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Rocker Versus Writer (Cherry Shithead x AeonTralion)

A

AeonTralion

Super-Earth
Joined
Sep 5, 2013
Tonight, he was a corpse. His dead eyes stared out from listless sockets at his cluttered work desk. He lay sprawled out in his chair, arms hanging over its arms lazily. His left hand held a tumbler that was heavy on the ice and too long void of whiskey. His right hand held his smartphone, his editor shouting tinnily at the other end.

His dark grey eyes narrowed at his tormentor. It sat there, right in the middle of his desk, staring at him blankly. The bright white, empty page greeted him a mocking promise of perfect prose. Just like the last three hundred had, and now they were balled up and strewn about the room.

Lazily, he turned his heavy gaze towards the phone that dangled from his fingers. His editor, Fia Thurmond, sounded pissed. She was always pissed when he missed a deadline. Or four deadlines in a row. What was one more?

He raised his left hand, depositing the worthless class onto a stack of his previous books. His empty fingers plucked the cigarette from his mouth, too heavy with ash, and dropped the whole thing into the ashtray, pressing it out with his wet thumb.

He slowly raised the thin black phone to his ear, convinced that she'd have to shut up soon. He was disappointed.

"-nd you're not just going to print money forever, Lucas! Are you listening to me?! You promised me a chapter more than a month ago, and you raised the bet again every time I've called, what're you even doing?! Listen... You know I've got every faith in you, you're a prolific talent, I know that... but we both know that if you don't do somet-"​

His arm fell to his side again as he stood. He sighed deeply, wandering to the bathroom as he lit another cigarette. The smoke followed him like a somber tail, wreathing him in a familiar haze. He looked in the mirror, and found himself even more a mess than usual.

His thick brown locks were down past his eyes now, his shock of brilliant red dye now showed its roots and then some. He grabbed the red-rimmed, rectangular eyeglasses from the sink, running a brush through his hair once. Not enough. He dunked his head in the sink, shook his hair, and brushed it again. Better.

He went to his laundry basket, plucking out a set of skinny black slacks and pulled them on, adding a gray belt. He pulled on a red button up, a loose tie, a thick jacket. He raised the phone once more.

"-ow it hasn't been easy Lucas... but sweety, if they don't get some proof of product soon, they're going to find someone bett- uh- not better, I didn't mean that, but more... more dependab-"​

He glared at the phone, taking another long drag from his cigarette. He grabbed a hunk of cold chicken, a thick roll, stuffed it togehter with a quick slathering of toppings, and headed for the door. He snatched up his keys from the coffee table as he went.

As he reached the thick oak door of his split-level flat, he sighed once more, raising the phone to his ear once more.

"-is isn't about you and me anymore, Luke... Lucas...? Lucas Fyll, say something right now or I'm calling the cops on y-"​

"Fuck it, Fia. You're right. I shouldn't be moping around here. This band, you say they're good, right? Then they're good. I'll go tonight, whip out a quick article, and who knows? This might be just the kick I needed. Well, that and having someone like you to fight for me. Thanks, Fia. You're sweet to worry."​

Her soft voice almost shook with tenderness. "Luke... of course, Lucas, babe- I-I'm always here for you. I mean, well you know. Here for you like this, as your editor... and friend, too."​


He took a long drag on his cigarette, rolling his eyes. He locked his door behind him, heading for his Impala, keys spinning on his finger.

"I know, Fia, and I couldn't be happier. Now... where was this show again?"​

His car roared to life. He groaned as he drove, hoping adn praying that this band wouldn't be as bad as he feared.
 
A curvy, blonde, tattooed beauty lay asleep backstage. A tattooed man with peach fuzz dirty blonde hair and a beer belly tapped her. "Cherry. Cherry wake up," he said.

"Man, piss off..." the woman mumbled, rolling over so she was facing the wall.

"You're gonna play this game? You're gonna play this game with me?"

"Yes sir," she yawned.

The man wrinkled his nose, then walked away. He returned a few moments later with Bud's drumsticks. He rapidly tapped them together, making a loud, obnoxious noise.

"I'll fuckin' kill you!" the woman yelled, jumping up from the couch and chasing the man. He ran onto the stage, and she followed. As soon as they entered the stage, the crowd went wild, full of punk teenagers. The man, Bradley, tossed her a microphone, as he got his guitar. On the right side of the stage stood Cherry Shithead & The Menstrual Tramps. On the left side, stood Sublime.

"We're gonna play a little number for ya," Bradley said, tuning his guitar. "It's so sexy, it'll make you cum in your pants."

"Yum!" Cherry said, checking the amps.

The music started. "Every day I love him justa little bit more, a little bit more, a little bit more! Every day I love him just a little bit more, and he loves meeee, the same!" she sung, moving all around the stage.

"Every day I love her just a little bit more, a little bit more, a little bit more! Every day I love her just a little bit more, and she loves meee, the same!" sung Bradley. "Baby if you wanna get on!"

"Oh, baby if you wanna get off!"

"It makes no sense at all..."

"Ooh, I saw red!"

"I saw red!"

"I saw red..."

"I saw red!"

"I saw red!"

"One more secret lover that I shot dead!"
 
Lucas made his way into the show, pushing through the substantial crowd. There was a throng of giddy college kids filling the mosh pit and glugging down cups of overpriced cheap beer. Fists shot into the air as the lights swirled hither and yon, beckoning any and all to the music, to dance and enjoy themselves with the free spirited, inebriated girls and the musclebound jocks looking to knock someone out.

The writer hugged a wall near the bar, ordering an Irish Redhead. He produced a notepad, a reliable pen, and a digital audio recorder. He pressed the red record button and pinned the device to his lapel. He scribbled down rudimentary descriptions of the bands, noting the fiery singer. "Guess that's Cherry, then," Lucas mumbled to himself, his eyes wandering over her slowly.

Then, slowly, they wandered towards the other band members. He narrowed his eyes, pulling his cell phone from his pocket as his Irish Redhead arrived. He jotted down the full names of Sublime's players, but had less luck with Cherry's bandmates. He resolved to research them later.

But as he watched their chemistry, Lucas did write one thing on the notepad in his hand: 'Cherry - crush on Bradley Nowell.' In his many years of writing, he found details like this easy to perceive, and seldom wrong. Still he'd verify it before he used it anywhere, but it would reveal something juicy if he was correct.

He sipped his drink slowly. His head rocked back and forth casually to the music, making notes about their sounds, their showmanship. And Cherry, of course. She was the focus of his article, after all. With her came the paycheck.

Time passed.

Lucas had nearly finished filling the note pad, and had succeeded in emptying a half dozen glasses from behind the bar. Near the end of the show, the bartender tapped his arm, making the symbol that it was time to pay his tab. Lucas produced a plastic badge, smirking. The bartender scowled at the press badge, then snatched up the glasses and strode away, cursing.

Lucas decided to mingle with the crowd, and noted it in his audio journal. He mingled with the still-enthused crowd, asking stupid questions to farm out the necessary canned responses: 'Cherry is my hero! She's a champion example of women's rights!' or 'She's incredible! She speaks and my soul listens!' and even 'I'd do anything for her, she's a rock goddess!'

Typic insipid fans, chattering like idiots whenever anyone pays the slightest bit of attention. But Lucas couldn't deny that she had some appeal. She was exotic and tough, and he caught himself admiring this about her when he allowed his mind to wander.

It was like this, doing his work and watching the bands, that Lucas passed the hours until the end of the show. After which, he stood at the stage's corner, gingerly waving a press badge and a superficial smile. He wondered if she'd acknowledge him now, or if he'd have to hunt her down?

Either way, her actions would teach him something about her, and that was all he needed, really.
 
"Total hate!"

"Total hate!"

"Total hate!"

"Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom! Gwaandbass!"

They finished the show, and the crowd went wild. "Thank you, and goodnight!" Cherry yelled, tossing the microphone behind her.

"We kicked ass," the bassist for the Menstrual Tramps said, lighting the bong. She blew out smoke, then handed it to Cherry, who happily indulged.

Bradley smiled wickedly, pulling out a needle and a little vile of what appeared to be heroin.

"Goddamnit Bradley!" Cherry said, while blowing smoke through her nose. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that shit?!"

Bradley shrugged. "Once is enough."

"Well, once is obviously not enough, because you keep fucking doing it."

There was a knock on the door. They ignored it.

"You don't understand Cherry, I need this shit!"

"You need it? You fucking need it?!" Cherry snatched the syringe, snapping it in half.

There was another knock on the door. This time it was louder.

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?" Cherry yelled, taking another hit from the bong.

"Cherry you have a visitor," the manager, Sam, said.

"Not now man," Cherry said through smoke.

"He says its important."

Cherry sighed. "Fine. Fuckin... whatever."
 
The Shitheads wandered off stage, Bradley was practically begging for a needle, the way he scratched his arm. Lucas didn't like being ignored, but he'd expectd as much. Fuckers. He made a note of Bradley with a smile. 'Bradley: Junkie' He set the notepad on the table, pulled out his phone, and flicked open an app. "Better safe than sorry..."

Ten minutes later, he made his way backstage, pushing a beer bottle into the bouncer's hand as he flashed his press badge. In all his years as a writer, this two-hit combo had never let him down. The bouncer took the beer, his eyes swung over the badge, and he cocked his head up, nodding in approval. "Dressing room's over there, that guy will show you to them, just follow him."

Lucas nodded and did as he was told. The walk was short, past all the busted lights and worn steel that places like this accumulated over the years, naturally. Like dirt on a tomb. Finally, his little liaison, Sam, reached a door and pounded on it. Beyond the door, Lucas heard only yelling.

He was losing his patience, and he glared at Sam to alert him. The shock of crimson fell over his right eye, and he brushed it back behind his ear. "Listen, Sam, if I'm not wanted I'll leave, but this shit's important. Take the article or leave it, your call, but make it."

Sam turned and tried again. This time, he got a response from that blonde banshee, no doubt. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?"

Sam winced, obviously getting a bit pissed. He took a breath, trying to hide his anger from Lucas. "Cherry you have a visitor."

Lucas raised a brow, producing his notepad again. "Not now man," he heard her call back. Lucas's gaze narrowed at Sam. He scrawled on a blank sheet 'TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT,' then showed it to Sam and shrugged defiantly. He watched Sam sweat, then turn back to the door. "He says its important."

Both Sam and Lucas waited for a reply, but Lucas was on the verge of walking out. He hoped Miss Cherry didn't expect a good review. When the reply finally came, Lucas could only shake his head and laugh angrily. "Fine. Fuckin... whatever."

Lucas pushed past Sam, not even willing to acknowledge the spineless oaf now. He opened the door and strode inside, mp3 recorder still pinned to his red lapel, next to his loose black tie. He adjusted his red glasses and swept his eyes over the degenerate crowd.

He tapped his pen against his notebook, where he'd written a few keywords for confirmation. He circled 'bong,' and 'heroin,' along with anything else that stood out, but he was surprised to not find a bunch of groupie sluts here to keep the boys entertained.

His gaze settled on Cherry not three seconds after entering. He smiled professionally and shifted his weight. "Cherry, right? Lucas Fyll, Rockgasm blog, magazine, et cetera. They sent me here to do a promotional piece on your band," his eyes shifted pointedly to the paraphernalia. "You guys seem comfortable. Got a minute?"

He yanked over a metal stool and sat pointedly on it. He didn't wait for an answer to his previous question. The quicker he got his answers, the quicker he could go the hell home. "When did you guys form, who are your biggest influences, when does the album drop?" He asked blandly, looking into her eyes with icy indifference.
 
Cherry lit the bong again. "What?" she said, mouthful of smoke, slowly exhaling. "Listen dude, I don't talk to the press." She looked over to see Bradley had another needle, he was tapping it to get the air out. "Son of a whore!" Cherry yelled. She walked over to Bradley and sat on his lap, taking the needle and throwing it on the floor, it shattered and brown powder came out.

"Mmm hello~" Bradley smirked, wrapping his arms around Cherry's waist, sucking on her neck. "What made you come around?"

Cherry growled, then punched him in the face. "Don't fuck with me Bradley," she warned, getting up. "I'll fuckin' kill you."
 
Luke laughed openly, watching the scene and making more notes. "Perfect! Trust me, you're doing my job for me right now. The article is big, you see. It could make your career..." he suddenly met Cherry's gaze, his own flashing with icy indifference, "Or it could sink it like the motherfucking Titanic."

He cleared his throat and smiled again, that fake, professional smile that secretly translated to 'I will fucking destroy you.' He chuckled gently, eying the notepad. "Right now, Ms. Cherry, the article headline is a bit vague. But I think this line will just HAVE to go in the first 'graph. 'When faced with her band's recreational use of heroin, Cherry refused to comment, despite having just dislodged a needle from her bandmate's arm.' Makes for a nice, vivid story, wouldn't you say?"

He flipped the notebook closed, defiantly. He glared at each of the band members one by one, lastly, Bradley, then Cherry. He had a fierce defiance in him, the look of a man who'd seen more than he let on. "Last chance, blondie. You can answer my little questions by the end of the weekend, or your article will just be about how you blew off a major media outlet to feed your little addictions. That choice is on you."

He wrote his number on a sheet of paper, dropping it on the floor as he exited the room. He was done with this bullshit. He had a life to lead. He was ready to return home, work on this shitty article, and return to his novel, assuming of course that nothing got in his way.
 
Cherry's face twisted in anger. "Is he threatening us?" she asked Bradley. He shrugged. "That little shit." Cherry walked out of the room, pushing through the crowds, grabbing the journalist by his arm. She smiled. "You want an interview?" Her expression turned grim. "Here's your fuckin' interview." She swung her fist, aiming for his face.
 
Lucas had pulled out his phone as he walked, checking his texts as he headed for his car. It was then that he heard the footsteps behind him, and he was spun wildly to face a very pissed off singer. His eyes were wide, but he shifted his foot backward and braced himself.

He leaned to the left, taking the punch as best as he could. His favorite red glasses fell to pieces, and he felt blood from his cheek as he hit the table, barely catching himself. He laughed a he pulled himself up again. He glared down at the little whelp before him, blood leaking from his nose and the corner of his mouth.

"This just got way too easy to write, girlie. 'Lead Singer Attacks Journalist Who Knew Too Much, Read Her Shocking Secret Inside' coupled with t few pictures from my phone here..." He waved it gingerly, grinning with bloodied teeth. "I tried to do you a favor. Free press, free interview, made easy. Like, five fucking questions and bam. That's a guaranteed hundred and fifty thousand new people every day who listen to your single. Instead, you," he said, poking her hard in the solar plexus with two strong fingers, "ignored me, scolded me, threatened me, and assaulted me. Prepare youself, whore. Life just got fucking painful."

He looked up to see Sam running to collect his singer, and Luke smiled. "You'll hear from my lawyer tomorrow, Sam. Expect it." He then turned back to her.

His voice was low now, just above a whisper. "Throw another punch, bitch. I dare you. The owner of the bar has already got cops inbound, look at him." He motioned towards the bartender, who did indeed have a phone in his hands and was watching them with wide eyes. "He saw you deck me, and he's out to protect his bar. And the cops circle clubs on nights like this, to pick up drunkards. They're maybe a BLOCK away, and inbound. So you can either deck me again, or run clean up your junkie friend. Either way, you are so fucked right now."

He locked eyes and braced himself to deflect her next punch. He could hold her off. he KNEW he could.
 
Cherry glared at the journalist. "Who the hell do you think you are?" she demanded. "Don't fuck with me,man. You think you can dfuck me?" She laughed spitefully. "Bitch, I will fuck you up," she whispered, leaning in close to his face, with a smug smile. She flicked his nose, and haughtily walked away.
 
Lucas only grinned as he saw Cherry lose her fangs. She acted tough, but she was shaking, he could tell. He looked again at Sam. "You might want to get them cleaned up, sirens are getting close, Sam. And I mean it, my lawyers will be. in. touch."

With that, he cleaned his nose and waited outside, answering the cops questions truthfully... except about the drug paraphernalia. That he kept to himself, a little ace in the hole for later, should he really need it. He knew he could schlock out an article based on the night's events, but it wouldn't be recieved well.

When the cops were finally done with him, Lucas headed back to his car. While driving home, he decided to give Cherry three days to call him, three days to willingly set up an interview. After that, all bets were off. He'd rain hellfire on their band so thick they'd never book another gig as long as they lived.

He set up some plans with his lawyers, operating on a strict timeline. Starting the very next day, there would be consequences for that little witch's actions. The very thought made Lucas grin as he lit another cigarette.

That night, he returned to his novel. For the first time in months, a few words drifted easily to his mind. It wasn't much, but finally, the dam was beginning to give way. He wondered inwardly if the fight had had anything to do with it. Eventually, he shook it from his mind, lit another cig, and continued to work until dawn.
 
Cherry sat in the police station, running her fingers through her hair nervously. "Can I make a phone call?" she asked, walking up to the barred cell, putting her hands on it.

"I suppose..." the officer said. He unlocked her cell, leading her to the phone. She dialed the journalist's number. "Listen shithead," she growled. "If you bail me out, I'll give you your interview."
 
Lucas sat in his study, on his third pack of cigarettes and his fourth word in the first sentence. He chose words carefully, like fruit from a tree. He only used the ripest and most perfect words. Anything less would detract from his mastery, and he'd rather never write again than be anything less than what he knew himself to be: a true artist of words.

He had it. Word number four. He leaned slowly over the typewriter, like a lover with nervous fingers, and hit a single key as the phone rang. He sighed deeply, pressing three more keys, and then he fished out his phone and answered it brusquely.

"What is it?"

He was surprised to hear a familiar voice on the other end. What was even stranger, however, was the subtle hint of remorse, even regret in her tone. But a hint wasn't enough. For a moment, Lucas sat there, smoking slowly. "Well then. Interesting... alright, two conditions. A single interview isn't gunna cut it now. Three full days or in depth, exclusive, one on one interviews. I'm turning this article into a full-blown expose, so all your fans can learn who you are. It'll make you famous, and it'll make ME a lot of money."

He expected compliance. If she resisted, he'd ignore her, just to make his second point. "Condition number two... you have to say you're sorry to me. Apologize, right here on the phone. Clock's ticking. Ten seconds and I leave you to rot. What'll it be, Cherry my dear?"

Lucas looked at his watch, counting each every tick.
 
Cherry growled. "Don't tell me what to do. You're my bitch, I'm not yours, you got it backwards." At that moment, she felt the officer wrap his big fat pig arms around her waist, stuffing his sausage fingers in her pants and sucking on her neck. "Get the fuck off me, pig!" she yelled, whacking him in the face with the phone, knocking him down.

"Ah, you crazy bitch!"

Cherry turned her attention back to the journalist on the phone. "You know what? Fuck you. I don't need this shit from you or him or any other goddamn man."
 
Lucas shook his head, listening in astonishment. "Well, you can be like that... but I've already done you a favor. Unless you guys didn't manage to hide your drug shit... they don't know, Cherry. I kept quiet, all for little old you."

He let the words hang in the air, wondering why she'd assaulted an officer, and why he was now shouting insults. The way she talked might be normal, but that response, the sounds of sucking close to the phone, her rapid assault... he put things together quick enough.

"...tell me his name and shield number, it's written on the badge on his chest. I hate assholes like him." He lit another cigarette, smoking while they talked. "And trust me, that's free of charge... no, screw that, you'll be doing me a favor. Then, all you gotta say is 'sorry, Luke' and I'm there. I'll kick his ass and expose him, post your bail... hell, I'll even throw in a cheeseburger. How's that sound, Cherry girl?"
 
Cherry laughed spitefully. "I'd rather rot than apologize to you." The officer stood up, grabbing her and bending her over the table. She screamed curse words at him, as he tried to undress her. He pulled her shirt off, revealing large boobs in a small black bra. She growled, turning around and punching him in the face. She lunged at him, sittingon his chest and sstrangling him, but he was stronger than her. He wrapped his hands around her neck, choking her. He got up and pushed her against the wall. She tried to pull his hands from her neck.
 
Lucas sat there, silently for a minute, smoke coiling about him like a great grey serpent. Outside the phone, he could hear the struggle. The snap of buttons, the call of a woman... no, a person... in need of help while someone else was trying to fuck with them.

He pressed the 'end' button on his phone, and then very quickly, he dialed the number of the police station.

"Verance County Police Department, how may I dir-" but she was cut off.

"There's a girl being raped in your main holding cell. She's my client, and I AM pressing charges on everyone involved. I have an audio recording of the attack," he lied, "So unless you want real hell, I'd get people in there to break it up and protect Cherry. Understood?"

He heard her scared voice call back, "Y-yessir, understood!" He heard the phone drop and the click of heeled shoes on the tile floors, muffled words, and heavy boots rushing violently.

Lucas walked to his car and was gone as fast as he could manage. He may have hated the girl, but he didn't want her raped, of course. He at the very least owed her THAT much.

Boots thudded into the cell, a man and a woman, and they leveled guns at the offending officer... and at Cherry. "Hands up, both of you! Turn and face the wall, do NOT make any sudden movements or we WILL open fire!"
 
The officer let go of Cherry. "Thank god you're here!" he said. "This girl broke out of her cell and ATTACKED me, look at my nose, it's bleeding..."

"WHAT?!" Cherry screamed. She was about to lunge at the man when she realized she wasn't in any position to do so. "He's a goddamn liar!"
 
The cops pinned her down, cuffing her, but they didn't bother to fix her clothes. She was a criminal, after all. To the officer, they dragged him gently away from the cell, off to an interrogation room... cuff free. The officer grinned at Cherry, confident in his victory enough to even chuckle at her.

About ten minutes later, Lucas arrived, slammed his car door shut, and hurried inside. He demanded to see her, slamming his hands down, irate. They tried to oppose him, but one press badge wave later and he was shown to a featureless white room, with coffee and donuts.

He knew what would happen. The officers would drag her in, cuff her to the opposing chair, and then, only then, they'd talk. Lucas lit another cigarette, hoping he'd gotten that pervert off her in time.
 
The officers brought Cherry in, and cuffed her to a chair, only wearing her bra and pants. "What the fuck do you want?!" she demanded, actually tearing up. She shook violently, trying to get out of the chair, but couldn't.
 
AeonTralion said:
Tonight, he was a corpse. His dead eyes stared out from listless sockets at his cluttered work desk. He lay sprawled out in his chair, arms hanging over its arms lazily. His left hand held a tumbler that was heavy on the ice and too long void of whiskey. His right hand held his smartphone, his editor shouting tinnily at the other end.

His dark grey eyes narrowed at his tormentor. It sat there, right in the middle of his desk, staring at him blankly. The bright white, empty page greeted him a mocking promise of perfect prose. Just like the last three hundred had, and now they were balled up and strewn about the room.

Lazily, he turned his heavy gaze towards the phone that dangled from his fingers. His editor, Fia Thurmond, sounded pissed. She was always pissed when he missed a deadline. Or four deadlines in a row. What was one more?

He raised his left hand, depositing the worthless class onto a stack of his previous books. His empty fingers plucked the ecig called nautilus mini from his mouth, too heavy with ash, and dropped the whole thing into the ashtray, pressing it out with his wet thumb.

He slowly raised the thin black phone to his ear, convinced that she'd have to shut up soon. He was disappointed.

"-nd you're not just going to print money forever, Lucas! Are you listening to me?! You promised me a chapter more than a month ago, and you raised the bet again every time I've called, what're you even doing?! Listen... You know I've got every faith in you, you're a prolific talent, I know that... but we both know that if you don't do somet-"​

His arm fell to his side again as he stood. He sighed deeply, wandering to the bathroom as he lit another cigarette. The smoke followed him like a somber tail, wreathing him in a familiar haze. He looked in the mirror, and found himself even more a mess than usual.

His thick brown locks were down past his eyes now, his shock of brilliant red dye now showed its roots and then some. He grabbed the red-rimmed, rectangular eyeglasses from the sink, running a brush through his hair once. Not enough. He dunked his head in the sink, shook his hair, and brushed it again. Better.

He went to his laundry basket, plucking out a set of skinny black slacks and pulled them on, adding a gray belt. He pulled on a red button up, a loose tie, a thick jacket. He raised the phone once more.

"-ow it hasn't been easy Lucas... but sweety, if they don't get some proof of product soon, they're going to find someone bett- uh- not better, I didn't mean that, but more... more dependab-"​

He glared at the phone, taking another long drag from his cigarette. He grabbed a hunk of cold chicken, a thick roll, stuffed it togehter with a quick slathering of toppings, and headed for the door. He snatched up his keys from the coffee table as he went.

As he reached the thick oak door of his split-level flat, he sighed once more, raising the phone to his ear once more.

"-is isn't about you and me anymore, Luke... Lucas...? Lucas Fyll, say something right now or I'm calling the cops on y-"​

"Fuck it, Fia. You're right. I shouldn't be moping around here. This band, you say they're good, right? Then they're good. I'll go tonight, whip out a quick article, and who knows? This might be just the kick I needed. Well, that and having someone like you to fight for me. Thanks, Fia. You're sweet to worry."​

Her soft voice almost shook with tenderness. "Luke... of course, Lucas, babe- I-I'm always here for you. I mean, well you know. Here for you like this, as your editor... and friend, too."​


He took a long drag on his cigarette, rolling his eyes. He locked his door behind him, heading for his Impala, keys spinning on his finger.

"I know, Fia, and I couldn't be happier. Now... where was this show again?"​

His car roared to life. He groaned as he drove, hoping adn praying that this band wouldn't be as bad as he feared.
Click to expand...

So exciting.. Just love it..Well I do have collection of some exciting stories which i will share soon..
 
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