Ravaged and plundered and ripped him and bit him, Stuck him with knives in the side of the dawn

Your ballroom days are over.

Journal,

I woke up to the peculiar feeling of sweaty skin against skin. The left of my side of my face was temporarily pasted to my bicep. Where was I? Who was I with? What had I done last night? It was a sex addict's game of Clue.

I sat up slowly; a wave of nausea washing over me. My head was tense, my ears rang, and my eyes couldn't adjust to the sunlight. From what I could make out, I was in my dorm room. I looked at the empty space in the bed next to me. There was no way I had gotten this fucked up and sex hadn't resulted. So where was the mystery suitor?

"Looks like Sleeping Beauty has awoken," a thick British accent said behind me. I looked behind me and saw Peter Landen walk out in my bathroom, clad only in a towel.

"Fuck no," I groaned. I had tried so hard to get with him and I couldn't even remember it. The tragedy. The irony. The cosmic karma.

"Awwww," Peter cooed, his voice lacking the sympathy that his words portrayed. "Does the ittle bittle schoolboy have a headache from the Big Bad..."

"Heroin," I cut in. The last thing I could remember was heroin and a microphone, and something told me that Peter was responsible for all of this. "The Big Bad Heroin that you gave me." I grabbed my head and thanked god that I was alive for a brief second. "You really try hard to fit the whole "rock star" stereotype, don't you?" I remarked coldly.

Peter glared at me, his face telling me that I could go fuck myself. I let my anger drop without an argument.

"What happened last night?"

Peter pulled his shirt over his head and messed with his hair. "What's the last thing you remember?" he remarked inattentively.

"Not much," I shrugged.

"That's a shame," he smirked. He looked down at me, like he was trying to piece together the story in his head before he told me. "You're famous, kid."

I laid back down on my bed. I couldn't wait to hear the story behind this one.

"You managed to ride my opening act into a partly drug-induced coma, so you went on instead. You were abso-fucking-lutely stoned, but you were amazing. You took your shirt off and sang the Doors. Teenage girls eat that shit up. In fact, my manager called me and told me that the opening act last night had real "charisma and sex appeal." He doesn't just say that about everybody, either," Peter explained. I clenched my eyes shut and tried to associate what Peter was talking about to the few blurs of images I remembered.

"That sounds vaguely plausible," I sighed. "For me, anyways."

"Then we came back here and shagged," Peter added on.

I sat up and grinned at him. "I thought you said "No sloppy seconds"?"

Peter looked at me quizzically and shook his head. "You really don't remember anything about last night, do you?"

I nodded reluctantly. Peter sighed and sat down next to me on my mattress. He turned to face me, then looked up at the ceiling.

"What grade are you in?" he asked despondently.

"Two years from graduating," I replied. He held up his hand and tried to figure out what grade that made me be in. "Tenth," I added. Attractive people shouldn't think that hard.

"Holy s...mokes," he groaned.

"You can fuck me, but heaven forbid you say 'Shit'", I laughed nervously. Suddenly, I felt like... what I was. A kid.

Peter sighed and put his head in his hands. He stayed like this for a few moments, while I stared awkwardly at my feet. Finally, he looked up at me. His eyes looked genuinely concerned, though I couldn't quite figure out who he was concerned for. Me or himself. He leaned in closer and kissed me softly. I'm not used to this.

Seeing as I'm too emotionally fucked to handle tender kissing, I shoved him back on my bed and deepened the kiss. He worked his hands up under my shirt, which I slid off. I broke off the kiss so that I could work on my belt buckle. He laughed softly, until his laughing turned to a low moan. Perplexed, I looked down and realized that his phone was vibrating in his pants pocket.

"Sofia?" I asked, grabbing his cell from his pocket. "Who the fuck is Sofia?"

"Shit!", Peter exclaimed, snatching his cellphone away from me and shoving me off him. "Hello?" he said, flipping his cell open. "Hey love... I went for a walk through Liverpool... No, I don't know where I am currently... Yes, I remembered that you were coming up today... See you... Love you... Bye."

Peter snapped his cellphone closed and jumped up.

"Who's that?" I smirked.

"My fiance," he snapped. My mouth curled into an "O" and I contemplated what to say next.

"So... Does she know that you like guys?"

Peter glared at me and grabbed his coat off the floor. "I've got to go."

"Well..." I said, but Peter cut me off.

"Listen," he stated calmly. "This isn't a "thing". That's not how I operate. I'm not a repeat offender. We're not going to "meet up later." You cannot have my number. If I want to find you, which I doubt I ever will, I know where to."

With that, Peter Landen, Rock Star of the New Generation and Closet Case #200 in the Recurring Chronicles of Xavier Beckingham... departed unceremoniously.