Written in the Rockstars (Completed)

Chapter 2- The Mission

HE FINALLY GOT TO SLEEP about midnight after drinking gallons of tea and tap water.

I woke up at seven o’clock, when my alarm beeped loudly in my ear.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, glancing at my slumbering fiancé. The alarm hadn’t managed to shake him out of his deep sleep; his breaths were even and his body unmoving. I shoved my slippers on and shrugged on my dressing gown, shuffling lazily into the kitchen. I grabbed the newspaper off the doormat and switched the television on, rubbing my eyes.

The television flickered into life at the same time as I saw the headline on the newspaper. My eyes widened in horror as the news reporter sitting in the studio announced in her monotonous voice:

“Last night, lead singer of band ‘Falling Fast’, Jack Rochester, was seen drunk in a club after performing with band members Joe Allen, Olivia Brown, Max Rowan and Callum Olivers. He was seen dancing drunkenly on the dance floor, before pulling a fan into a close embrace and taking an image on his mobile of the pair kissing. This is the image, also shown on the front of ‘New York Times’ and other newspapers this morning.

“Some are wondering what has happened between him and his fiancée, Annabel Anderson. He…”

As she continued to speak, I switched off the TV, throwing the remote against the wall in my frustration.

The front cover of the newspaper was pasted with an image of Jack Rochester, my fiancé, kissing a random girl with serious cleavage, beautiful auburn curls and tanned, light brown skin.

I could feel the scowl spread across my face, my lip turned upwards at the corner.

A new adjective to add to my long list of cruel words towards him:

Drunk, messy, lazy, stupid and UNFAITHFUL.

I stormed up the stairs and flung the wardrobe open. I grabbed all of his belongings and shoved them into a total of five black bin bags.

Through all the noise, he still didn’t move.

I grabbed the lacy curtains and threw them open, the sun glaring into the bedroom.

He groaned and thrashed his arms about, squinting up at me.

“Morning, babe! How are you? Did you need to wake me up so earl-”

“Get out,” I growled.

“What?” He exclaimed, sitting up straight.

“Get out.”

“Come on. I’m sure we can sort this out! Let’s jus-”

“GET OUT!” I yelled, finally raising my voice.

He scrambled out of bed, racing towards the wardrobe.

“You won’t find anything in there,” I snapped.

“Wha…?”

“Downstairs.”

He hurried to the top of the stairs and gasped, seeing the bin bags at the door.

“Is that…?” he asked, gesturing towards the bags.

“Your stuff? Yes. Pick it up. Leave.”

“What am I meant to wear?” He exclaimed.

“Don’t know. Quite frankly don’t care,” I shrugged.

“Can I please just make some calls? I should be gone within an hour,” he pleaded.

“Within the hour,” I repeated, nodding.

At that, he grabbed his mobile and started dialing, pacing across the room. I plodded back downstairs and thumped myself down in the kitchen chair, fiddling with the coasters.  I wasn’t hungry because I was sick with anger; I didn’t want the TV on because it would make me sicker; I couldn’t read the newspaper because I would throw up. So I fiddled with coasters and stared at the clock.