Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

You May Drown	By : redqueeninwonderland Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Green Day Views: 2031 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Green Day. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Title: You May Drown
Rating: R
Disclaimer: If you think I own ‘em then you’re mad.
Notes: And to anyone who speaks either Romanian or Turkish, I apologize if I’ve mangled either language.
@-------------------@
The thing I hate most about these kinds of parties is that I have to wait forever to get started and then afterward I have to mingle. Not such a bad thing, really, accept it’s like showing up and finding out you were the only one who thought it was a costume party. If it weren’t my job it’d be embarrassing as fuck. As it was, it was just embarrassing.
The party in question was a launch for some band’s newest CD. Like I cared, really, I was getting paid at that was enough for me. Although, I have to be honest, it’s always funny to see a bunch of drunken celebrities’ react to a belly dancer. One of two things happen, they’re either totally cowed by the exotic, or they pretend they see this sort of thing all the time and treat me like a higher class stripper. The last time my agent convinced me to do this type of gig I actually had a guy try to shove a fifty down my top. I kid you not.
For discretionary purposes I can’t disclose his name.
But incase your wondering, those double piercings on his chin look really silly up close.
This party could have gone worse.
Could have gone better too.
I looked great, but then I always do. I danced my dances and saw a few familiar faces, so I used them instead of dancing on strangers. I got applauded. And nobody seriously messed with me while I was doing my thing. Big plusses when your in my line of work. It wasn’t until afterward that things got the slightest bit difficult.
I was being paid for the full night, so as I said before, I was expected to mingle afterward. The man who planned the party, some PR rep who’s name I’ve already forgotten, took it upon himself to introduce me around. Like it was his job or something, because obviously nobody would talk to me if he weren’t attached to my elbow. He didn’t even give me time to really fix my hair or anything before he was off, his voice low in my ear as he steered me around the room.
“We weren’t going to book this kind of entertainment really, Jeff was thinking something more… I mean less… well-“
“More high class than a dancing girl?” I supplied sweetly, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.
“No, I mean, belly dancing’s very in right now. But it’s not very punk and that’s this band. Or rather, they’re a punk band and he wanted something that fitted the theme, as it were.” He colored right up to the roots of his carrot top. I couldn’t help but grin at the poor kid.
“What exactly is the theme of this party, anyway, Steve?” From where I was sitting all I saw was a lot swaths of material in black, red, and silver. The place looked like Hot Topic threw up. I fit in because I danced to very progressive Turkish rock. You gotta hear Arabic rock sometime if you’ve never heard it, I worship anybody who can hook a buzuq to an amplifier.
“Arabian Nights,” he answered like it should be obvious. I nearly choked on my champagne. “Originally it was supposed to be something more hardcore, you see, but the lead singer’s just crazy about belly dancing, so Jeff thought it’d be a nice way to, you know-“
“Suck up?” I caught a picture of myself in one of the mirrors we passed, I looked good tonight. I’d decided to stick with dark colors and honestly I looked more Romanian than Arabian, but that was what I preferred anyway, I had a scarf tied around my hair (it was dyed back to my natural color-black) and the scarf was set over with a silver chain that held tiny, beaten coins.
The same coins and chains bordered the burgundy top I was wearing and a wide patch of tight leather that spanned my hips was studded with the same beaten silver. From the leather flared sooty black material that fell all the way down to my ankles and was spangled as well, it was a split skirt and I was wearing a solid colored burgundy one underneath as well as a silver cuff for both upper arms, rings on my fingers, a few toe rings, large hoops in my ears, and tiny belled anklets on both feet so I jingled when I walked. I’d lined my eyes with kohl instead of eyeliner, making them smokier than usual and much more catlike, and my lips were a matte, bloody red.
“Really, I wouldn’t say suck up, but here they are,” he spread his arm wide and I got to see how the party planners thought this was any way Arabian Nights. A dais had been set up with gaudy silver columns swathed in black and red, on the dais were a group of people all on large couches and ottomans and pillows. I arched an eyebrow. They all looked completely out of place in the tent and I wondered where they’d rather be. “Guys, this is Timah, the dancer, Timah, this is Green Day, that’s Tre, Mike, Billie Joe and Billie’s wife Adrienne- she’s not in the band and they’re uh,” he looked at two or three girls, “well uh, that’s Billie, Mike and Tre and Adrienne.”
I smiled, tossing my hair back in a practiced gesture and posing, poising my left foot so my hip cocked and arching my back the tiniest bit. The woman named Adrienne smiled, “Timah’s such a pretty name, sounds unusual, too.”
“Short for FaTimah, actually.” I sipped the champagne and grinned, showing dimple, “She was one of the four perfect women in the Koran.”
“Well you danced great, I wish I could move like that,” she was really pretty, this woman called Adrienne, I found I’d probably like her. She smacked the man introduced as Billie Joe’s knee, “Wasn’t she great, Billie?”
“Great,” he looked sullen, pouty, I wondered what his face looked like when I first stepped out on stage, “Fatimah, huh?”
“That’s my name,” I challenged, lifting a shoulder to show I could care less. Like I’d be surprised by running into him again. Like I didn’t do my research on who I’d be dancing for before a gig. Like it was only blind luck that I’d seen him heading toward a bathroom earlier and had gotten over the shock before I even had to enter this ballroom and I hadn’t had to sit down and breathe deep, even breaths through my nose like my yoga instructor taught me.
“It doesn’t really suit you.”
I laughed, “Oh really, and what name would you give me?”
His arms were crossed over his chest. His wife looked apologetic, “You’ll have to ignore Billie, his sense of humor’s a little-“
“Odd,” the one introduced as Tre lept from the dais, grabbing my hand and lifting it to his lips to flamboyantly kiss my knuckles in a smacking display of chivalry. I had to laugh. “Join us,” he nodded to one of the overlarge pillows and then back to me, his eyes smoldering and his voice going three octaves lower to smoky-seducer on the spot, “You can sit by me.”
“Thank you,” I looked deep into the man’s eyes and then laughed. It was hard to be intimidated or offended by that flirty manner. It was so over-the-top it was hard to take seriously. I think he liked it that way. I handed the now empty champagne flute to Steve the Party Babysitter and joined them, sitting back on the plush pillow and glancing again at Billie, daring him with my eyes to call me out.
His pout deepened but otherwise he was silent.
Adrienne rolled her eyes at her husband and then smiled at me, “How do you get your body to do that? I’d embarrass the hell outta myself.”
“It’s quite simple really, the movements are all natural. The only hard part is flexibility.”
“Can you bend over backwards and kiss the floor?” Tre waggled his eyebrows suggestively and I rolled my eyes.
“If I feel like it, sure, why not?”
“You don’t look particularly Arabic,” Billie’s voice cut through the easy banter like a knife. Sullen didn’t even begin to cover it. I looked up, the one named Mike was quiet, eyes flitting back and forth between me and the man to my right. I turned to look at him and lifted a shoulder, affecting an ironic look that I didn’t feel.
“My father was Romanian, my mother Turkish. I got my father’s complexion and my mother’s eyes,” I batted them at him playfully and his eyes narrowed.
“So you speak both languages then?” He leaned forward, I wondered what exactly he were trying to do. If this were malice pure and simple, or something else entirely.
“You mean Romanian? Ce s-a întâmplat a ta simţ umor?” What had happened to his sense of humor? Although the last time I’d seen him he didn’t particularly care for a joke at his expense either. I thought back to Adam’s and then wondered if maybe he thought I was trying to make a fool of him or something. “Or Turkish? Yap sen degil hatirla gÜlÜÞ?” Don’t you remember laughter, Billie? Or do you really think that I’m here just to get to you?
“I’m impressed,” a waiter happened by with a tray of finger foods and Tre lifted it, offering it to me. I waved him off.
“You try eating in an outfit that shows off this much sometime. It ain’t pretty.”
“Like you could be anything other than absolutely gorgeous?” Tre popped something in his mouth that looked like a miniature hamburger, completely with bun and condiments and I opened my mouth to respond.
“I dunno, Tre, I think she could get down and dirty if she wanted to, couldn’t you Fatimah?” The convivial conversational buzz in the little tent went dead like it’d been cut off with a switch. I closed my eyes briefly for a moment before opening them. Everybody else was staring in shock at Billie Joe. His wife was looking at him like she couldn’t believe something like that came out of his mouth—not surprise, mind you—just that she couldn’t believe he actually said it. I sighed, blinking once more, before staring him in the eye for one beat, then two. He was angry and I wasn’t sure I understood why.
“I should go mingle,” I rose in a fluid movement, ignoring the jangling of my costume. I was getting a headache, “It was nice meeting all of you, excuse me, please.”
My bare feet found the step to the floor and I fled, ignoring the voice of the Flirt trying to call me back. I shook my head, knifing through the other party guests and out onto the hotel’s balcony. My feet on the sandstone tiles were warm and I rested my hands on the stone railing, staring out at the ocean. I missed my New York apartment, but this view was spectacular. The moon shone full and bright, pregnant in the sky and the stars were out. I shook my head, cracking my knuckles once before turning to walk the length of the building. “Hello, Lady,” I murmured, blowing a kiss to the shining roundness of it before turning.
It wasn’t a balcony so much as a verandah that stretched the entire back half of the hotel and I was out there, standing in front of the ballroom for a good ten minutes before I walked the rest of the way, toward the darker side of the place where the light and the music couldn’t touch me. I was getting into a brooding mood and I wasn’t sure I liked it.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” He grabbed me from behind, I gasped, my heart skipping violently as he shoved me into the wall of the hotel. When I saw who it was I smacked him, hard.
“Jesus you scared me!”
“Answer the question.” Billie’s voice was thunder and it lanced through my head. I was seriously going to get a nasty headache because of all this.
“I’m Fatimah Preda, I was hired to dance at your party,” I spoke slowly, purposely drawing it out. Like you would to a child. I think I was trying to piss him off at that point.
“Who are you, really?”
“Fatimah Preda.”
“Don’t lie to me, who are you?” He spoke through clenched teeth.
“My name is Fatimah Illiana Preda.”
“You’re a liar, Scarlett.”
I arched an eyebrow, “Maybe Scarlett was the lie.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I leaned forward, so close I could smell the whiskey on his breath, “How well did you know her?” I cocked my head to the side, “What do you care, anyway? It was just a weekend, it’s not like it mattered.” I kept my face blank, a phenomenal weekend in which we didn’t leave my apartment and talked about everything from attraction to Xanax.
He pulled back, his eyes hooded. “You’re right, it was just a weekend, it meant nothing,” he bent his head, his lips so close they brushed mine, “So tell me, do you remember laughter?”
He pulled away, the space where he’d been suddenly cold. I broke into gooseflesh and shivered, Oh Billie, I thought, my mind racing back to that weekend and the barely little bit that I knew about him, It’d be a blessing if I never saw him again.
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

You May Drown