OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

twenty-one.

She'd been wrong, naturally.

Her emotions were still off balance, pulling her in a thousand different directions as she walked up to Dave with her hands in her jacket pockets. She didn't know what to do. It was like a devil and an angel had found places on both her shoulders and were whispering in her ear, just like in the cartoons, about which advice was best to take.

The side that held the angel, the side Reagan guessed was her sensibility, encouraged her to be polite and to hold Dave away from her at arm's length. It would be right thing to do if she didn't want to send the wrong message.

But the side of the devil suggested something entirely different. It reminded her of all that she had felt while watching Dave that night in the audience. It madd a point to tell her that she ought to slide down next to Dave on the couch and make him feel what she herself had felt, except with her lips, directly planted on his.

This time, Reagan knew her cheeks were warming with blush. They were in public, yet she was still entertaining X-rated thoughts about Dave.

He looked up at her from the couch, his dark eyes flashing in the dull yellow light of the room. In them Reagan saw as much conflict as she felt inside. Dave's eyes showed an even combination of lust, admiration and maybe even . . .

No.

She wasn't going to say the L-word, not even in her head. They'd only known each other for a few weeks.

"Saved the best for last, huh?" Dave asked, draining the remnants of his water bottle and crushing it in his hand. He threw it in a trash pail that was off to the side, an inviting smile on his face.

Reagan enclosed her hands tighter within the pockets of her jacket as he spoke. There was something that she would never be able to get over concerning his voice. It didn't sound right coming out of his mouth — gentle and sweet, far from the deep monotone she expected him to have.

Fuck you, she thought. Fuck you for making me want you so badly.

"You broke your drum kit. How very punk of you,"
she replied smoothly.

She nearly applauded herself for keeping her cool while Dave was looking at her so deeply, like he was undressing with her eyes. There had to be only one reason why he was doing it, and surely it was to be her payback for not coming to see him prior to the show starting.

"Like, Keith Moon kind of punk?" Dave asked, his voice light with humor. He propped his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

"No. Keith Moon broke his drum kits intentionally. There's a difference," Reagan said.

And Keith Moon had nothing on Dave Grohl, as far as she was concerned.

They were close enough to touch, yet so much space existed between them. She wanted to reach out and put her hands on him, all over him, but reality set in when she realized she couldn't. Not only were there people around, but Reagan was still trying to remain level-headed. She couldn't allow herself to touch him leisurely, even when that was all she wanted to do.

"Are you going to congratulate me or not?" Dave said. He stood up from the couch, moving a step closer to Reagan. She could smell his breath — it was minty, like he'd been chewing gum. She wandered how it would taste on her tongue.

She knew he was joking. In the time that Reagan had spent with Dave, she'd learned quickly that he thrived off of his own special brand of humor. But there was something else in the way he looked at her, his expression hard but his eyes full of yearning. Reagan, who hadn't taken an ounce of shit or attitude from anyone since the day she'd been born, felt herself crumbling under Dave's intense stare.