OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-twenty-two.

JANUARY 27th, 2001, LOS ANGELES, CA

      "HOLY SHIT, CHRIS," Reagan marveled from her place on the edge of her hotel room bed, widening her eyes as her best friend walked out of the bathroom in front of her. "You look hot."

Chris scowled at her, holding her arms stiffly out from her sides in a refusal to relax. She looked down at the tight, little black dress that she donned with disdain.

"I look like a poor caricature of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman," she said through her teeth.

"Not at all," Reagan insisted, leaping up from the bed to approach Chris. "You look like a sexier Sinéad O'Connor, except with longer hair." To emphasize her point, she ruffled a hand through Chris's shorn tufts of hair that stuck up haphazardly from her scalp.

Chris batted her hand away. "I look like an idiot. Don't try to fluff my ego when you know I can't get out of this now."

Gripping Chris's shoulders, Reagan steered her towards the vanity mirror that was perfectly placed in the corner of the room. She grabbed a tube of hair gel that had been left sitting on top of Chris's suitcase and squeezed out a dollop of it into her hand. Rubbing it together, she began working it through Chris's hair.

"Should I remind you that you're an amazing friend? The greatest friend I could ever ask for?" she prompted into Chris's ear.

Chris rolled her eyes as she put on a grumpy frown. "You're gonna' need to tell me that at least fifty more times before I forgive you this. Don't forget that I had to take time off of work for this shit show."

"And you're going to have the time of your life, I promise you."

It wasn't exactly an assurance that Reagan could guarantee, especially when she wasn't sure that even she would have the so-called time of her life that night. She'd been forced into the event from the start by Geffen and the only thing that had made her bitterly accept her fate was the addition of her own hotel room that night, booked where the party was being held.

It was all so tediously exhausting. She still couldn't understand why Geffen had insisted that she attend such a sham of a celebration, a late New Year's event in downtown L.A. that was to be populated by employees and artists of the label alike. It was so laughably close to what she perceived as an office Christmas party that she had a difficult time not gagging at the idea of it.

From what Geffen had advertised to her, it was supposed to be more lavish than that. There was to be celebrities filling the hotel's ballroom that night, racking up tabs at the bar and overall promoting the notion that Geffen was the only suitable label to sign at.

Reagan didn't care about any of it. She would have much rather been at home, spending the Saturday evening with Gracie watching cartoons instead of leaving in the care of one of her friends' parents. It felt artificial to present herself as a stereotypical 'label person,' gushing over Geffen and toting around a flute of champagne as she sang its praises.

"I wish I had never said yes to this," Chris fumed as she angrily jerked the top of her dress up, trying to cover up more of her chest. "Why the fuck did I agree to this?"

"Because I told you there would be free liquor, courtesy of my status as an employee of Geffen," Reagan reminded her, putting the finishing touches on Chris's hair with a flick of her fingers.

"You could have asked someone else. You can't tell me that you don't have any fucking friends in L.A."

"Not any that I'd bring with me here. I can't stand the majority of them."

"Priss."

"Hey!" Reagan cried defensively. "You know as well as I do that half the people in this city suck."