OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

eighty-eight.

NOVEMBER 15th, 1993, SEATTLE, WA

    "ALRIGHT, I'M JUST going to come out and say it. You're a bitch."

Reagan gasped at Chris from the driver's seat of her car, dropping the french fry she'd had pinched between her fingers.

"What?" Reagan cried. "Why am I a bitch?"

Chris sighed and took a noisy slurp from the straw of her cup. "No reason, except that everything seems to perpetually always work out in your favor."

"That isn't true. That's not true at all," Reagan countered.

"Oh, shut up, don't deny it. You're living the dream. Well, I guess your dream, but still. Spread some of that good fucking fortune around, would ya'?"

Together, they were sitting in Reagan's car, parked outside the nearest Jack in The Box on Reagan's meager lunch break. It wasn't so much of a lunch break as it was an opportune moment to escape the office. As soon as Reagan had secured spare time without another member of the A&R team breathing down her neck, she'd phoned Chris and asked her to meet up at the greasiest, most fattening fast food restaurant that she could think of.

Chris was presently staying with Reagan for a few days, which meant that she'd had no problem hopping into her own car and driving over. With Sarah at home watching Gracie, Chris had nothing else better to do, unless it was scouring the record shops in Seattle.

"It's not perfect," Reagan said, hoping to sound reasonable. "If it was perfect, then Dave wouldn't be in New York right now. Or I'd be with him, at least."

"That's why you have me to keep you company," Chris said. "I'm your temporary 'Dave.' Don't ask me to make out with you, though."

Reagan balled up the wrapper of her finished cheeseburger and tossed it into the grease-stained paper bag sitting between them.

"Don't worry, that's not part of your job requirements," she said reassuringly. "Just keep me sane and we'll be fine."

"You don't have any reason not to be sane. You're married to a rockstar, you have a cute little kid at home and you're working at a record label and not inside of a sweaty car repair shop."

"Now you're making me feel guilty."

"Ah, don't," Chris shrugged. "It's not your fault that it happened. If it was going to happen to anyone, it should be you."

"You deserve to be happy, too. Want me to come to the next Yellow Fellow show? Maybe I could sign you."

Reagan smiled mischievously, but Chris sighed, her shoulders sagging.

"About that," she began uneasily. "I've been putting off telling you, but Yellow Fellow is officially broken up."

"What?!"

"Yeah. It's over. It wasn't going anywhere, and honestly I was sick of Scott and Michael. They wanted to be a cover-band for the rest of forever."

"Chris, I'm really sorry," Reagan said gently. "That sucks."

"It's whatever. My parents are really happy about it. They said I need to start a real career."

"A band can be a career!"

"Not to them. It doesn't help that I name-dropped you and told them about you getting this job. Now they really think I'm a failure. God forbid I bring a girlfriend home, they're one step away from trying to enlist me into a conversion camp."

"I wouldn't let that happen," Reagan pledged.

Chris chuckled dryly. "No, you wouldn't. Shit, I'd probably drag you there with me, even though you're straight."