AN: These lyrics SO reminded me of Nick. Couldn't resist. =) ************************************ Santa Monica ********************************** *I am still living with your ghost lonely and dreaming of the west coast I don't want to be your downtime I don't want to be your stupid game* He missed California despite himself. He missed the sun and the way the water was two shades darker than the brillant blue of Florida's waves. He missed the heat that hung light but no less hot in the air, and the way the wind blew different directions so that his hair rarely fell in his eyes. His missed the seagulls, louder and more daring than those of Tampa and Miami and Orlando, as they flapped and snatched sandwiches out of the startled hands of tourists. He missed her more, despite himself. He missed lazy mornings spent in bed with warm hands followings trails of skin until they both desolved in laughter. He missed the way she made him dinner, white apron tied snugly around her waist until he snuck up behind her and untied it. He missed how she carefully piled her hair into ponytails that she always undid an hour later so that her hair, thick and fine, was down and he could play with it, endlessly twirling the dark tresses between his wondering fingers. He missed her smile, her laugh, and the way that her eyes were exactly two shades darker than the Pacific. Nick missed Santa Monica desperately. *with my big black boots and an old suitcase I do believe I'll find myself a new place I don't want to be the bad guy I don't want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore I just want to see some palm trees go and try to shake away this disease* Nickola Gene Carter didn't sulk over girls. He dumped, was dumped, and moved on. But he couldn't help himself this time. He shopped, spent obscene amounts of money, and bought a new condo so he wouldn't have to lay awake in the one that they had shared in Tampa and remember what they had used to be. It had been the right choice, breaking up. Some things just couldn't be helped. He loved her, had and still did, but sometimes love wasn't enough. "All you need is love," is a platitude that only worked when you weren't an international pop star and celebrity. He was tired of her accusing eyes and the quiet hurt she felt when he couldn't make it home. He was tired of explaining himself, of begging her to trust him. He was so damn tired. *we can live beside the ocean leave the fire behind swim out past the breakers watch the world die* Some days he fought the urge to fly back to Santa Monica. To ring her bell and have her open her door to three dozen roses and him on his knees. He fought to forget that she tasted like peppermint and smelled like sun tan lotion. Fought to forget that she came alive under his hands in a way that no woman had before. He fought to remember her tears and the harsh words they had shared that drove them apart. Lost the battle. Nick remembered and forgot too much. He took to swimming in the ocean for hours, far, farther than he should go, finding solace in the pounding of the waves against his pale body as his arms stroked and surely brought him past the point of no return. He gasped as he struggled to get back to shore, reveling in the thrill of danger and the thought that maybe, maybe his body would fail him. It never did. He never knew if he should be relieved or secretly disappointed when he fell, panting, onto the pristine sands, shivering and cramping already from overexertion. *I am still dreaming of your face hungry and hollow for all the things you took away* Nights were the worst. He couldn't pretend then, when midnight struck and he fell prey to nightmares and dreams of all he had lost and feared would never find again. Nick always looked haggard in the mornings, lost, withdrawn into himself. His blue eyes were angry and panicked as they glared at him in the mirror. Ashamed, he looked away. *I don't want to be your good time I don't want to be your fall-back crutch anymore* It got better slowly. He started dating again. They never meant anything to him but slowly, slowly she started to mean less and the ache inside his chest subsided. He still loved her, probably always would, but not enough. When it came right down to it, she hadn't love him enough either. *I'll walk right out into a brand new day insane and rising in my own weird way I don't want to be the bad guy* He threw himself into powerboat racing, and writing, dozens of sappy love songs devoted to a woman that didn't exist. He started swimming laps in his pool while he regarded the ocean with a sort of wary caution. He still remembered the waves crashing around him and the white unfurling of their crests. He remembered the current, and its pull. Nick watched the ocean from a discrete distance, safe in his resolve. *I don't want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore I just want to feel some sunshine I just want to find some place to be alone* He ran around, exercised, practiced, did a million things until he fell, exhausted, into his bed every night. He stopped dreaming, lost in the kinder stupor of bone deep weariness. And sometimes, when he still remembered, he would sit out on his deck as the sun set, a glass of red wine nearby, and drew people, trees, seagulls, as they passed by his quiet house on the edge of the beach. Solitude suited him. Nickolas Gene Carter was an excellent artist. He refused to visit Santa Monica again, though he drew it often. *we can live beside the ocean leave the fire behind swim out past the breakers and watch the world die*