Fool's Gold [Jaylor Fanfiction]

Dancing with the Devil

One Week Later
June 29th; 2023
Joe Alwyn's Point of View
It's been four hours this time and she still hasn't shown up at the studio. If she doesn't show up in the next five minutes I'm just going to leave and go back home. I've been starting sessions without her because I'm not going to just wait around. Taylor and I have been working on creating a fictional love triangle and we have three characters. Augustine, Betty, and James. I've decided to start working on a song called Betty. I want it to revolve around James trying to win Betty back after breaking her heart. It's harder to do these types of songs without Taylor than I thought though. She's a much better lyricist than me. She'll tell me how I can really work the piano though. I'm the melody guy you could say.
I finally give up on Taylor ever coming into the studio. I pack up everything that was worked on and grab the notebook. I leave the recording studio, planning to just walk back to my place. The label is paying for my flat as they were desperate for a co-writer. They pay for my rent in NYC that's close to the studio. I begin to walk but a bad feeling punches me in the gut. Something tells me something is wrong. Even if she's late, Taylor always shows up. She hasn't responded to my messages or calls.
I take a deep breath and turn in the other direction, going to her flat. It's a very short walk. She's bound to buy a place close to where she records her music. I get to her place and knock on the door but no one answers which increases my concern.

"Taylor?" I yell and knock louder but there's no response. When Taylor was plastered she gave me a key to her flat for emergencies. I'm not sure why. I keep it in my wallet because I think I'm going to need to use this a few times. I use the key to open the door and walk in. I close the door and of course, the place is a mess. There are bottles of wine and vintage bourbon everywhere. Does she know what a rubbish bin is? There are food wrappers all over the floor and I see some cold medication on the counter along with Tylenol. There are blood-soaked tissues scattered on the floor.

"Taylor, it's Joe. I'm just checking to see if you're okay." I follow the tissues into a master bedroom where I see Taylor. She's in her bed, shivering under the blankets. She's curled up in a ball, on the verge of tears. You can see stains of blood on her philtrum, continuing to run down her face.

"Hey, are you okay?" I lightly shake her and she looks up at me with a small smile.

"I don't think I have a cold." She replies hoarsely.

"I agree. Do you have a thermometer?"

"Under the bathroom sink. Ignore all the paraphernalia."

I get confused by her last comment but go into her bathroom. I open the cabinet under her sink and it's filled with what must be an addict's dream. She has oxycodone, needles, and tourniquets, and the grand finale is bourbon. Now this isn't any bourbon. This is easily at least 15 years old and worth $10,000 type of bourbon. This woman has a lot of money to waste. I move on and find the thermometer in the back buried under some makeup. Clearly, her health was the last thing on her mind. I'm surprised she remembered where it was. I close the cabinets and walk back into the bedroom with the thermometer.

"I'm not sure how but I found it." I sit on the edge of the bed, close to her. She's adjusted her position so she's lying against the headboard.

"Joe, why are you here?" She asks confused.

"You didn't show up at today's session," I answered the question simply and put the thermometer to her forehead.

"I know but why are you here?"

"I had a feeling something was wrong and I was right." I look down at the thermometer which reads 103.7°. America and their stupid imperial system. I pull out my phone to calculate it into Celsius.