(Set in a non
specific English speaking country which has little or no knowledge of the
Manics).
It's a Monday morning and
you are running very late. You arrive at the hotel 15 minutes after the arranged
time and are ushered out onto a little balcony. It’s around 12pm and the sun
really is glaring down on you from overhead. You do a few little test shots with
your cameraman, trying to decide which angle you are going to look best from in
this unforgiving sunlight. You can see yourself reflected in the camera lens,
and can’t help smiling with satisfaction - damn you look amazing in that tight
white vest top! All your curves in the right places and your hair sitting
perfectly. “Sunglasses or not?” you ask Bob, your camera guy. “Not”, he
replies. You have another quick glance over your notes. The interview doesn't
concern you very much, it probably won’t even air, it’s with the lead singer
of some obscure British band that the station manager seems to adore.
This
wont take more than five minutes you stage whisper to Bob just as an army of men
escort Mr James Dean Bradfield out to join you on the balcony. Hi you smile,
going into auto pilot I’m X and this is Bob my cameraman, we're with the
regional music channel, we just want to have a little chat with you about your
latest album You wink condescendingly at James. “Lets try and get this over
with in one take eh? Think you can manage that?” He doesn't join you in your
laughter as you get Mike the sound guy to set things up. You regret saying that
already, it was obviously rude by his standards. There are a few problems with
sound and in the minutes it takes to sort the glitches out you find yourself
focussing on this guy you are going to be interviewing. He keeps running his
hand through his hair, like a nervous tic, pushing the little strands off his
face, it is midday and there is no shade to be found. You see little beads of
perspiration forming on his forehead, his expensive looking white polo shirt
seems to be clinging to his chest, you try to stop staring, knowing that you
don't have the luxury of sunglasses obscuring the direction of your gaze. Not
that he even seems to notice, he is staring off to the right of your head, into
the distance, at least, that's the way his head is tilted. You can't really tell
through the mirrored RayBans. Your gaze drifts downwards (…admiring his dark
cream combats. The man had style, not to mention being deeply attractive. Your
palms are sweating. You are picturing him naked. Imagining that designer stubble
grazing your naked skin…)
You
are brought back down to earth by Bob grabbing your shoulder and shaking it,
“Hello? We're ready”. You look up, trying to consciously fade the blush from
your cheeks. James is smirking at you. He must be able to tell. How
embarrassing. You shove the microphone in his face and flash a stunning smile in
his general direction. Except his facial expression remains the same. He is
utterly un-stunned. You start what is to go down in your personal life story as
the interview with the evil bastard monster of death.
Half
an hour later you are racing back to your apartment in Bob's van. *SCREEEEEEEEEEEAM*
Bob swerves the van in shock. “Jesus! Calm down!”
You
start to beat your forehead off the windscreen until Bob pulls over. He grabs
your arm and turns you around. “Ok, you can walk or you can sit there and shut
the hell up”, he says, alarmed. You can’t stop muttering to yourself,
you’ve absolutely blown it with the most attractive interviewee all season
just because you'd been too drunk to do your research. How was you supposed to
know it wasn't a stage name? And that hadn't even been the worst insult. Your
total lack of knowledge had obviously pissed him off and his subtle insults and
vicious attitude had given you such a rage you had started pursuing points that
you knew pissed him off. You had pressed him, watching him squirm. Neither of
you had come off well at all during that particular piece of television. In the
end it had lasted 20 minutes but sitting in that van you felt drained like you'd
been working for days non-stop.
“Lets
go out for a drink or two tonight”, Bob suggests. Help to ease the
embarrassment… he doesn't actually say that but you know he’s thinking it.
You agree, telling him you're going home to crash. “Ill meet you in the bar at
8, ok?” He drops you off outside your apartment block.
You
wake up that evening feeling better after downing half a bottle of red wine and
collapsing. After having a shower you start berating yourself for letting such a
stupid interview with a nobody get you down so much. Who would ever actually
care?
You
walk into the bar, thank god its quite airy and empty tonight, the fans are on
slowly disturbing the smoke in the air, sending cool breezes over your bare
shoulders and back as you walk beneath them, heading towards the bar. As you get
closer you notice an all too familiar figure, almost obscured by a cloud of
smoke, hunched over the bar and dressed in a beige Armani suit. He's nursing a
glass and moodily smoking a fag. Your heart rate increases but only out of sheer
spite. What a bastard you mutter under your breath. Just my luck that he’d be
in tonight, out of all the bars… blah blah blah. Your mind whirs on and soon
you are engulfed in your own rage after the fool you made out of yourself this
afternoon. After all the reassurance, just seeing him there brings it home like
a slap how badly you behaved that afternoon. Still, you can’t resist glancing
over at him, every couple of seconds. Staring at those broad shoulders. His
whole body seeming to radiate alienation and anger. He is definitely having an
effect on you. You start ordering and drinking cocktails like there's no
tomorrow. Looking at your watch every five minutes, praying that Bob turns up
soon.
Soon
the pleasant alcoholic haze sits you, each time you glance over his posture
seems less tense, less raging… More approachable. You imagine going over,
sliding onto the stool beside him, talking, forgetting all about that afternoon,
going home with him…. So caught up in your daydream you are almost amazed to
find yourself standing right beside him. You must have absentmindedly walked
over. You thank yourself for the little speech you rehearsed… Until you
realise you don't actually have one. He must feel your presence so near by. He
turns to look at you. You smile. He just glares at you, with those brown eyes,
his face set in a scowl. A flash of recognition passes across his features, But
his expression doesn't change. You manage to croak some form of muttered
apology. “Get the f**k out of here, will you? Christ, I though this day was
bad enough…”
He turns away. You grab his arm and pull him back to face you, “Just what the
f**k is your problem? I am sorry about the fiasco today, I felt the need to come
and sort things out between us”.
“There’s no need”, he spits, his gaze seeming to penetrate you. You can
smell the drink on him. You look away absolutely deflated. “If you think I
give a shit what a pointless little whore like you thinks then you are very
mistaken”. You slap him almost before you realise. Really hard. You curse
under your breath and storm away from him. Wondering why the hell you even gave
a shit. What an unbelievable rude bastard!
You
headed for the toilets. Just to catch your breath, have a moment to calm down,
to get rid of the rage and do all that counting shit. Even though it's slightly
too late for that. But as you go to push the door open you feel a body push
roughly into yours and smell that already familiar aftershave. Grabbing your
wrists he shoves you through the swing door, his body pressed right up against
yours. You can feel the heat coming from him and cannot stop the trembles of
pleasure that are making your knees almost give way. If he hadn't been holding
on so tightly you might have fallen over. You writhe weakly with the shock, but
his grip is firm. His lips brush your neck with abrupt kisses. You lean
backwards against him as he pushes you face first against the smooth porcelain
walls. Burying his face in your neck, covering the skin with his breath and
kisses, he drops your wrists, allowing you to reach behind and touch his body
the way he is touching yours now. Still
leaning into you and pushing your body against the wall he slides his hands
around your waist, caressing your stomach. You really are shaking at his every
touch, you want him so bad it almost hurts. He pulls your ass close to him,
rubbing his crotch against it; you can feel his erection through those crumpled
Armani trousers. You reach back and hurriedly undo his fly, all the time aching
to have him inside you. He pulls your skirt up above your hips, pushes your
knickers aside and enters you quickly. You bite your lip, gasping and arch back
hard against his body, he thrusts into you as you grab at him breathlessly,
wanting to feel every inch of his body sweating and thrusting against yours. The
orgasm hits you suddenly in hard spasms, right in the depths of your body,
leaving you breathless and trembling, just as you feel his thrusting subside and
his hot semen running out of you down your thighs. His body rests limp against
yours breathing hard and fast and you turn to face him, half laughing at what
just happened. You run your fingers along his unshaved jaw line and kiss him
gently on the lips. This would be an excellent time to start over.