Written in the Rockstars (Completed)

Chapter 1- A Waiting Game

Watch the Written in the Rockstars trailer above (on the right if you're on a computer)

I PICKED AN APPLE from the fruit bowl and chose a magazine.

Of course he wouldn’t be on time. How could I believe for one moment that he would be on time?

I took a bite from the apple, chewed it, swallowed and flicked to the next page of the magazine. It became a regular rhythm: Chomp, chew, chew, swallow, turn page. Chomp, chew, chew, swallow, turn page.

Until I turned to the back cover of the magazine and the apple was merely a core.

My fingers curled into a fist, a scowl forming on my newly ‘made up’ face. He said he would take me out for dinner. So I changed into my best dress:  a pink, silky one. I painted my face with make-up, curled my hair.

“I’ll pick you up at five,” he’d said.

Pfft! That went down the drain long ago, mister.

So, at six o’clock I sat and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

All I could hear was the ticking of the clock and the inaudible murmur of the radio in the room next door.

You may be thinking, ‘who is he?’

Well, he was my fiancé. He was also a famous Rock star. We lived in Los Angeles. He was a drunk. I hated him and loved him at the same time.

Anyway…

At half past six there was a loud rap on the door. I tottered over, my high heels clicking on the floor. I opened the door.

A police officer.

“Good evening, ma’am. I hate to bother you at this time, but we have your fiancé,” he told me, his expression stern but his eyes pitiful.

“That’s becoming a regular thing,” I noted.

“Hmm. Well. Unfortunately, he’s drunk. He was performing in a club and… you can guess the rest,” he replied before adding, “I’m assuming you could recite what happened word for word, since you are so familiar with it.”

He did not have to tell me that.

“P.C Waters,” he called, looking over his shoulder, “bring him over, would you?”

A woman with black hair pulled back into a tight pony tail dragged my drunken fiancé to the door. He looked up at me, his scraggy mane of hair sticking up at all ends and his bushy beard covered in curry sauce and… ketchup?

“Oh! I know you,” he exclaimed, his words slurred and slow.

“Really?” I snapped sarcastically.

“C’mon honey! I’m only kidding with you. She’s a bit sensitive,” he added to P.C Waters, who scowled menacingly at him.

He raised his eyebrows at her and wrestled from her grasp, wobbling through the front door.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her cold expression softening.

I shrugged nonchalantly. To them, I must’ve seemed like such an idiot.

“Goodnight, ma’am,” the male police officer said, tilting his cap to me.

“And to you.”

I turned and, taking a deep breath, entered back into the house.

If this is my Californian life, then I don't believe in California dreaming.