By The Way ||RHCP fanfic|| Anthony Kiedis

Chapter Three: Tell Me Baby

Then he tells me so nonchalantly to "come inside," like it means nothing.

My heart nearly stops beating right then and there because I can't believe he's being serious about it. I've never been inside of a celebrities house before, and I really hadn't planned to stay with him when I arrived in California, because that just seems excessive to me . Like my heroin-addict-psychotic mother always says, Sometimes things don't exactly go according to plan. I'm probably correct in assuming that this is one of those times.

"Come in? Like, 'come in' meaning go into the house? Your house? But why? I can just go to a hotel and meet up with you tomorrow..." I blink broadly a few times as my words just pour out of my rushing mouth, feeling stunned by all of this strangeness. Raindrops trickle down my black leather jacket, down my long auburn hair, down the sides of my hot face. I just need to get inside right now. It's freezing fucking cold out here in this cursed rainy weather and there seems to be no other choice.

Anthony gives a hearty chuckle.

"Well, yeah, inside of my house! I mean you're not going to sleep out on the disgusting drug dealing streets of Los Angeles for the night, are you? Because, if so, the weather here is pretty unpredictable, if I do say so myself...just a little warning..."

I hurry inside the immense mansion of a house, arms overly exhausted, head pounding wildly, and I drop my heavy bags filled with a pit of clean clothes near a large leather sofa that looks awfully tempting right about now. Anthony hastily shuts the front door so that the cold, moist air from outside can't penetrate the warm environment that the house indeed possesses. Expensive guitars of every variety imaginable line the walls in beautifully constructed lines of different colors, brands, shapes, tones, etcetera. A breathtaking sunburst style Pearl drum kit sits in the corner of the room rotting away slowly; vanishing from sight silently, collecting dust every day, drumsticks still in tact and all.

Is this a dream come true or what? To be standing in a nice room with what must be over 200 thousand some dollar guitars hanging from the walls like paintings? Maybe even more than that? Not to mention that groovy pearl kit that he's got or those badass tattoos on his arms. Okay. That's cool enough for me. This guy is basically in.

Anthony takes a comfortable seat on the couch after lighting the modern looking fireplace with the corresponding remote control. Something in the kitchen beeps wildly at him with an obnoxious tone; an annoying chirp, so he shoots up from the couch in an elegant manner and struts over to the kitchen dutifully, throwing an apron on quickly around his waist.

"Sorry about that. Lasagna cooking in the oven, gotta take care of it before it burns. You know how high-maintenance fucking lasagna is, after all," he says casually, apron running astray down his skinny excuse for a waist. He waits until the very last minute to add in, "oh and by the way, I can't cook food to save my life." I'd gathered that much from the lack of cleanliness in the kitchen area...compared to the rest of the house, anyway. The lasagna is also looking quite crispy in my opinion, so yeah, it's safe to assume that he is indeed a bad cook.

I wrinkle my nose at him sarcastically, cocking my head to the side to give off a confused look. He puts the steaming hot pan of sad looking lasagna on the stove top for personal viewing, standing back a few feet to take a glance at it before dousing it with hot crushed red pepper flakes. I hold back the burning need to make a terrible pun about his band name corresponding to the crushed red pepper flakes on the lasagna. That would just be cruel.

Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't you dare laugh...don't even think about laughing at the poor guys....food? Is it even considered food? Okay, focus, focus....

"That lasagna looks delicious," I lie with a sense of faux modesty, nodding my head in approval with my long arms crossed directly over my chest. Anthony rolls his eyes as he tosses the dirty apron into a dirty clothes dispensary that has been built into the wall for convenience. The fabric travels down, down down until it reaches an area where it lays there for days or weeks or months or...who the hell knows. Years? Decades? Centuries?

Is that... normal in California? The clothes dispenser? Hopefully not...wouldn't want my precious laundry travelling down that strange dark hole. No thanks, sir, I'll pass on that one dude. In Washington we don't have shit like that. We use soap and water and a washing machine, same as everyone else, or so that's what I've been told. This strange phenomenon is making me think otherwise.

He sets the piping hot lasagna down on the counter top, hands me a spoon, and we dig into the heap of burnt cheese without a second thought to it. I nearly barf.

"So uhm," he begins slowly with this certain distressed tone about him, mouth full of chewed up noodles and sticky shards of disgustingly flaky Swiss cheese. My eyes peel off of the blackened lasagna and resort to something much more appealing: his brown eyes. Only this time they aren't welcoming or calming. "-we probably need to talk about something."