That Blue Gibson: Another Round

fifty-five

"Hey, Grohl. You look like shit."

John dropped his phone on the table when Dave ambled up to the small table in the hotel's restaurant. 

"Long fucking night, man."

"Yeah? Everything okay?"

"Liz got some crazy headache and didn't know which end was up. Scared the hell out of me."

John frowned and waited in silence for the waitress to fill their coffees. "She get those often?" he asked once they were alone again.

"Nope."

"You need to head home?"

"Hawkins is with her," he stared down into the black swirls of coffee in his cup, "But if it happens again, I'm-"

"You're gone, I know. I'll get something on standby just in case."

Dave examined his manager over the rim of his cup, trying to mentally add up how long they'd known each other. Longer than Taylor, longer than even Nate, John was around when he and Kurt finally moved out of that hell hole in Olympia and up to Seattle.

"Thanks, man."

"Of course. She's the only thing keeping you tolerable any more," his manager grinned wryly and reached under the table to drop a stack of papers between their coffee cups, "Ready for today's bullshit?"

*

Contracts were signed, hands were shaken, polite laughter was evoked and photos were taken. The label's money was secured and with that, Dave could move on to the somewhat easier part of the trip where he didn't necessarily have to work as much as be paraded around like the proverbial jewel at the top of the client list. 

Which really wasn't work as far as he was concerned. All he had to do was show up to some embarrassingly expensive restaurant, eat as much as he could in rare meat and even rarer scotch, tell a few rock star tales and remind these people they'd made a sound investment. And they had, he was definitely good for at least another two albums and the tours that followed, but he couldn't concentrate. His mind was back in L.A. and the two big shots from the label weren't helping matters. 

"Word along the wire is that your wife is a shoo-in for the Cline biopic," the tall one in an outdated brown suit announced.

Dave was curious, but not surprised word had made it so far so fast, "It's already reached the east coast, huh?"

"Got a contract notification this morning in our email memo," the shorter one in sharkskin informed him, "And you know once it leaves LA, it's definite."

"She still has to sign, obviously," the other one added, shooting his co-worker a cautionary look, "But please pass along our congratulations. The film side of our little company could use a vehicle with her star power and I'm positive they would be happy to recommend her to the academy again next fall. We know she's good for it."

Although their compliments were a blatant tactic to get Dave to convince Liz to sign the contract, a warmth circulated through him and if he hadn't been clutching his scotch so close to his chest, he would have puffed it out with pride, "I'll let her know, man. Thanks. She's been working hard on it."

The rest of the conversation revolved around her as well and before long, several other people had joined their little circle, curious to hear anything about her that he'd let slip through his liquor-greased jaw. 

*

It was nearly midnight in New York when Dave finally plodded back to his hotel room, drunker than he'd intended to be and realizing he hadn't talked to her in hours. Swearing under his breath, he dug through his pockets for his key card and wedged his phone between his shoulder and ear. She answered on the third ring, her voice bright, clear and the most comforting sound he'd heard in ages.