The Interview, Or, The One With The Crumpled Armani Suit (by Peach)

(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.