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Sorry for the lack of updates, kids! Been a busy time!! Hope you enjoy this!


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Alright, so where was I? That's right, I was leaving the bus. I'm not entirely sure as to why my brain had set itself in defence mode, but who could blame it? I know kids who would take an arm and leg off to cop a feel of Pete Wentz leg!

Thankfully, the roaring in my ears was the bus engine as I helped one of the crew heave something onto the bus before we left. I was grateful it wasn't the roar of "I wanna have your babies!" from fans.

Don't get me wrong, fans are cool. I'm a fan, myself. But I was once at a Panic! At The Disco concert, standing on one side of a fence waiting to get my shirt signed, and the moment Brendon stepped out into view, the girl next to me screamed, "SPIT IN MY MOUTH, BRENDON!" shortly followed by "FUCK ME SIDEWAYS, RYAN!"

Let's just say that I got my shirt signed, said a brief 'Heya, you rocked!' and left.

I felt a bit out of place on this bus. The boys were all now doing there thing, which included eating, playing Game Cube or just lazing about until our grog arrived. One of the black cars that trail behind the bus had gone to a liquor store. Booyah.

"So, how old are you Rach?" Pete asked casually.

If I were an aging woman, I would have been offended. "Twenty two", I said.

"Take a seat", he said in a warm voice, patting the space next to him. I reluctantly sat. Like I said, out of place!

"So, enjoying the tour?" He asked next. I couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable as his eyes stared intently at my face. In all honesty, how many boys do you know will stare 100% at your face in conversation?

I nodded, "Yeah, it's been fun. It's only been a few weeks, but it's alright being in a kind of...entourage, y'know?"

Pete huffed, "Man, it's fun. Just the people, the thrill, the girls."

I gave a small laugh, "Yes, the last one sounds about right."

Pete smiled, staring at me for a moment before saying, "I love the way Australian chicks talk. It's like, um, how do I explain," he chewed his lip, in thought, then continued, "you talk very laid back. But, you don't sound like..."

"A bogan?"

He rose an eye brow at me, "What's that?"

I felt like an ass when I did this, but I just had to. Putting on my most Australian voice possible, I began in a low, rusty voice, "G'day, mate! Hows'ya goin'? Bloody Oath, champ!"

Pete burst out into laughter. I couldn't help but smile, only to then start laughing also. Ok, so I made an ass out of myself. Whatever.

"That was awesome," he said while gasping for air, "but yeah, that's exactly what I had meant."

I shrugged, "We aren't as crazy sounding as people make us out to be."

I had a feeling that this topic would be reoccurring for how ever long my stay would be.

We chatted for a little while longer before the bus stopped for a few moments so the case of beer, three bottles of vodka and a case of Bacardi Breezers could be transferred from a car to us. It only took a few moments before I suddenly found myself in the back room, pulling on my PJ pants and walking back into the 'living room' of the bus, a drink in hand and a smile on my face.

"You got a four red hearts?" Patrick asked.

Andy gave a zealous, "NOPE! GO FISH!"

Patrick muttered something, pulling a card up and letting the game continue. I sat myself on the couch, my eyes wandering to the large TV screen. I'm not sure if it was me or the bus, but I was having a hard time focusing.

"How many have you had, Rach?" Pete asked as he sunk down next to me, a beer in his hand.

"Seven." Alright, so it wasn't the bus. But we can let me pretend, right?

Pete chuckled, "Wow, you're doing alright for a chick that's tiny!"

I gave a mock frown, "Tiny?"

He gave a snigger, "I didn't mean it in a bad way! You're like, a fairy!"

I frowned again, still giving him a stare as I took a swig of my red lollie water, "Whether I'm tiny or not, I think I hold my alcoholic well."

He was smiling as he said, "Alcohol."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said you hold your alcoholic well."

I stared at him then muttered, "Your face is an alcoholic well."

His mouth opened, a small gasp escaping in his shocked expression before it disappeared altogether and he resumed his attention back to the beer in his hand. I burst out laughing.

Now, the conversation is scattered from here onwards because I can't remember everything. The main thing I remember is playing Twister, throwing shoes at Pete and then when the other went to bed, leaving Pete and I to finish off the remaining bottle of vodka.

"Left foot red - no wait, left foot yellow, oh, wait...no, it's left foot red", Pete managed to say from his spot on the ground as I tried to manipulate my body into an elastic.

"Fucken hell," he murmured while watching my bed back into an arch, "where the bloody hell did you learn to do that?"

I tried to reach for my glass upside down, but it only resulted in my falling onto my back, letting out a pained moan, then dragging myself towards the glass. It sounds like I trekked 100km, but it was only half a meter away.

"D-dancing," I slurred before finally reaching the glass, "been dancing since I was five and I was -" I begin to scale my hand up and down, determining a height, until stopping at my actual height I am right now, "this tall."

Pete burst out into laughter. I was laughing too. After much discussion of how short I am, we decided that 5 ft 2 isn't that bad, since Shakira is 4 ft 11.

I win.

"You lose!" Pete shouted.

I drowned the rest of my drink, and very carefully placed it on a table. I checked twice, making sure that it was in the centre, so there would be no way I could knock it over.

"Lose what?" I asked, stumbling slightly whilst trying to make the short distance between me and the seating place next to Pete.

"Twister, Rach, Twister", Pete reminded in an almost parental tone.

I huffed, "That coming from the person who lost three minutes into the game who also collapsed on top of me and claimed that it wasn't his hand that touched me ass, it was my ass who got in the way of your hand!"

Pete stared at me, then said in a serious tone, "You. Lose."

At some point, an Ugg boot hit him in the face. I can't remember if it was me who threw it, or if it was Pete's face getting in the way of the Ugg boot. I chose the latter.

He howled, loudly, then stumbled, a drunken mess on the ground.

"Haha, I think I win, silly Peter Pan!" I then tried to do a victory jig, only to stumbled into the table and knocking the glass off and behind the couch.

Naw. All that effort for NOTHING!

Pete hadn't moved.

"Pete?" I asked in a small voice. You see, I'm one of those drunks who like to have a fun time, but I'm also a paranoid drunk. If you pretend to play dead, I'll probably nurse you to full health. While I'm still drunk.

I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling to his face down form. Screw walking. Less of a chance of hurting myself if I crawled. Rachel = smart.

His hood had fallen over his head, a cascade of red and pink that complimented his personality. The pink and red clashed deliciously with his blue flannels with robots on them. Nice.

I had placed myself onto my stomach now, laying in front of him, head to head, both of us now in a straight line.

"Pete?" I whispered. He slowly lifted his head, looking at me.

His eyes were glazed over, a slight sheen on his cheeks. A bit of eyeliner still clung to his lids.

"Are you ok?" I asked. He reached out, extending his hand and gently pushing my side fringe out of my eyes. It did nothing really, but fall back in place. I gave a small chuckle. Pete was staring at me contently, then he said,

"You have beautiful eyes."

A smile rose up on my lips and even though I had a yuck taste in my mouth, my head was floating from the large amount of alcohol I had consumed and Pete was struggling immensely to stay awake, I felt warm.

He crawled, dragged, himself towards me and to my right until we were laying on the ground, parallel to each other. He scooped me up into his arms and said, "I told you we'd get along just fine."

And just like that, THE Pete Wentz was 'spooning' me.

Corny much?

Nah.