OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-five.

Dave groaned as expected and Reagan laughed.

"If you keep doing that, and stay just like this-," he yanked her tighter against him for emphasis, "I'll do anything you want."

Reagan placed a kiss on his jawline and inhaled the scent of him. She felt perfectly at home when she could feel him, feel his breath and his hair tickling her face, his hands tight on her hips. He felt like home.

"What was your question?" she murmured.

"Mhm . . ."

"David. Your question?"

His hand had snuck past her waist and farther south and although the gesture made Reagan giggle, she still clutched his arm and playfully nudged it back into place like they were a pair of virginal teenagers.

"I was going to ask why the hell you had to choose this dress."

Reagan frowned. Ouch. She stepped away to smooth her hands down the front of her dress, feeling defensive over the outfit even though she never would have worn it on any other night. It was even more bothersome that Dave had said that when he looked so casual beside her. Yet, she was proud of the selection, all because she'd picked it out on her own. They were in New York City for the Foo Fighters' pre-show performance to the VMAs, after all. She'd pulled out all the stops.

The dress was form-fitting, reaching mid-thigh and all black, matching the color scheme that Dave was going for that night. It was also strapless, which Reagan had presumed would be annoying to yank up all night, but the dress hugged her body like a glove and proved to be more comfortable than anticipated.

"Watch it," she warned him. "I actually like this dress. No need to be a harsh critic."

"My only harsh criticism is that you look way too fucking good to be out in public. You're going to blind people. Cause car accidents. It'll be anarchy out there."

"So . . . you're complimenting me?"

"Always." Dave drew her back to him, returning his hands to her waist and leaning his forehead against hers. "Every second of every fucking day, forever."

A flash of heat zipped bloomed behind Reagan's rib cage and settled somewhere low in her stomachache. When he talked to her like that, she inevitably forgot how she'd ever managed to be anxious in the first place that night.

"My gift to you goes well with it, too," Dave added. He touched the part of Reagan's necklace that rested daintily on her collarbone.

"It's beautiful," she agreed.

"I'll be damned. Do my ears deceive me? Are you actually accepting an extravagant gift without putting up a fight?"

Dave put on a mock expression of shock, widening his eyes dramatically and raising the pitch of his voice. Reagan rolled her eyes.

"Come on," she said. "Tonight's special. I'm not going to deny you your moment, Mr. Big Spender."

"It's not that special. It's just like any other show we've ever had."

"Um, really? Because all your shows are conducted on top of Radio City Music Hall? For the VMAs? The award show that made you a nominee tonight?"

"Hm," Dave mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it . . ."

"Is this your way of trying to be modest?" Reagan asked, feigning along with his court jester act.

"Honestly? I don't give a shit about all that. I'm just glad you're here with me."

"I'm glad I'm here, too." Reagan took his hand but hesitated. "Are you . . . are you upset about Pat?"

She knew that he was, even if he didn't outwardly show it. She hadn't needed to ask. Pat's official departure from the Foos that night had been a significant source of heartache and stress for Dave, though he'd disguised it well around her, always keen to project the air that everything was simply peachy.