Tainted Love
The Beginning.
The downtown streets of Oakland were just what they always had been. Hustling and bustling, whizzing and whirring as workers headed home for the night, tired after a day’s work; as parents walked hand in hand with their offspring, just released from school and still fervently chatting away. Even the pouring rain wouldn’t stop the familiar routine from working right on cue. Ordinary life, it seemed, slipped by ever so casually, day by day, just like the rainfall that slid through the gutters that afternoon.
Each drop of liquid ice crashed upon the BMW with surprising force. The voices of the three rockstars inside were barely audible; instead they merely dissolved in the constant rumble of sound. The weather appeared to either mock or reflect their dodgy moods – both of which weren’t helping the atmosphere within the car.
“Billie, for the love of sweet, holy Jesus, will you let me get a fucking coffee?” The whining tones of Tre Cool contrasted with the constant dull rattle of rain upon steel. His voice appeared strained. “My throat is killing me!”
The black-haired, irritable driver rolled his eyes, the simple action louder than any form of the noise that was present. “Who’s the one who’s been locked in that tiny room all fucking day, singing the same fucking words over, and over, and over again?” Billie's sharp voice was full of the frustration so commonly present after a hard day’s slog.
“Guys, shut – up!” The third man, tired and weary, was not in a good mood. And yet he was the sensible one now, acting unusually subdued for a man stuck in a car full of tense emotions. “I think I need my fix, anyway.” Undoing his seatbelt, Mike make a move toward the car door handle.
But from the backseat of the car, Tre forced his friend back. He wasn’t going to risk Mike getting his and Billie’s orders wrong, when already they were in such foul moods. Quick to his feet, the sturdy drummer opened the door and jumped outside, only remembering the heavy rain once he was half-soaked. He would have made a run for shelter, had his tetchy friends not stopped him with a desperate shout.
“TRE!”
“What the fuck do you want now?” Tre said exasperatedly, expertly masking the fury in his voice. He bowed his head just so he could clearly see Billie below the roof of the car, while where remnants of sweat had previously clung to his back, cold icy water seeped down like a constant waterfall.
Billie’s voice was unforgiving as he spoke. “For fuck’s sake, do you even know our fucking orders?” Of course, in a situation such as this, Billie’s overuse of the f-bomb was inevitable.
Tre ignored the intensity in his bandmate’s voice, stretched so tightly he may have been impersonating the over-turning of one of his guitars. He sure sounded ready to snap, just as quickly as a thin string. He slowly raised three fingers, eager to torment his friend while he had the chance. “Let’s see… an orange mocha frappucino for yours truly, a double shot flat white for our coffee addict pal, Mikerella, and a double latte for Your Highness.” He paused, hoping to provoke Billie with his overly-snide manner. “I think that’s all, don’t you? Here’s hoping I don’t tragically - slip - on the way.”
With a graceful slam of the car door, Tre bounded up the street, his already sodden leather jacket doing a terrible job at keeping his auburn hair dry while he hoisted it above his head. He could barely tell where he was going; before long his pants were soaked up to his knees from the constant splashing of puddles.
Their familiar café, thankfully, was warm, dry, and pleasantly stuffy with the fresh crowd of people eager for an escape from the torrential rain outside. While queuing for his three coffees, Tre allowed his thoughts to drift back to the previous recording session. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, re-recording an entire album from square one after the last demo tapes got stolen – but he couldn’t help but feel pissed anyway. Although the session for album number nine wasn’t entirely stressful, he wasn’t taking the five o’clock morning starts as suggested by Mike kindly – and, by the looks of things, nor was Billie.
Within half an hour, the coffees were ordered, made and paid for – and Tre was back out on the street, his coat slung over his head while his hands were busy carrying the cardboard tray bearing their precious drinks. He could easily feel the heat radiating from the paper mugs, providing some comfort for his frozen fingers. This pleasure was over all too soon; only metres away from where Billie’s car remained parked, the tray ended up on the ground, while the majority of the steaming hot liquid splashed onto the person the distracted drummer had just had the misfortune of running into.
“Ah! Fuck! Fuck! Shit! I am so fucking sorry!” Tre’s coat slipped over his eyes, blinding him from the situation around him. The arms of his coat caused him to trip clumsily and fall into a particularly large puddle, soaking the remainder of his once dry clothes. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he forced himself to gain his composure once again. His embarrassment only encouraged the relentless swear words to slide easily from his lips. “I’m so fucking sorry!” he repeated, hoisting himself up from the ground and fumbling around for the now useless containers.
It was in a split second that the entirety of the woman in front of him hit him – he had never seen someone so uniquely beautiful. He could feel his mouth begin to flap uncontrollably as he searched for the right words. “I – meant to – er … I am really - ”
“It doesn’t matter, honestly.” The woman gave a long sigh and picked up her fallen books. Her eyes were a violently stormy shade of grey, blackened by thick lines of eyeliner and mascara that had begun to run from the rain. She had a mop of thin, light brown hair that clung to her delicate features as water slid down her pale face…
“Um – you’ve, er… you’ve got my book.”
Tre shook himself awake, forcing himself to stop his groggy, and most likely creepy stares. He gave a weak smile, passing back her now wet book.
“Again, I’m so fucking sorry I mean – I can’t even carry a fucking tray without – I really should stop swearing.” He suddenly felt incredibly small, as though he were a small ant looking up at the world around him. God, he was thirty-one years old and couldn’t even talk to the opposite gender … what was he, useless?
“I’ve gotta go – and uh, get out of the rain. I’ll see you – maybe – around… some time…” Her voice was gentle, yet he could tell she was eager to escape the awkward situation. As quickly as they had collided, the mysterious girl had disappeared into the crowd, hurrying back along the street, laden with her various books.
Still punch-drunk, he stood staring after her while tightly clutching the mushed paper mugs. Her gentle voice and delicate face were clearly rooted into his consciousness, having the same effect in his mind as they had just had in his encounter with her. Never before had he seen someone so – so different, so beautiful…
Tre had barely turned around, back to face the BMW, when he heard an extremely high-pitched, hysterical scream full of rage, clearly belonging to the now coffee-deprived Billie.
“TRE! I AM FUCKING GOING TO KILL YOU!”
Each drop of liquid ice crashed upon the BMW with surprising force. The voices of the three rockstars inside were barely audible; instead they merely dissolved in the constant rumble of sound. The weather appeared to either mock or reflect their dodgy moods – both of which weren’t helping the atmosphere within the car.
“Billie, for the love of sweet, holy Jesus, will you let me get a fucking coffee?” The whining tones of Tre Cool contrasted with the constant dull rattle of rain upon steel. His voice appeared strained. “My throat is killing me!”
The black-haired, irritable driver rolled his eyes, the simple action louder than any form of the noise that was present. “Who’s the one who’s been locked in that tiny room all fucking day, singing the same fucking words over, and over, and over again?” Billie's sharp voice was full of the frustration so commonly present after a hard day’s slog.
“Guys, shut – up!” The third man, tired and weary, was not in a good mood. And yet he was the sensible one now, acting unusually subdued for a man stuck in a car full of tense emotions. “I think I need my fix, anyway.” Undoing his seatbelt, Mike make a move toward the car door handle.
But from the backseat of the car, Tre forced his friend back. He wasn’t going to risk Mike getting his and Billie’s orders wrong, when already they were in such foul moods. Quick to his feet, the sturdy drummer opened the door and jumped outside, only remembering the heavy rain once he was half-soaked. He would have made a run for shelter, had his tetchy friends not stopped him with a desperate shout.
“TRE!”
“What the fuck do you want now?” Tre said exasperatedly, expertly masking the fury in his voice. He bowed his head just so he could clearly see Billie below the roof of the car, while where remnants of sweat had previously clung to his back, cold icy water seeped down like a constant waterfall.
Billie’s voice was unforgiving as he spoke. “For fuck’s sake, do you even know our fucking orders?” Of course, in a situation such as this, Billie’s overuse of the f-bomb was inevitable.
Tre ignored the intensity in his bandmate’s voice, stretched so tightly he may have been impersonating the over-turning of one of his guitars. He sure sounded ready to snap, just as quickly as a thin string. He slowly raised three fingers, eager to torment his friend while he had the chance. “Let’s see… an orange mocha frappucino for yours truly, a double shot flat white for our coffee addict pal, Mikerella, and a double latte for Your Highness.” He paused, hoping to provoke Billie with his overly-snide manner. “I think that’s all, don’t you? Here’s hoping I don’t tragically - slip - on the way.”
With a graceful slam of the car door, Tre bounded up the street, his already sodden leather jacket doing a terrible job at keeping his auburn hair dry while he hoisted it above his head. He could barely tell where he was going; before long his pants were soaked up to his knees from the constant splashing of puddles.
Their familiar café, thankfully, was warm, dry, and pleasantly stuffy with the fresh crowd of people eager for an escape from the torrential rain outside. While queuing for his three coffees, Tre allowed his thoughts to drift back to the previous recording session. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, re-recording an entire album from square one after the last demo tapes got stolen – but he couldn’t help but feel pissed anyway. Although the session for album number nine wasn’t entirely stressful, he wasn’t taking the five o’clock morning starts as suggested by Mike kindly – and, by the looks of things, nor was Billie.
Within half an hour, the coffees were ordered, made and paid for – and Tre was back out on the street, his coat slung over his head while his hands were busy carrying the cardboard tray bearing their precious drinks. He could easily feel the heat radiating from the paper mugs, providing some comfort for his frozen fingers. This pleasure was over all too soon; only metres away from where Billie’s car remained parked, the tray ended up on the ground, while the majority of the steaming hot liquid splashed onto the person the distracted drummer had just had the misfortune of running into.
“Ah! Fuck! Fuck! Shit! I am so fucking sorry!” Tre’s coat slipped over his eyes, blinding him from the situation around him. The arms of his coat caused him to trip clumsily and fall into a particularly large puddle, soaking the remainder of his once dry clothes. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he forced himself to gain his composure once again. His embarrassment only encouraged the relentless swear words to slide easily from his lips. “I’m so fucking sorry!” he repeated, hoisting himself up from the ground and fumbling around for the now useless containers.
It was in a split second that the entirety of the woman in front of him hit him – he had never seen someone so uniquely beautiful. He could feel his mouth begin to flap uncontrollably as he searched for the right words. “I – meant to – er … I am really - ”
“It doesn’t matter, honestly.” The woman gave a long sigh and picked up her fallen books. Her eyes were a violently stormy shade of grey, blackened by thick lines of eyeliner and mascara that had begun to run from the rain. She had a mop of thin, light brown hair that clung to her delicate features as water slid down her pale face…
“Um – you’ve, er… you’ve got my book.”
Tre shook himself awake, forcing himself to stop his groggy, and most likely creepy stares. He gave a weak smile, passing back her now wet book.
“Again, I’m so fucking sorry I mean – I can’t even carry a fucking tray without – I really should stop swearing.” He suddenly felt incredibly small, as though he were a small ant looking up at the world around him. God, he was thirty-one years old and couldn’t even talk to the opposite gender … what was he, useless?
“I’ve gotta go – and uh, get out of the rain. I’ll see you – maybe – around… some time…” Her voice was gentle, yet he could tell she was eager to escape the awkward situation. As quickly as they had collided, the mysterious girl had disappeared into the crowd, hurrying back along the street, laden with her various books.
Still punch-drunk, he stood staring after her while tightly clutching the mushed paper mugs. Her gentle voice and delicate face were clearly rooted into his consciousness, having the same effect in his mind as they had just had in his encounter with her. Never before had he seen someone so – so different, so beautiful…
Tre had barely turned around, back to face the BMW, when he heard an extremely high-pitched, hysterical scream full of rage, clearly belonging to the now coffee-deprived Billie.
“TRE! I AM FUCKING GOING TO KILL YOU!”