Two Punks In Love

Happy Wedding Day, Trashlynn!

Riley's Phone Camera, June 21, 2017

Blur. Pink fingers, then marble floor.

Riley, saying, "Are you absolutely sure?"

"You think this is a bad idea, don't you?"

"Well, that's not precisely what I meant. I meant, are you sure you want me to film this?"

"Yeah," Trace says in the distance. He's drunk enough that even one syllable shows it.

"Then, let me clean up the suite a bit first..."

Exasperation cuts through the air. "Man, you're my PA, not a maid. I don't give a shit how it looks. This is for her. In case she doesn't remember. In case she... wants to."

While the lens plays across the shiny dark floor, the mic catches the unmistakable sound of someone snorting something.

Trace clears his throat and the camera resolves on him. He's sitting on the floor, back resting against a couch. He cracks his neck against the exhilaration of the drug he just inhaled from the coffee table surface. His jaw is leaner, dark smudges streak beneath his eyes, and his nose is slightly red, but even reckless partying cannot diminish his beauty.

Trace at twenty-two was gorgeous every day, in a way few people on the planet will ever be.

Stupid hot and just plain stupid.

"Alright then?" Riley says anxiously.

"Yeah. I... I just needed a bump to wake up... " Trace swipes through the second line of coke, which is violently dispersed to air and floor. With the attention of the altered, he wipes his hand on his jeans, screws the cap on a tiny brown vial, and tosses it to Riley.

"Hang onto that, will ya? I don't want her confusing it with crushed oxy..."

"Right." The crispness in Riley's voice could almost be mistaken for British efficiency, but anyone who knows Riley well could discern his severe displeasure.

Trace is either as-of-yet unfamiliar with his brand new PA, or too blitzed to detect much of anything, because he ignores Riley's tone.

"You didn't answer my question, Riley. Do you think this is a bad idea?"

"You don't want my answer, Mate. I'm just the hired help."

"Naw. I like you, Riley. I really want to know."

Silence, for a long moment. "Trace, this is a bloody awful idea. But she's going to kill herself if you don't do something... and I suppose this is something better than walking away..."

"What?" Trace doesn't follow.

"It's a bad idea," Riley repeats.

Trace looks into the distance, then rubs his face. "Yeah, I know. But I'm scared for her. Fucking terrified, man. So... yeah. I'm doing this."

"Well, then. let's get it done."

There's a knock on the door. Trace mutters. "Who the fuck is that? I didn't order room service..." A sudden memory sharpens his expression. "Oh! Right!" He grins into the camera. "That would be the Iceman."

Trace is energized now; he leaps to his feet, urging the camera to follow. At the door, a rather disgruntled man wearing a button down and a suit jacket nods tersely. Two guys in uniform follow him in. Or rather, they follow the large, flat, rectangular, velvet box he bears.

Trace babbles at he directs the trio to the dining table. The jeweler and security guards stand-by, resigned in their job to indulge the crazed rock star. Trace grabs Riley's camera and turns it on himself. "Okay, you're asleep right now...you had a rough day, and a rougher evening, but I'm pretty sure this is going to cheer you up. So let's wake you up..."