Disaster • Arctic Monkeys Fanfiction

[two]

Alex's POV

I was almost too drunk to do this interview. 

Almost. 

But If I'd done Glastonbury after six cans, then I could do some pointless American radio station exchange.

It was just a pass-through, anyways.  Just the same as any other radio interview we agree to do if we're passing through.  It's not important, just... courteous. Good for publicity in the States.

But I wasn't in the mood today.  And those fucking mates of mine decided they didn't have to come along.

Matt insisted that I was the one people wanted to hear talk, but I know it was just an excuse so they could recover from their hangovers in the tour bus.

I couldn't even remember last night. I wasn't even sure what pub or town we were in. All I could remember was that there wasn't any paparazzi.

That's one good thing about going through Midwest America—the alternative crowd is almost non-existent and most people don't know who the fuck Arctic Monkeys are. 

But still. I was stuck doing this interview while those fuckers were sleeping.

I pushed my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and made my way inside the radio station.  It was small and cluttered.  Sad looking, almost.

It reminded me of the radio stations I used to play in, back before all the fame.  Back before every interview room spun.

I don't think I'd done a sober interview since before Humbug. But I honestly couldn't remember.

There was an older bird waiting for me at the door, smiling brightly. Dyed blonde hair, ill-fitting pencil skirt.

Bored, my eyes wandered around the room. There was nothing to see, really. The only semi-interesting thing I could locate were pictures hanging on the wall of bands I'd met a hundred times-- Alt-J, The Black Keys, Radiohead.

Even more bored than before, I turned to face the other part of the room, and it was then that I saw her.

She was sitting behind a desk across the room.  Her right hand held a pencil to a notepad, but she wasn't looking down.

She was staring at me.

What she was thinking I couldn't make out for the life of me.  There was a mixture of emotions, I think.  Confusion.  Nerves.  Anger.

Definitely anger.

She wasn't beautiful, exactly.  She certainly wasn't what I looked for in a girl.  She looked... sloppy.  Too young to have a drink, probably.  Well, in America, at least.  Her hair was a fucking disaster— waves spilling everywhere around her. 

But, for a reason unknown, I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

Disaster girl, with unruly hair and a staring problem. 

She pushed her hair behind her ears and looked down.  Her cheeks grew a bright red. Was she embarrassed?

"We're so glad to have you here at The Buzz," the blonde woman said to me, snapping me out of my trance. 

"Good to be here," I said, only half way paying attention.  I could hear my words were slightly slurred.  Which meant that I was too fucked up for this interview, but not fucked up enough to ignore it. 

The blonde woman didn't seem to notice.  "I'm Kelly Clayton."

"Alex."

"I know who you are," she laughed.

Of course she did.  "Right."

"We're a bit behind schedule. Are you ready to go?"

A polite way of scolding my lateness. I nodded.

"Let me get your host," she said, lowering her voice. "And be kind. It's her first live air interview."

She called out a single name.

"Indiana."

I followed her gaze, realizing that she was calling disaster girl over.

My eyes landed on her just as one of her knackered converse tripped over the other and she fell forward.

She was on the ground before I could even react.

But then she was on her feet again before the blonde or I could blink an eye. Something told me she probably did that a lot.

She straightened herself out, looking awkward as hell, and looked up at me with a wide, green stare that all at once made me feel stone cold sober.

Neither of us moved until she spoke, her words twisted with disdain.

"I've already fucked this up, haven't I?"