Trevor Fiction: Fluent (The Early Days)

Mitchell was supposed to be out of the room. He was supposed to be off doing interviews and making nice to the press. That meant Trevor had a private spot to bring this blonde back to. He was in a private sort of mood.

Or he thought he had a private spot until, blonde under one arm and hotel room key in the other hand, the noise of Mitchell’s thundering stopped them. From the sound of the big idiot, he had a full head of steam on. Hardly a time to bring a girl into the room.

The blonde shrank under Trevor’s arm. Not that Trevor blamed her; Mitchell had shifted shape into the dragon, and no one with sense wanted to be near him when he got like that. Not even Trevor.

“Did you fucking hear me?” Mitchell snarled at whoever he was talking to.

Trevor turned his blonde so she faced him. He kissed her forehead. “Go wait for me in the bar. I’ll detonate the asshole here.”

There was something almost relieved in her nod. Trevor told himself to take a better look at her so he’d recognize her again — soft nose, blue shirt, black heeled boots. Girls got pissy when you forgot who they were and wound up with someone else. You heard about it later on, and that was the sort of shit Trevor didn’t need. Ever.

Neither was this scene with Mitchell, but what the fuck. It wasn’t like he had much choice.

He dawdled, watching his blonde speedwalk toward the elevator. If Mitchell had permanently fucked this up for him, he thought, the asshole was going to spend an awful lot of time in the near future dealing with whatever had him so royally pissed.

He took a deep breath and pushed into the room. Acting casual and uncaring took some effort in the face of the tornado.

Mitchell was a tornado, all right. Pacing around the room, raking a hand through his hair, so red in the face, you’d think he was covered in the stripped-off paint from some barn.

“I don’t fucking care,” he snarled some more. “No more college twits.” He spoke each word slowly, precisely. His pissiness came off him in waves. They hit Trevor square in the face, making him want to blink it away.

“JR,” Mitchell said as Trevor flopped onto one of the two double beds in their shared hotel room, landing on his elbows and crossing his motorcycle boots at the ankle. It was his best approximation of Mitchell Cool.

Mitchell didn’t even fucking notice. “Stop fucking talking long enough to fucking listen to me, will you? I don’t give a shit how important promoting the band is. Answering questions about what sort of pasta I’d be, or what I’m fluent in, or any of that other wanna-be intellectual shit is not going to keep up. Got it?”

Trevor frowned and rolled onto his left elbow, freeing up his right hand so he could grab a cigarette. He didn’t blame the big idiot. Not this time, anyway.

What sort of pasta would he be? Oh, shit, that was a loaded question.

With another snarl and a growl that made the hair on the back of Trevor’s neck stand up, Mitchell slammed the phone down. “Fucking A!”

“I don’t think her name started with an A,” Trevor said as blandly as he could. “But,” he said and perched the cigarette on the corner of his lip, “I didn’t exactly get the time to find out, ifyouknowwhatImean.”

Mitchell stared at him, mouth slightly slack. After a long second, his lips started to work, but it was like all the sound had disappeared with the end of the phone call.

“So,” Trevor said, trying to stay cool even as he bunched up his muscles and got ready to dive for the floor, “what are you fluent in?”

“Rock and roll, fuckhead,” Mitchell said, slightly calmer somehow. The return of his voice must’ve brought some peace with it.

Trevor nodded, not sure if he was relieved Mitchell wasn’t getting violent on his ass. “Good answer.”

“I thought so.”

“I was going to be fluent in a blonde until I found your hairy ass here.”

“Oh,” Mitchell said and sat on the edge of the other bed as if his legs had just given out from under him. “Well, go get her, then. I’ve got to go deal with another fucking college kid. One question about pasta and I’m fucking history.”

“You’re not fluent in pasta?”

“No fucking way,” Mitchell said. He actually cracked a smile. “I’m fluent in rock and roll, remember?”

“There’s hope for you yet,” Trevor said and got off the bed, hoping he’d shortly be fluent in a blonde in a blue shirt.

Hmm. I think I’ll have to wait for Demo Tapes: Year 4 to make this really zing. As it is, today’s Monday and I wrote this for this week’s SUNDAY scribbling prompt. Guess that’s your incentive to keep supporting the Demo Tapes project, huh?