Typical Jerk (A Bruno Mars Fanfic)

ONE

*Bruno's POV*

I sighed, slamming my pencil down onto my notepad. I reached up and pulled at my hair. "Nothin', man."

I felt Phil's supportive grip on my shoulder. "It's fine, bro. I'm sure you'll think of somethin' soon. You can't force yourself to be inspired." I nodded, still cradling my head in my hands. "Well, I gotta hit the road. I'm late for date night."

"Okay. I'll be here, writing some shitty song. Tell Urbana I said wassup." Phil stood and gathered his things- pen, notepad, phone, wallet, and sunglasses. He gave a loose goodbye before walking out of the studio.

I leaned back in the chair I was sitting in. My eyes searched the walls as if they held the secret to a brand new hit single. I desperately needed to write a song. I told my manager I would release a second album by November, but all I have is an upbeat jingle titled "Money Make Her Smile."

I closed my eyes in frustration. "Dammit, Bruno. Think! Focus! Write," I said angrily. I knew I was alone, but speaking aloud helps me think. It worked; my gears began to grind.

I thought of last night- the girl I was with. I don't remember her name, I was too drunk. She was too, if that makes anything better. All I remember is fumbling into my house, into my room, fucking her, and then waking up alone. That was the third girl this week. I always hate myself afterwards, but it's easy prey. I get sex and I don't have to commit to anything serious.

I wrote; my pencil glided over the paper effortlessly. It read:

I spend all my money,

bought a big ol' fancy car

for these bright-eyed hubbies

oh yeah, you know who you are.

Keep me up 'til the sun is high,

'til the birds start callin' my name.

I'm addicted and I don't know why.

Guess I've always been this way.

All these roads steer me wrong

but I still drive them all night long,

all night long.

All these young wild girls,

you make a mess of me.

All these young wild girls,

you'll be the death of me.

All the young wild girls,

no matter what you do.

All these young girls,

I'll always come back to you.

I stopped there, tapped my pen on my chin, then decided to get back at it tomorrow with Phil's help. I stood up abruptly and grabbed my things. I walked out, sliding my hand over the light switch as I left.

When I finally reached my car and was sitting safely behind the wheel, I pulled out my phone to check my notifications. I just ignored the social media alerts, and read my emails. Nothing too important, just ads, potential gigs, that kind of stuff. I had about a dozen texts from random chicks. Two missed calls from Mom, one from Presley, and another from Phredley. I closed my eyes and sighed. Dammit.

My thumb hovered over the screen, I was mentally at war with myself. Should I call Mom back? I already know what she's going to say. I reluctantly clicked her name and the dial tone started up.

She answered on the second ring, "Hello?"

"Hey, Mom."

"Where were you?" she asked impatiently.

"Studio. Why?"

"I was worried," she breathed out.

"Ma, I'm a grown-ass man."

"Grown, but not wise. I know what you've been up to lately, Bruno. Presley told me."

I groaned.

"Listen up," she scorned. "Stop acting like there is an endless supply of one night stands. Treat women with the respect they deserve. Find a girl you enjoy being around- fully clothed."

I rolled my eyes. "Ma, I have to go," I lied.

"Oh, yeah? And what is so important that you can't even talk to your mother, Mr. Bruno Mars," she scoffed sarcastically.

"I have to go," I said again, sternly.

"I don't even know you anymore, Bruno. What happened to my little baby?" she asked sadly. I felt a pang radiate throughout my chest.

"He moved to L.A."

She hung up. I tossed my phone over to the passenger's seat before starting the engine to my Cadillac. It roared to life, the scent of fuel calmed me. I toyed with the radio until I finally came to a good song. I sang along to Flo Rida's "Low" as if I could really rap.

Right before I cut the engine off, John Legend's "You and I" began playing. It almost made me wish I had a girl to sing it to, but the thought sizzled away quickly. Who wants to be tied down like that? One girl every night.

I entered my house, placed my keys in their usual spot on the counter, and proceeded to survey the kitchen- for what, I do not know. The kitchen was my favorite room of house; it housed alcohol and food, what more could a guy ask for?

I opened the fridge and peered in, my gaze landed on a lone slice of left-over pizza. "How long have you been in here, little guy?" I chuckled to the slice of cold, lettuce- covered taco pizza. I shoved it into my mouth and took a bite. I grabbed a beer and stalked to the couch, jumping on it and landing on my side.

I flipped through the channels. I settled for Conan with a very unsatisfied feeling. This guy has been hosting for so long, but he just completely sucks. Sometimes, he could be funny, but that was with the help of writers. I pulled out my phone and began grazing on Instagram pictures. I ate my pizza, barely noticing what Conan was flapping his jaws about.

I finished my beer, switched the television off and walked to my room. After I hooked my phone up to the charger, I stripped of my clothes, boxers still remained. The bed was colder than usual, sending chills down my arms. I gave a cocky grin as I thought about the chick that laid right were I currently reside just the night before. "She was a feisty little lady," I smiled quietly.