OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-nineteen.

AS REAGAN PULLED up to Big Apple Sounds, she noticed straightaway how gorgeously placed the studio was. Sitting directly beneath the expanse of the Hollywood Hills, she admired Jesse for having chosen such a far-flung spot away from the ritzy mansions dotting the horizon behind it. To get there, she'd practically had to go off-roading down a dirt path that had had her car jerking up and down. It would have been easy to get lost if not for directions she'd jotted down a slip of paper.

She got out of the car, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head as she surveyed the building. It was a lot smaller than most of the recording studios she'd seen in Los Angeles, just barely big enough for the three main rooms it was meant to contain. It had obviously gone through a severe overhaul, likely having undergone months of renovation. The beige paint coating it was set off nicely by the shrubby green flora and fauna surrounding it. In the distance, the Hollywood sign caught the glare from the sun and shimmered.

The heavy, wooden front door to the studio opened and Jesse walked out, grinning ear to ear. Reagan mimicked his smile as he jogged his way over to her, scuffing up dust from the ground in the process.

"Hey!" he said enthusiastically, wrapping her in a quick hug. She squeezed him back and grabbed her sunglasses before they slid off of her head.

"It's good to see you again," she greeted him, feeling exhilarated to be in the presence of someone she'd never thought she'd see after their one chance, second meeting nearly three years ago. He took a step back to admire her, as if checking to ensure that she was really there.

"I'm glad you were able to make it out here. I know it was kind of weird, asking you to come."

Jesse's proposal that they meet up at his studio hadn't bothered Reagan in the slightest. The choice of a meeting spot made it easier for her to pretend that she was there on business and not to hang out alone with a man that wasn't Dave, a pest of a personal problem that she couldn't overcome.

"Not at all," she assured him. "It worked out perfectly. Gracie's at a friend's house this weekend."

"Awesome." Jesse was radiant, reminding Reagan of someone much younger than he must have actually been. He even looked rather boyish in his rumpled Flaming Lips shirt and jeans, which were, of course, torn at the knees. His motorcycle boots were much like the pair she'd worn every day straight in her youth and it made her smile to think that they at least had taste in clothing in common.

"I'll show you around," he said, gesturing that she follow him. Inside the studio, they were met with a blast of cool air conditioning that was a relief from the beaming L.A. sun. Reagan set her bag down on a chair situated by the front door, taking the chance to look around.

"Jesse, this looks amazing," she said in earnest. The interior of the studio was beautiful, decorated in shades of black and red. Even the boxy little lounge that they stood in had character, complete with a round table in the middle that was stacked high with music magazines.

"It's my attempt at being a professional," he said bashfully, resting his hands on his hips and glancing around the room. "This isn't even the coolest part, though."

"I didn't think so."

Reagan followed Jesse through a corridor that led to the studio's control room. She'd seen plenty of them before during her time with Dave and this one didn't appear any different, but she showed the proper level of excitement for Jesse's sake.

"You know what you're doing with all that?" she asked, nodding at the control panel that was littered with various knobs and buttons.

"On a good day, yes," he grinned. "I've gotten the hang of it, I think."