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Bulletproof Vests and Silicon Chests	By : lambentrails Category: My Chemical Romance > General Views: 792 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of My Chemical Romance. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter 1
- 2-Chapter 2
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Bulletproof Vests and Silicon Chests

Chapter 1

    He buys me soy white chocolate raspberry pancakes and a cup of tea that tastes like honey and cinnamon. It started at the train station and I hadn’t had anything to eat, no matter because the fear of a prospective job living in, working around New Jersey at any amount or time was eating away at my stomach. He showed up with his hood covering most of his face; head down and as far as I could tell still asleep. I told him I was vegan and he shows little interest until we arrive at this place, barely opened in the shadiest part of town. We sit down at the booth right across from each other and that’s when he finally pushed back his hood and let his eyes meet mine. I catch a glimpse of that radiating hazel honey color and I gag, feel the hot sting of tea on the sinuses and lower my own gaze; my mouse-brown pupils feeling so purely mediocre in comparison.

    He tells me his name, Frank, but it rolls off his tongue different than mine. His tongue gives it arrogance; mine gives it plumbing equipment and a jumpsuit. He asks me about how I found myself there. Shoving my mouth full of pancake, I quirk a brow. “Eating pancakes with a stranger in Jersey?” He laughs a kind of boyish laugh that seems too infectious, too poisonous and deadly that it soaks into whatever it came, grabbing it so hard by the throat you can’t help but smile back a little. “The truth is …” I tell him, “My assfuck of a cousin, Joey? Well, his girlfriend apparently has some connection with a ghostlike girl you happen to be merrily fucking all the way down the aisle.” He saves his laughter, I save my sugar-coating. I pause, sip my tea and smirk. “His words, not mine.”

    In anyway, his gaze leaves my eyes, pauses somewhere around my chest and continues on towards his hand, resting on a still wrapped up fork, spoon, knife set and for a pure seconds sets his gaze on that silver band on his finger. He says nothing so I continue. “He said … you were in need of an assistant, a personal assistant and weren’t going to settle for some stranger in a neck-tie.” We finish our food in silence and he pays the check in cash with a suggestive little nod to our waiter. He asks my name on our way out, says he forgot to mention it as he leads me with his hand on my lower-back just above the curve of my ass and the pauses.

    Ariel, I tell him.

    The parking lot of this quaint little secret vegan place is empty, just a few other cars but he’s seems the nicest there. We light up cigarettes; he bums one off me with a smile, telling me he’s trying to quit as we balance on the hood of his car with him telling me how my name reminds him of Disney movies and ethnic whores on Coney Island. How once when he was fifteen, the summer after ninth, he was on vacation with his family on Coney and he was sitting on the beach watching the murky New York water drift by and whatever it may have been, got an erection with the sand and water clinging to his form as he laid out on a blanket in his swim trunks; a real bad one that made him anxious and shit. Figured harmlessly that he could stroke it away, cool it down before anyone showed up. A girl showed up, though, around his age, not like Venus or any sort of demi-God just a girl with a growing, but not yet ample chest with chestnut skin and a smashed in face. He tells me she watched him, watched him finish as he blushed so rampantly but even watched him as he left, leaving a little grove of sand and semen, making it’s on little entity there on his blanket.

    He tells me this, and he shrugs it off and how I’m wondering if he tells these secrets to all the girls through the skeins of cigarette smoke but I don’t voice it.

    I sit and look at him, my chest practically falling out of my shirt and I say, “You’ve got a real knack of keepin’ conversation.”

    “You’ve got a real knack for listenin’.”

    Stretching out my legs in front of me, smoothing my hands over my jeans I know I’m not exactly the punk rock princess he’s looking for; or the “Venus” he wants to emerge from the water of his deepest fetish but despite my favorite band being Beruit (and not his), the prospect of the job makes me smile because whatever sort of imperfection I find within myself can be summed up and made up for by his bone structure, striking eyes and dark intensity in the pauses in his words. Reaching out to tuck a strand of my black hair behind my ear, he only smiles when I reach out to tap my index finger on the top of his ring … and it’s all so fucking trivial. He drives me home and we listen to silence on the radio and every few moments I’ll let my eyes wander, hoping to catch a glimpse of his eyes; as thick as liquor. We pick up his fiancé and she sits in the back, behind his seat with a bag full of groceries and keeps playfully treading her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. I try to imagine her as the ghost Joey described; her plump little figure translucent and hardly there, try to bury myself in my own self-destruction and pretension. Take a leaf from Caesar’s book, and bury it in someone else’s back like a dagger.

    They drop me off at the train station and I still smell of cinnamon. “You got the job. Pack your bags.” He says out the window with some kind of adulterated smirk. Back in Brooklyn, I pack up a shitty little apartment as they go off, deep into their little pre-wedded bliss, going home to fuck or play cards.
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Bulletproof Vests and Silicon Chests