There are so many ways that the story could have begun. Her life had been constantly shifting, building up to something, ever since she first wandered onto a street corner alone at the age of twelve.

Still, when Bettie thought about it for long enough, she always found herself starting with the late summer evening that she first found herself on Cielo Drive.

She was tired, sweating under the T-shirt and shorts that she had put on after the show, sore from being pulled every-which-way on a leash for the better part of an hour.

Unfortunately, the air conditioning in the van was out again, and the guys didn't seem to be anywhere near as exhausted as she was.

They chattered excitedly, a jumbled combination of words she couldn't make sense of and derogatory nicknames, their constant disjointed noise contributing to her growing headache. Bettie sighed, leaning her forehead against the car door in hopes of finding the relief of cold glass. Alas, the window was fogged from the humidity, just as stifling hot as everything else around her.

At that point, all she wanted was to stop at a motel somewhere, - even if it was one of the shitty ones with creaking twin beds and linens that one would be rightfully hesitant to look at under a blacklight. The promise of a quick shower and some form of indoor cooling was all that she could hope for at that point, - and, if she was really lucky, maybe a little bit of quiet.

Of course, she figured fantasizing about that last part for too long would be wishful thinking.

"You should've bagged the girl at the front of the stage, Brian," Pogo said. "She obviously wanted it, - hell, you probably could have fucked her right on the stage. Wouldn't that have been something?"

Behind the wheel, Brian let out a snort. "Would have been too easy. Hey, - I thought girls on the West coast were supposed to be better looking?"

"I didn't get to see her," Freddy chimed in from the back row. "Was she really that bad?"

"She might've been just your type, Wheel," Brian replied. "But that really isn't saying much..."

"She was mean-mugging Bettie the whole show," Pogo cut back in. "A chick fight would've been a pretty good spectacle, too."

From the spot next to her, Bettie heard a chuckle. "Like Bettie wouldn't have immediately taken her out?"

She turned away from the fogged window,
only to meet Brad's gaze through the dark.

Seeming to take immediate note of her attention, he grinned at her.

Even without being able to see his face very well, Bettie felt that traitorous stirring beginning in her stomach, a feeling that she knew she ought to push down.

Brad was her best friend. He also happened to have recently become a liability.

She knew that he was skating on thin ice with the rest of the band at the moment. It was a wonder he had even made it across the county with them for these few gigs, especially considering the things she had heard Brian muttering in his absence in recent weeks.

"I am going to kill that fucker if he doesn't start showing up on time," he had said recently. "Actually kill him."

The look of genuine frustration on his face was almost enough to make Bettie believe him.

Still, he was beside her right now, and he had done his part at the past four or so gigs. As far as she knew, that meant he had come close enough to pulling his act together for Brian's liking.

Then again, Bettie and Brad didn't tell each other much those days.

Not as much as they used to, anyway.

Mercifully, Pogo's heckling broke her from these thoughts, allowing her to break the ongoing eye contact between the two of them.

"Bettie's a biter, - we all know that much." He giggled, - the creepy 'heh-heh' that, after three years, Bettie was still trying to determine the authenticity of. "But that girl could have sat on her and broken every bone in her body. Bettie and Brad have that 'heroin chic' thing going on right now, remember?"

He craned his neck, peering around the shotgun seat to give the two of them his usual deranged grin. A quick glance back at Brad's face as his own smile faded told Bettie everything she needed to know.

"Fuck off, Pogo," she said, her voice flat.

"Sensitive, are we? You're no fun sometimes, Bets." Pogo shifted his attention over towards Brad's right, where Scott sat with his earbuds in, seeming to focus on the scenery rushing by out the window.

Pogo leaned over and grabbed one of the earphones, causing Scott to startle.

"What're you doing, Stephen?" Scott asked.

"What the fuck are you listening to, Berkowitz?" Pogo replied, making a face as soon as he put one of the earbuds in. "It's sissy shit, for sure, but... God, what is she even saying? Eggs and bells and..."

"Cocteau Twins," Scott responded curtly. "Now give me my earphones back."

"Fine." Pogo tugged the earbud out, roughly tossing it back in Scott's direction. "Everyone's in such a mood tonight, Jesus Christ-"

Even though she knew it wasn't technically her battle to pick anymore, Bettie lifted her middle finger to him. Brad laughed halfheartedly as Scott turned back towards the window.

With everyone seeming to finally shut up for a moment, Bettie's eyes fell closed. Maybe she could get started on that sleeping thing before they even got back...

Suddenly, the van came to a halt.

Bettie's eyes shot open again.

"You've got to be kidding," she said. "Did this piece of shit seriously break down again?"

"No," Brian replied. "We're here."

Bettie squinted, leaning forward to look through the windshield. This place certainly didn't look like a motel, - in fact, if the lights illuminating the house told her anything about it, they had found themselves in some upscale gated community, which was clearly not a place that any of them belonged.

"Where are we, Brian?"

"A friend's place."

Before he could face any further questioning, he opened the driver's door, which Pogo seemed to take as a cue to follow.

Brad reached over and tapped Scott on the shoulder, leaving him to begrudgingly pull out his earphones yet again and press the Stop button on his Walkman.

The three of them began to unload from the second row, with Scott stopping to pull up his own seat to let Freddy out of the third.

As Bettie stepped out onto the winding walkway that lead to the door, she took note of something else: that being, the endless amounts of cars parked in front of the place, all of them much nicer than the Misery Machine. She registered the loud thrum of bass coming from inside of the house as she neared the doorway, interspersed by the occasional yell.

"This is what it's come to, huh?" she asked, attempting to catch up with the guys despite the fact that she was half asleep. "Crashing parties in LA? Is this as close as we're gonna get to making it?"

"We're not crashing," Brian said. "I was invited."

"Invited?" Bettie looked at the house again, - even when it was only illuminated by the garden floodlights, she could tell it was nicer than any house she'd ever set foot in back in Florida. It was an uppity place, - whoever owned it probably wouldn't want her boots to touch the carpeting inside.

Invited. Yeah, right.

As soon as the five of them came to stand on the front porch, someone opened the door, allowing them to come in without any questions asked. Bettie followed the band inside, only to be greeted by what could most aptly be described as utter chaos.

Despite the house's outward appearance, this didn't seem to be an upper-crust-of-society type of party.

Dozens of people just a bit older than Bettie crowded the living space, their chattering inaudible beneath the music, which was a whole different animal, in and of itself. The sound was all-consuming, chaotic, - she could feel the erratic rhythm coursing through her entire body already.

Despite having just been onstage at a dirty rock club merely an hour prior, Bettie found herself disoriented as she attempted to take in her surroundings.

Simply put, this party was buck-fucking-wild.

The air was clouded with the mingling smells of sex and weed and something chemical. A group of men were gathering around the coffee table in the living room, unabashedly snorting white powder off the wood finish. A guy bumped into her without apology, seemingly on the way to a bedroom, two girls hanging onto his arms at either side of him.

Before she could get lost in the crowd, Bettie found herself trailing behind Brian, making sure to keep an eye on his tall frame so as not to get lost in the sea of people.

Once she caught up with him, she yelled over the music: "Whose party is this?"

He didn't reply, - just snaked his arm around her waist, a gesture that felt something like ownership. Despite the fact that she was exhausted and irritated, Bettie was used to this. She knew it was best to grin and bear it, - even though fucking her way through every member of a local rock band was becoming boring at best, tiresome at worst.

She didn't ask any more questions as he pulled her down a hallway and into a bathroom. He flicked on the lights as he closed and locked the door behind them.

Bettie shot him a questioning look. Of course, she knew what his intentions most likely were, even though she wasn't anywhere close to being in the mood.

She was slightly relieved when he reached into his pocket, withdrawing a sheet of thin paper, dotted with smiley-faces. He peeled one of the tabs off, putting it in his mouth before pulling off another.

"Go on."

At his curt urging, Bettie opened her mouth, allowing him to place the tab on her tongue.

He pulled his fingers from her mouth with a low hum as the tab began to dissolve. "Atta girl."

With that, the two of them stepped back into the hall, returning to the chaotic revelry. Though she was still tired, Bettie knew that, in twenty or so minutes, she'd be wide awake, viewing the world through a distorted lens. For now, she stayed by Brian's side, simply observing the blur of action around her from a distance.

The sound of her name over the driving industrial beat startled her into focus. "Hey, Bettie?"

She looked up at Brian, blinking. "Mmm-hmm?"

"You know how to play the bass, don't you?"

"Some." The last bit of blotting paper was melting away in her mouth. "Why?"

Brian shrugged. "Just... thinking," he said. "The next time Brad fucks up, you know... we're gonna need options..."

Of course, the suggestion of replacing Brad got under her skin. Even after the time that caused the distance to begin growing between them, - she could still hear her own screams echoing in her ears before she was picking up the phone dialing those three numbers, - she didn't want to believe that it was that serious, anything worse than a bad habit.

They all had their own vices. Brad had just taken his too far. But he was getting better.

Besides, Brian had been known to be all talk. He wouldn't get rid of him, not really...

Not wanting to think of it any longer, she pulled away from the arm that he had wrapped around her shoulders.

"I'm gonna go walk around for a bit," she said. "You'll be okay without me?"

Brian chuckled. "What kind of question is that?"

She rolled her eyes before leaning in to kiss him quickly.

Pulling away, she took note of the guy in the corner, ogling the two of them with his vacant eyes as if he were getting his own sort of peep show.

She turned away from the voyeur, casting one last heavy-lidded glance at Brian. "Be good."

"You know I don't know how to do that."

Bettie shook her head before stepping out into the sea of unfamiliar faces, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

To her delight, she found all the liquor that she could ever dream of lining the counter, red plastic cups stacked up beside a row of bottles. Pleased, she grabbed one, scooping some ice from the cooler and grabbing a can of Coke.

She poured the cola over the ice, following it with a rather generous splash of rum. She reached for one of the corny umbrellas that someone had sat out, - rather ironic, for a rager such as this one, - stirring the concoction before taking a long sip.

For the next few minutes, she worked through the crowd aimlessly, the tension from before slowly lifting off her shoulders as the substances began to set in. She could swear that the same song that was playing when she first came inside had just started over again, - roaring guitar and synthesizers that sounded like something out of a seriously fucked-up haunted house.

"'Scuse me," a guy said, brushing past her.

She giggled. "No problem."

The guy turned around, smiling as his eyes dipped towards the neckline of her ripped-up Mötley Crüe shirt.

Bettie just smiled back before continuing to walk.

It wasn't that she was oblivious to it, - she was well aware of the attention. Still, she knew she had nothing to gain from indulging any of the randoms around her by responding to their innuendos. None of them had anything more to offer than the men that she showed up with, - she didn't recognize any of them, and they were all sort of smarmy looking.

Not that smarmy had ever stopped her before.

After she had mingled with quite a few grungy nobodies, she found herself honing in on two familiar faces: Pogo and Brad. Flirtatious grin never leaving he face, she managed to slide her way between the two of them.

She laughed, reaching up to muss Brad's hair at the approximate time that she threw her other arm around Pogo's shoulders. "Hey, jackasses."

Brad's glazed eyes skimmed over Bettie's own spacey expression before he cracked a smile.

"Whoa, Bets." He reached an arm out to steady her as she teetered slightly in her platforms. "You look like you're flying high."

"Sure am," she confirmed. "Getting drunk. Starting to trip a little bit. Literally and metaphorically, I guess."

She leaned further into him. Of course, she had told herself to back off after the stunt he had pulled a few weeks ago, but... "Hey, Gidge... Have I ever told you how good-looking you are?"

Brad's smile widened as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "A few times. But I don't mind hearing it again."

Pogo groaned. "Skip the foreplay, motherfuckers," he said. "And if you're gonna get yourselves a room, at least let me know if I'm allowed in on the action."

Shaking her head, Bettie unlatched herself from Brad, somehow managing to regain her balance. "I'm not in the mood," she stated. "Just came to see if one of you had a cigarette I could bum before I step outside. It's stuffy in here... makes me sorta paranoid."

Ever the faithful servant, Brad immediately reached for his pocket, extracting his mostly-emptied pack of cigarettes. He retrieved one and dropped it into Bettie's palm. "There you go."

"Thanks, Gidge." She leaned back in, pressing a lipstick-smeared kiss to his cheek before turning back to her other companion. "What about you, Pogo? Got a light?"

Pogo crossed his arms across his chest. "Depends," he replied. "Are you gonna give me the same treatment that you gave Brad if I do?"

She rolled her eyes. "Sure."

She leaned in, only for the keyboardist to turn and promptly stick his tongue in her mouth.

She pulled back. "You're fucking nasty," she complained, wiping at her mouth. "God, it's like getting to first base with an oyster." She held her cigarette out to be lit. "You know you owe me extra now."

Pogo grinned as he withdrew his lighter from his jacket pocket and held it to the tip of her cigarette. "Whatever you want, sugartits."

Once the end of the cigarette ignited, she took a long pull, closing her eyes. She pulled away after the first puff, offering Pogo and Brad one last smile.

"Thanks again, boys."

With that, she placed the flaming cigarette back between her teeth and pushed her way back through the crowd, heading towards for the back door.

-

Outside, the air was warm, the scent of it carrying the slightest hint of salt.

Bettie took a deep breath in, the smoke coming off her cigarette laced with the comfort of the fresh air.

Her eyes fell shut. As out of her element as she had felt upon her arrival, the combination of the acid really starting to take hold and the muted party sounds coming from inside made her feel a bit more in control.

With her eyes closed, she could easily imagine that nothing had changed. That she was still stuck in her little bubble at home, - wasting the days away, getting smashed, fucking band guys, achieving nothing, yet disappointing no one.

It was a world where nobody expected anything from her, and she was thankful for that.

She had never expected much from herself, either.

As she stood on the patio, watching the water in the swimming pool dance in the dim late evening light, she couldn't help but think about what Brian had said about her replacing Brad.

Of course, she wanted to write it off. Things had been tense between them lately, sure, - anyone with eyes could sense that.

Hell, Bettie had been in the middle of it all, - it was her who had found him on the bathroom floor, eyes wide open but containing no life.

Deep down, she knew that an ultimatum was likely imminent.

Supposedly, Brad was using up his strikes, - one more and he'd be out of the band.

Still, Bettie was all too good at denial.

Brad getting kicked out of the band was an absolute worse case scenario, entirely hypothetical.

After all, he had made the band, - he was the visionary behind the operation, the one who dreamed up about most the image, helped write about half the music.

When it came down to it, every member of The Spooky Kids was part of the project's beating heart, - it wouldn't be so easy to excise such a vital organ, would it?

Still, the thought played over and over in her racing mind on a loop, along with another nagging question.

If she was given the opportunity, would she take his place?

Quite frankly, she wasn't really sure that she was qualified.

She had first started learning to play any instrument when she was fifteen.

Tess, her roommate at the girls' home, had taught her a bit of guitar. She managed to guide Bettie through a few clumsy renditions of Runaways and AC/DC riffs before she jumped ship a few months later.

After that, she hadn't touched an instrument again until she met Brad.

That added a whole new layer of guilt to the situation. He was the one who had taught her to play, just as he had learned himself. The two of them spent hours on the floor in his apartment, sharing cheap beer and takeout food, his attempts to write or practice or whatever Brian wanted him to do that day always turning into an impromptu lesson.

Taking Brad's place would be the textbook example of taking advantage.

Then again, if Brad himself had taught her everything he knew... Well, that might have made her the ideal person for the job...

As she continued to consider this dilemma, cigarette beginning to burn out between her fingers, she heard a sound that stood out from the rest of the ruckus going on inside the house.

This sound wasn't a laugh, or a cry, or a yell of any sort.

It didn't sound human.

In her already-anxious state, Bettie found her heartbeat quickening.

It was probably in her head, really, - auditory hallucinations and all. But she couldn't help but remember the fact that she had once read about the mountain lions in California, and, should she get mauled out here, no one would hear her screams over the music she could still hear bumping all the way on the back patio.

And then she felt something bite at the back of her exposed thigh.

She gasped, nearly jumping out of her skin as she let out a loud shout.

"MOTHERFUCKER!" As a sort of automatic reflex, she kicked her leg back as hard as she could, nearly losing her footing as her boot connected with the unknown creature's face.

"HEY!"

Heart hammering in her ears, Bettie struggled to even her breathing as she turned in the direction of the approaching voice.

She thought she was alone out here, - but if there was someone to try and assist her in scaring away the wild cat, she figured she couldn't complain.

Then, the person got closer to her, and she realized that the wild cat wasn't a wild cat at all.

In fact, it wasn't even a wild animal, but some sort of retriever puppy, and the interloper who was apparently her master was glaring at Bettie through the dark like he wanted to slaughter her.

At least, she thought that was what that look meant.

The guy picked up the dog, who quickly settled into his grip, casting a rueful gaze up at Bettie with those stupid sad puppy eyes.

"What the fuck is your problem?" the guy demanded, voice low and somewhat intimidating. "I've been out here, watching you stare off into space for the past five minutes. Fuck, this is my house. What the hell are you doing kicking my dog in the face?"

"I- I'm sorry," Bettie stammered. "I didn't know... I thought... I thought it was..."

"Thought it was what?" Suddenly, his voice lightened just a bit, - some sort of realization seeming to dawn. "Shit. You're on something, aren't you?"

Bettie considered this for a moment. Of course, the obvious answer was 'yes,' - she was fairly certain she'd be able to hear colors for the next few hours.

"You're not, like... a cop or anything, are you?" she asked.

The guy laughed. It was a nice sound, despite the mean edge to it. Clearly, he thought she was a fucking moron.

"If I was, that answer would tell me everything that I'd need to know," he said. "Luckily for you,
I'm not. I would advise you to sit down, though. You look like you might pass out."

Though she was half tempted to argue, - arguing was something like a sport to her, after all, - she was starting to feel a bit vertically challenged again. Knowing that Brad wasn't here to help her stand up straight this time, she walked over to the lawn chair and settled in.

Once she was seated, she looked back up at this deathly serious, dog-owning, vaguely intimidating man, and opened her mouth, only to thoughtlessly let the first words that came to mind roll off her tongue.

"I thought your dog was a cougar."

For a while, he just looked at her, not saying anything. She expected him to tell her to stand back up and get the fuck off his property.

After a while, however, he just huffed out a 'huh' before taking the seat opposite of hers.

The puppy licked his face as he bent down to put it back on the ground. Appearing uninjured, the dog scampered off.

"You're all kinds of fucked up, huh?"

The way that he asked this didn't seem as condescending as it could have. In fact, it seemed to invite Bettie to give him a serious response.

"Yeah," she said. "I'd say I'm pretty out there right now."

He cast his gaze her way, close enough now that she could see the vibrant green of his eyes in the pale moonlight.

Bettie felt her insides twist as she realized that he was actually decent looking, in a Victorian oil painting, never-seen-sunlight sort of way.

"I feel like I know you from somewhere," he told her.

Before she could think twice about how it would be taken, a reply slipped from Bettie's lips. "Did we sleep together?"

Though it could very well be in her head, Bettie could swear that the guy's face was turning red. "Jesus Christ," he said. "Is that always your first assumption?"

Bettie cocked her head to the side. "You didn't answer."

He blinked before speaking again. "I don't think so..."

"Did you just ask me that because you want to get me into bed with you?"

The guy shook his head before his eyes connected with hers. "Is that where you're trying to get this to go?"

"Well, no," she said. "But usually, when men say that they know me from somewhere... I know what they want."

"And what is that?"

"Generally..." Bettie rose on unsteady legs before dropping to her knees on the grass. Clumsily, she crawled over to the stranger, stopping in front of his chair. "It's me looking up at them like this."

She batted her eyelashes at him dramatically. "You think I'm pretty, don't you? You want me to suck you off like all the rest?"

The guy laughed, - a nervous sound. "Good God," he said. "You're like something out of a shitty porno."

Bettie rolled her eyes. "Well... you certainly know how to make a girl feel good..."

She went to stand up, - only to find herself feeling as though the ground was slipping out from under her feet.

With a yelp, she went careening forward. She was surprised when her new companion stood, breaking her fall.

For a while, the two of them stood there in silence.

Her chin was resting awkwardly on his shoulder, his arms placed carefully at her back as though she might break. Though it was completely accidental, Bettie realized that the position that they had found themselves in was the closest thing to authentic intimacy that she had experienced in quite a while, leaving her chemically altered body to respond accordingly.

When the guy spoke again, his voice was right in her ear, husky and quiet. "You're a wreck."

Her face burned as she pulled away, brushing herself off. "You're goddamn right I am," she said. "I've known that for a long time."

He stayed quiet for a while before speaking again. "I still need to know who you are."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why don't you introduce yourself first?"

Though his facial expression was beginning to give her the impression that this whole cat and mouse exchange was starting to piss him off, he held a hand out to her. "I'm Trent. Trent Reznor."

She took his hand, awkwardly shaking it.

It was warm and probably calloused from playing some sort of instrument and large enough to completely engulf hers and... fuck.

"Nice to meet you, Trent," she said. "I'm Bettie."

"Bettie, huh?" he asked. "Don't think I've met a Bettie as young as you."

"I named myself that." She huffed out a nervous laugh as she pulled her hand away, wiping it off on her jean shorts. "Y'know. Like Bettie Page.

"Bettie Page, huh?" He seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head. "Can't say I see the resemblance."

"It's because I'm skinny as a rail," Bettie said quickly. "And I look real pretty tied up."

Though it looked as though he was trying to bite it back, she couldn't help but notice the grin that appeared on Trent's face then. "Do you ever think about anything else?"

Bettie shrugged. "Very rarely."

"And besides indulging in your nymphomania, what do you do?"

"I work in a record store. I play bass sometimes," she said. "But mostly I'm a... performer, or sorts." She shrugged, trying to find a way to explain it that wouldn't make her seem even more embarrassingly whorish. "I... well, I do this performance art thing with this band from Florida..."

Suddenly, recognition seemed to kick in. "Wait," Trent said. "You're not that girl that they kick the shit out of at all the Spooky Kids shows?"

Heat rushed to Bettie's face.

Just as she opened her mouth to reply, the back door burst open at an alarming velocity.

"BETTIE!" a deep voice called. "Are you out- oh, shit."

The door was pushed closed again, followed by the sound of shoes against the concrete. Within moments, she felt long arms wrap around her waist, long hair tickling the skin of her arms and the side of her face. She sighed, and it felt something like defeat.

"Fuck it, I was hoping to introduce the two of you this evening," Brian said. "Whatever, - looks like it's too late now. Anyway, Trent, this is Bettie... my good luck charm from Fort Lauderdale. Bettie, this is Trent, - crazy motherfucker, you know, the evil mastermind behind Nine Inch Nails..."

"Wait." Bettie stared at Trent, wide-eyed, as if she was just seeing him for the first time. "This is the guy you've been obsessing over since before I met you?"

Brian laughed, - allowing Bettie to hear the obvious discomfort in his voice. "Well... yeah. You didn't know that?"

Bettie shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I had no clue who he was."

The silence crept up again. This time was even more uncomfortable than the last, made even worse by the introduction of a third party.

Brian's arms left Bettie's waist, leaving him to grab her hand instead and tug. "I came to tell you that we need to kick it," he said. "It's getting late. Shit's winding down inside. We gotta get back on the road..."

"Okay." Loyal as always, Bettie turned on her heel, ready to follow him back inside.

Brian stood awkwardly in front of Trent for a moment longer, gazing at him with a look of pitiful admiration. "Congrats on the record," he said. "And thanks for inviting us out here."

"Of course." Trent clapped a hand against his back. "I'm hoping you guys will get back out here soon... Maybe we can work on fixing that demo..."

"Right." Brian nodded. "Yeah. We will."

And so Bettie followed Brian back inside, waiting patiently as he wrangled up his bandmates and led them back out to their rickety van.

As the house faded in the Misery Machine's rearview, Bettie wasn't considering what Trent had said about the demo before they had left. That wouldn't affect her in the slightest, - after all, her main purpose was to serve as arm candy.

Her mind simply wandered back to the warmth of Trent's hands, the way she made him stammer when she was on her knees in front of him.

At that point, she was just Bettie, - just the groupie who had somehow evolved into the stage girl. Once the band made it big, they'd surely push her aside, leaving her in Florida as a thing of the past.

She'd live out the rest of her days as a waitress or something, just as she was always meant to, growing old and shriveled beneath the south Florida sun.

She'd just be Bettie, the nobody, and she wouldn't mind.

After all, when you became someone, that was when the world started wanting a piece of you.

By then, Bettie figured she had already given enough pieces of herself away.