait here, I'll be right back."

I sprinted out of the hotel room with my ice bucket in hand, nearly missing the machine in my rush. Sticking the lip under the dispenser, I leaned my hip into the button filling the bucket till it got heavy. But before I could return to my room, I sank to the floor, involuntary sobs ripping through my chest, the outline of Billy's massive bruise burned into my brain. I couldn't stop imagining him getting it, his father beating him, except it wasn't Neil Hargrove swinging a belt across his side, it was my dad. I touched the spot where Dad slapped me and flinched.

Finally, I rose unsteadily to my feet, carrying the cold, sweating bucket back to my hotel room where Billy was waiting for me, sitting on my bed, shirt removed. He probably wanted me to flush with embarrassment, but I barely blinked. Using his father's abuse to manipulate me was grotesque, even psychopathic, but it didn't mean I wouldn't take care of him.

"Lift your arm," I instructed, playing five ice cubes wrapped in a hand towel against his ribs.

"Ouch, that hurts."

"Yeah, I think they might be broken."

"No, they're not," he said, lowering his arm to keep the makeshift icepack securely positioned. "I've broken my ribs before; it doesn't feel like this."

"Maybe they're cracked."

Billy shrugged, lying back in bed, placing one hand over his sternum. "Do you have anything I can take?"

"Like Advil?"

"Or something stronger?" Sighing, I opened my purse, taking out my baggy of Percocets, handing him one. "Can I have another?" Rolling my eyes, I acquiesced, placing the pill in his palm. "Can I... have a third?"