1989: a story of two misfit kids from mid-west america making it big in the big apple. and in the true sense of the american dream they find themselves in a life of sex, money, drugs, and a little rock n roll too.
warnings: adult content, mature rea...
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Bill had woken up to the sound of fuzzy guitar riffs of a Stooges song blaring from the stereo speakers down the hall in the living room. He knew he hadn't been asleep for long since he stayed up for hours laying stiff on his back while Alma clung to him sound asleep. He laid on his side now with his back to Alma, hoping last night was all just a shitty nightmare but unfortunately reality came crashing down on him like a freight train. He lazily turned over, his arm meant to hold Alma smacking against the mattress. She was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing one of his oversized shirts hunched over a small mirror tray on the nightstand, pushing powder into neat uniform lines with a razor blade.
She glanced over at him flashing him a cheeky smirk. "Morning," she said tightly rolling up a stray twenty dollar bill she found on the nightstand. "Or I guess afternoon – it's like one or something," she shrugged.
Bill watched her snort a line – half in one nostril before pausing to snort the rest with the other. It was then he noticed she was skinnier than normal, not terribly noticeable but enough that he felt like shit for not realizing before. He frowned as he rolled out of bed, announcing that he was going to take a quick shower so that they could leave.
"Wait," Alma said rubbing residual powder on to her gums, "I made a line for you too." She lifted the mirror tray off the nightstand, holding it while he leaned over to quickly snort the thick line she prepared for him.
Doing blow as soon as they woke up wasn't a new occurrence by any means but this instance just felt off to him. He was thinking maybe they did have a problem, though beside himself he was worried for Alma. How long had she been up? Was this her first line of the day? He wasn't so sure, he was too afraid to ask.
He went to meet her in the living room after getting dressed in his usual black button up and trousers. Alma was sitting on the couch with a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand, reading the back of the Stooges record sleeve. He was surprised to see her dressed down in the punk garb that she was most comfortable in – ditching the bodycon and silk slip dresses that she had adhered herself too. It was a refreshing reminder of the girl she really was. Although she still kept it a bit sexy wearing only a lacy red bra underneath her old leather jacket along with black straight leg jeans nearly ripped to shreds, and platform boots.
"You look nice," he smirked.
She tilted her head back drinking the last of the lager before squeezing the tin in her hand, crushing it. "Thanks," she said flattered. ...
The ride to the club was painfully quiet in the Impala, Bill looked over at Alma who was persistently picking at a hole in the knee of her jeans while sniffing back the bitter cocaine drip she had. It was when she noticed Bill looking at her that she took the opportunity to speak after growing impatient with waiting as long as she could for him to speak up himself.
"So... what happened last night," she asked.
Bill gripped on to the wheel tightly, clearing his throat. "Uh, well-"
