Joey eyed his favorite bowl greedily. As soon as his beer was finished, it'd be a hazy evening if he had any say in it. His grin faltered a bit. The guys always teased him for his fondness for pot, Josh moreso than the others. But then, Josh was always the first to tease him about one thing or another. Whether it was his quiet nature or his affinity for complicated chemisty equations, he was always the brunt of Josh's joke. He'd laugh it off with the rest of the band, but always confronted him about it when Josh came to his bed at night. Josh would naturally tell him to stop crying about it, which never ceased to piss him off just enough for a bout of angry, struggle-for-dominance sex afterwards. Joey blinked the thoughts away. Not tonight.
Just as his hearing grew adjusted to the symphony of the desert, his phone rang. His house phone, of all things. He checked the called ID and scowled. A blocked number. He probably shouldn't answer it, he resolved, but his curiosity got the best of him.
"Hi, can I speak to Joe?" Joey frowned. Telemarketer, probably. He decided to feign his American upbringing and work the stereotype.
"¿Lo ciento? No comprendo..." The person paused. Joey grinned. He never liked stereotypes in any way shape or form, but sometimes he just couldn't pass up fucking with the telemarketers' heads.
"Dios, lo amo cuando usted habla español," purred the caller appreciatively. "Usted no lo hace a menudo bastante..." Okay, now he was confused.
"De nada," they said. "Esto puede venir como una sorpresa, pero le he deseado por un tiempo muy largo. Nunca
deseaba decir cualquier cosa, porque no deseaba asustar a usted lejos." Joey paused, slightly flustered.
"Sé, lo ciento," the caller paused, sounding flustered as well. "Esto es al azar, yo sabe. ¿Pero, hemos estado a través tanto, usted sabe? No quisiera que usted pensara que no haya pensado de usted."
He wanted to be flattered, but the last thing he needed was some obsessed male groupie calling him at home and confessing his undying affection to him, no matter what language they did it in.
"Er, listen, buddy..."
"Pensé que usted no entendía el inglés, señor..." Joey paused. The subtle chords of arrogance in their tone struck a far away bell in the back of Joey's mind.
"Nick, quit fuckin' around."
The caller chuckled and coughed a bit. "Ambos sabemos que que es algo Nick nunca podrá hacer." Joey scowled.
"Hágase un favor y suelte este número, cabron," he spat, his temper getting the best of him. "How 'bout that. Call me again, and I'll find that ass and break my foot off in it, you dig?" He didn't wait for a response and hung up the phone, angrilly downing the rest of his beer. He grabbed his bowl and lit it hastilly, burning his fingers in the process.
The phone rang. Eyeing it suspiciously, he checked the ID and recognized Josh's number. He answered.
"Hey, man. You'll never believe what happened just now."
"Podría conjeturar probablemente." Joey froze. "Abra la puerta. Soy muy borracho, y no puedo calcular fuera de cómo abrirlo." Phone still at his ear, Joey scrambled to the back gate to find a drunken Josh leaning against the metal fence, his pale skin glowing in the moonlight. Josh grinned sheepishly at him.
My Spanish isn't what it used to be, so appologies to any native speakers out there. Also, if you translate it through BabbleFish, it'll read wonky. Lo ciento - I'm sorry. :)