OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-twenty-nine.

APRIL, 2001, LOS ANGELES, LA

            REAGAN SAT CROSS-LEGGED in front a spread of prints on her living room floor, chewing the cap of a pen between her teeth as she inspected them. The images blurred together in a swirl of colors and it took many times of re-focusing her eyes to get her attention back on track. Chewing on the pen was becoming more entertaining and that mildly concerned her.

She heard the front door open and it wasn't long before Dave strolled in, flicking shaggy pieces of hair out of his face.

"Hey baby," he greeted her, wasting not a second of the time it took him to stoop over and plant a kiss on top of her head.

"Hey," Reagan said around the cap of her pen, which was then angled at the corner of her mouth. She was finally getting used to Dave letting himself into the house (albeit without Gracie there) with his key again. It had taken some getting used to, as she'd been at first stunned into thinking a burglar was barging in the first few times, but it was very welcomed now.

"Whatcha' got there?" he asked, stretching his neck out to catch a glimpse of the glossy pictures she had scattered in a half-moon around her. She heard a crunch and when she looked up, she saw a greasy brown KFC bag dangling in his hand. The other held a half-eaten drumstick.

"You-," she began, accusation laced in her voice. Dave rolled his eyes and dropped the bag into her lap.

"Don't worry. I got you mashed potatoes."

"Thank god. I haven't moved from this spot in over an hour."

Reagan abandoned her pen and traded it for the plastic container of mashed potatoes she pulled from the bag. Her stomach snarled, no doubt starved from all the half-assed concentration she'd been putting into working.

"When you said you were working from home today, I thought you meant business calls and other shit like that," Dave said. As he sat down next to her with his legs bent at the knee, she saw how shiny his lips were with grease and it almost made her laugh.

"You missed the conference call. I brought all this back from the office," she said, gesturing to the prints. "I'm looking over the shoot for that one girl's second album release."

He stuck out one hand to snag one of the prints and she slapped it away, weary of his oily fingers.

"Shouldn't your team of lackeys be going over this? Not you?" he asked.

Reagan shrugged. "The art department called. They wanted me specifically to look it over."

"Makes sense. You know, being how all-mighty and powerful you are."

He was teasing her, trying to coax something akin to a proud smile onto her face, but the quip only made her want to cringe. What she really wanted to tell him was that she was being handed responsibilities that she didn't give a damn about. It wasn't important to her whether or not an album cover had doves being released on the front of it versus no doves featured at all.

"Want my opinion?" Dave offered casually.

"Don't even. I know what you're going to say. It sucks."

He broke out into a loud peal of laughter. "Yeah, it sucks. It sucks really fucking bad." Making a show of zipping his lips, he pretended to flip the key over his shoulder. "But you didn't hear it from me. You can be the one to drop that bomb."

"I'm not doing anything," she said, pushing the pictures away. "I'm completely okay with declaring it out of my hands."

"Eat your potatoes and cry on my shoulder in peace, then."