OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-twenty-three.

REAGAN'S VOCAL CHORDS were beginning to feel taut from all the mindless talking she was doing that night. Whenever one person wished her well and drifted away, someone new took their place, shaking her hand and finding something trivial to discuss, whether it was the success of the party or business that she didn't feel like talking about.

She'd lost track of the celebrities she'd been rubbing shoulders with. Beck and the guys from Remy Zero had been fun to talk to, but she'd cringed her way into a corner when Axl Rose had made his pompous arrival.

Some time in the night, Reagan had lost track of Chris. Every now and then she'd spot her from across the room, usually draped over the bar with a new drink in her hand, and Chris would raise a toast to her. Reagan always offered her a smile, asking silently through her eyes if her friend was okay, but it appeared that Chris was content to be away from the masses of label people that held no interest for her.

A waiter stopped in front of Reagan, offering her another glass of champagne, and she happily took it. She'd been using each glass that found its way into her hand as a means to stop talking, often lifting it her mouth for pause as the person beside her droned on.

She wanted to go home, or at least back to her and Chris's room. Her feet were starting to ache in the strappy heels that she'd bought for the occasion and truthfully, she was bored. She didn't care to talk about work when she wasn't actually confined to her office.

The whole night was putting into perspective for her how utterly stale her job had gotten. It no longer was a channel of clinging to her musical roots. There was too much formality in it, too many businessman that lacked even one musical bone in their bodies.

Sighing, Reagan gulped back half the contents of her coupe glass and looked around warily, waiting for another man in a suit to come accost her with conversation that she didn't give a damn about.

When she rotated, she saw Chris shimmying her way through the crowd, a curious look on her face. Reagan reached a hand out and Chris took it, pulled into Reagan's side where she leaned in, murmuring in her ear over the sound of chatter and music.

"Hey," she said. "What label are the Foo Fighters signed to?"

Reagan drew back slightly and blinked, puzzled by the randomness of her question.

"Um," she began, lowering her champagne, "RCA. Why?"

"Odd," Chris said, screwing her mouth to the side as she gnawed on the inner corner of her lip, "because Dave is here."

"What?"

"Dave. Is. Here." Chris said slowly, separating each word with severe emphasis. She shuffled one step to the side and squeezed Reagan's wrist, jerking her head in the direction of the ballroom's bar.

Reagan's eyes followed to where Chris had gestured and she felt all of her vital organs seize up in her body, unsnapping from the tendons and muscles that kept them ordinarily locked in place.

Standing at the bar, with Taylor laughing freely at his side, was Dave. His shaggy brown hair, grown out so that it waved down to his shoulders, was unmistakable. His face was unmistakable, shaved free of the god-awful mutton cheap beard he'd been sporting for months. While Taylor already had a drink in his hand, Dave's jaw was working up and down on a piece of gum and he was chatting with Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows.

Reagan squeezed her champagne glass so tightly in her hands that she half-expected it to erupt in shards.

"That motherfucker," she said through her clenched jaw.

"He knew you were here," Chris murmured.

"Of course he did. Why else do you think he showed up?"

At that precise moment, Dave's eyes connected with hers from across the room. She thought that he would make his way over to her, but he stayed put, flashing her a close-lipped smile and wriggling his fingers in the air with a taunting wave.