Buttered Popcorn

Chapter 18.75: June 2, 1987

Jimmie looked into Steven's mesmerizing eyes and saw the childlike glisten of anticipation. She bit her tongue and took a deep breath before yet another knock sounded on the door. He looked at her with an expression she couldn't read as she huffed and made her way to the door.

Swinging it open, Slash leaned contently on the door frame with a lazy smirk. "Why are you here again?" With no response, she continued, "You need to fuck off right now, Saul." Jimmie ordered, glaring into the deep brown of his eyes while he dumbly stared back. He kept the drunken smile plastered across his stupid face while she waited for him to leave like he was told to.

"Go away," she warned gesturing down the hall to anywhere but her room. "I just wanna spend time with my buddies," he whined sarcastically, throwing himself onto Jimmie and nearly dragging her down entirely. "Get off of me you fucking moron." Her muffled grunts could be heard under Slash's shoulder, but his tanned arms remained slung onto her neck.

"Steven!"

Slash tumbled to the floor as Jimmie called for the drummer, his limp body slouching at her feet while he drunkenly continued to stare up at the girl. The blond took one look at his guitarist and sighed, "Dude, get outta here."

"You guys hate me."

Jimmie nudged his arm with her boot and rolled her eyes, "Stop being dramatic." Steven slipped out of the room to grab more assistance with escorting Slash from the room while Jimmie crouched down beside him. "Dude, you're totally blowing it."

"What-What're you talkin' about? I'm not blowing shit, man, I like girls."

"I mean you're blowing my chance to talk to Steven, idiot! You keep busting in here when I'm about to apologize!" she whined. "Woah. Jimmie... apologizing?! Who would've thought!"

Before she could snap back with a snarky comment, Duff and Steven found themselves at the doorway where Slash was. "What do we have here?" Duff slurred, poking at the guitarist's body yet again. "They won't hang out with me." Slash pouted, sprawling himself out further across the floor while Duff laughed.

"Come on, dude, let's go," He hauled up Slash's body and hooked the limp arm arm around his own neck, "Do you guys wanna come too? We're probably... gonna go drink.."

Jimmie slightly smiled at Duff's sheepish comment and shrugged, "Maybe we'll catch up." Thankfully, Duff took the hint and began assisting Slash down the hallway. As Jimmie turned back around and met Steven's eyes, they stared at each other for a short moment. She regretfully shrugged.

"It's getting late anyway."

He continued to stare after she finished her sentence as she avoided his gaze. A heavy pressure settled onto his chest as he realized that she really did mean it.

"Yeah. I'm gonna go down with Duff and them."

His mumble faded behind his lips while he sulked down the hallway in a rather dramatic manner. While she mindlessly rolled her eyes at his theatrical antics, she also found herself watching the subtle movements of his shoulder blades beneath his shirt as he swung his arms while he walked. She took mental note of the usual bounce in his step- or lack thereof. Eventually his silhouette disappeared behind the corner of the hotel hallway and she frowned in the doorway of her room.

Returning back to her bed with a frustrated sigh, her legs folded under herself while she stared blankly at the white sheets.

She didn't like white sheets.

A muffled buzz clouded in Jimmie's head while she allowed her feelings to boil within her.

She couldn't believe she had just brushed Steven off like she did. She wanted to talk to him. She needed to talk to him. She could've talked to him. Slash. If Slash just hadn't bursted into the room- twice- then she would've gotten around to saying sorry. It was Slash's fault, of course it was. Maybe she should've taken Duff's offer to go down to the bar with them. It was an easy enough escape, and much better than sitting miserably in her room. Goddamn it.

Jimmie's mood had grown very sour by the time she tucked herself into the sheets and sprawled herself carelessly across the bed. Her eyes were trained on the bright navy glow from the window and the sheets were just too thin for her taste and she hadn't even cared to take a shower and she hadn't eaten and her hair was knotted and—

Jimmie wanted to cry.

The aggravation toward herself had overpowered any self control she had and allowed the tears to spill. She just wanted to talk to Steven. Why couldn't she talk to Steven? This tour was supposed to be fun. Why wasn't this tour fun?

Streaks of salted teardrops glided across the apples of her cheeks and dripped from the curve of her jawline.

Jimmie hated crying.

Eventually, she grew tired of her own theatrics and tucked herself into bed yet again. She was much too tired to continue crying over something that was her fault, and accepted that nothing could be changed.

As she fell back into the plush bedding, the cool metal of the guitar pick strung around her neck settled onto her chest. Jimmie hadn't even so much as bothered to look at the necklace in a month... or so. She couldn't remember.

Her thumb familiarly found its way to the flat surface of it, lightly tracing the delicate engraving in the metal.

And again, another tear fell.

She just wanted to talk to Steven.