Sequel: Gerard Way: Artist

Frank Iero: P.A.

Thirty One

Two sporadic hours of sleep – that’s all I managed. Even then, I still dreamt about Gerard, the fight, and all the different ways it could have played out.

I stumble to the bathroom and check my appearance in the vanity mirror. My eyes are puffy, red-rimmed, and bloodshot. My lips are cracked. I feel and look like I’ve been hit by a truck. My mind, however, is numb. I don’t look away from my reflection as I peel off my sleep pants and the hoodie I didn’t have the energy to remove last night.

The spray from the showerhead revives me somewhat, but it doesn’t rid me of my memories of last night. If they would disappear, perhaps I could face him again, but until then my plan is to avoid him at all costs.

I step out of the shower and walk naked through the suite to my bag. Water drips off me onto the floor, leaving dark marks on the beige carpet. I don’t care if it damages the carpet – Gerard would be the one who’d have to pay for it. I select a pair of jeans and plain black T-shirt and throw them on haphazardly. Everything else I’ve worn while I’ve been here gets stuffed back into my bag, suit included.

Gerard told me the other day that we’d be leaving early because he had work to get done this weekend. It’s just after eight now – I’d constitute that as early. Double checking I haven’t left anything behind, I heave my bag up onto my shoulder and head for the door; I’ll wait for him in the courtyard.

I pull the door open. The handle catches my attention. There’s a black rose wrapped around it.

“What the...?” I mumble to myself.

I untwist the stem from the handle, my fingers shaking. Who did this? Is it meant for me?

As I examine the rose I see a small piece of paper hidden between the petals. Checking that there’s no one else in the corridor, I carefully extract the paper and read what’s written on it.

I’m sorry.


Did Gerard do this? He had to – who else would have?

A member of staff appears in the corridor, pushing a cart of plates beneath silver cloches. She’s dressed in black and has her strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a tight high ponytail. She smiles and comes to halt in front of me.

“I was just bringing you your breakfast, sir,” she informs me. “Where would you like it?”

Back in the kitchen because I didn’t order any. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t order breakfast.”

She – Genevieve, according to her name tag – looks puzzled as she picks up a list from her cart and scans it. “It says here that there’s an order for this room...”

Gerard.

“Excuse me,” I say.

I dump my bag on the floor and storm to the door two doors down. Making a fist, I bang loudly on it three times. Out of the corner of my eye I catch Genevieve’s shocked and appalled expression; she must think I’m psychotic – which I am – it’s a side effect of working for Gerard Way.

Gerard yanks the door open, looking concerned until he sees it’s me who knocked.

“Did you do this?” I ask angrily, pointing to Genevieve.

“Have you lost your mind?” he asks me incredulously.

“Entirely – but that’s not the point. Did you do this, too?” I shove the rose in his face.

He stares at my deranged face for a few seconds before glancing at the black rose in my hand. “I told you the other day – you couldn’t pay me enough to give you flowers,” he replies. He starts to close to door. “Go be crazy somewhere else.”

I pound my fist on his door again, saying, “You didn’t answer me about breakfast!”

The door flings open again. “I ordered breakfast for everyone!” Then it is slammed shut in my face again.

Well, that was rude.

I turn back to Genevieve; she looks terrified.

“It’s okay, he’s my boss,” I reassure her.

“Uh... um, y-your breakfast?” she asks me nervously.

“You have it,” I shrug. Gerard’s pissed me off too much to eat.

Leaving Genevieve standing alone and confused in the corridor outside my room, I head for the staircase. Another staff member is about to climb the stairs as I reach the bottom. She chastises me for how I’m dressed, “country club attire only”, and I kindly tell her that I’m leaving anyway. My excuse doesn’t stop her from glaring at me until I’m out of her sight. Bitch.

I make my way out the courtyard. There are fewer cars here than yesterday, indicating that some of the guests have already left. I prop my bag up against the side of Gerard’s Maserati before walking around the enclosed area aimlessly.

“What are you doing out here at this hour?”

Alicia materialises beside me, absolutely glowing – something that I’d attribute to her wedding night and not her pregnancy. I force a smile for her benefit.

“Just getting some air,” I reply nonchalantly.

“Really?” she queries in that ‘I know you’re lying’ tone. “I thought it might have something to do with that fight you had with Gerard this morning?”

My jaw drops. “How did you know about that?”

She shrugs her shoulders casually, a knowing smile on her face. “Mikey texted me a few minutes ago. Your spat was only a few feet away from our door, you know?”

Damn! She’s right...

I’d like to wave it off and tell her it was nothing, but based off what Gerard said last night, I’m assuming the text message she received was pretty lengthy and filled with every detail. Actually, she probably knows more about what happened than what I do.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks me gently, touching a hand to my shoulder.

I shake my head, but say, “I’m just so sick of his bipolar personality – I never know which Gerard I’m going to get.” Nice, sweet, angry, frustrated, generous, depressed, romantic... “He’s the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

She nods understandingly. “I know it’s difficult, but he’s like this for a reason – it’s a defence mechanism.”

“Gerard doesn’t like to let people get too close because he’s afraid he’ll lose them, just like he lost his parents, his friends during college, and Toby, I know.”

She looks taken aback. Perhaps I know more than she does?

“He told you about all of that?” she asks, clearly shocked by my knowledge of the human Rubix cube.

“Yeah,” I shrug, “to an extent.”

“I don’t want to freak you out and scare you,” she begins, which on its own is enough to render me freaked out and scared, “but sometimes I think you’re the only one in the world who could be perfect for Gerard.”

My eyes widen and she sees I am in fact freaked out and scared.

“Sorry! But it’s true.”

I’m about to tell her that it is most certainly not true – that there is no spark, no ying and yang, no two halves to a whole – but just as I open my mouth, the aforementioned human Rubix cube enters the courtyard. He walks determinedly toward his car, dressed in all black, his hair back to its usual messy state.

“Get in the car, Frank!” he shouts over his shoulder as he pops the trunk.

I turn to Alicia and say, “Apparently we’re leaving.”

She smiles and pulls me into a friendly hug. “Have a safe trip – and thank you so much for all you’ve done for Mikey and I. Yesterday would have been nothing without you.”

I kiss her cheek and say my goodbyes, telling her to give my best to Mikey when she gets back upstairs. She heads over to the castle doors, but doesn’t go inside, watching for our departure.

Gerard is muttering to himself about how far forward his seat is when I get in the car beside him. I cross my arms and lean back into my seat. Inside I’m fuming about how ridiculously moody he is being this morning; he wasn’t the one that was whirled around the dance floor like a rag doll and then humiliated in front of everyone. He revs the engine loudly and flings the car into reverse. Stones are kicked up behind us as he speeds out of the courtyard. I wave to Alicia but I don’t know if she could see it.

“What is your problem?” I snap at him as he swerves out of the driveway and onto the streets of Huntington like a mad man.

You’re my problem,” he answers with no further explanation because apparently I’m a fucking mind reader.

I lurch forward as he slams on the brakes for a red light. The other week he made a point of telling me how bad a driver I am behind the wheel of his car. Has he ever met himself?

“How am I a problem?” I demand of him.

He pushes the accelerator to the floor as the lights turn green. Keeping his focus on the road (thank fuck!), he says, “The way you acted this morning was beyond embarrassing. I’ve fired P.A.’s for much less than that.”

“Then why don’t you fire me?” I ask scornfully. Right now, I’m so frustrated with him that I would take a sacking in my stride – and with the way he’s driving I’m probably going to die anyway, so what does it matter if I have a job or not?

He, still speeding along the busy straight stretch of road, clenches his hands on the wheel. I await his answer, but it doesn’t come.

“Well?” I coax. Before I wanted to piss off, but now I’m generally curious. “I annoy you, I’m always late, I’m shit at my job, I’m nosey, I force you to answer personal questions, I’ve almost destroyed your car on multiple occasions, and don’t even get me started on the names I’ve called you – so why don’t you fire me?”

There’s a long silence. I watch his body language change. His eyes narrow, his mouth thins into a line, and his knuckles turn white; Gerard is angry. Well, good – Frank is angry, too. I glare at him until he realises that I’m not dropping this.

Begrudgingly, he mutters, “Ellie said I’m not allowed to.”

Laughter bursts from my lips before I can force myself to stop it. Gerard turns his head to fix me with a death glare, but it’s not enough to silence me. How could it be? This is Gerard Way, a world famous artist who is ridiculously wealthy and has been independent, emotionally and financially, for years, and here is being told what to do by an elderly woman. It’s even funnier because Ellie is a petite French woman – the worst she could do is waggle a wiry finger and yell at him in French. I mean, if it were a plump Italian woman I’d completely understand – they hit with rolling pins and wooden spoons.

“Where are your balls and backbone?” I manage to ask rhetorically through my laughter.

He accelerates around the corner, throwing me up against the side of the car. Pain shoots through my shoulder and I quickly stop.

“Shut up,” he orders through gritted teeth.

Oh, I’ve really pissed him off.

***


The drive back to Manhattan was filled with angry silence. After his reckless driving left me with a bruised shoulder and arm, I made the executive decision to drop the topic of why or why not I’m still employed. Neither of us made any further attempt at conversation. We did stop for gas when we were about halfway home, and Gerard did buy me a spinach roll plus a coffee, but he didn’t ask me before hand nor did I thank him after the fact. Part of me wanted to, but that may have resulted in more bruising.

Gerard turns into the driveway much faster than I would have liked, but I rejoice in the fact that I’ve made it home without the addition of a body bag. He kills the ignition and gets out to grab his bag from the trunk. I do the same and almost lose my fingers as Gerard slams it shut just as I extract my bag.

Now that there’s no rapid moving sports car in the equation, opening my mouth and blasting him seems like a safe enough option.

“Mind your fingers, Frank, I’m about to close the trunk!” I shout sarcastically after him. “Oh, thanks for the warning, Gerard!”

He ignores my comments and continues from the car, up the front steps, dipping down to pick up the newspaper, and to the door. I follow the path he took and reach the door just as he swings it shut behind him.

“No, don’t hold the door for me, Gerard – I got it!” I scream as I push the door open. He shows no signs of stopping as he tears up the marble staircase. “No, don’t worry – I’ll lock the car, too!”

He raises his right hand and jabs at the lock button on his keys while ascending the stairs, still not making any attempt to acknowledge me or my comments. I watch as he storms across the landing and disappears behind a wall.

“Cocksucker!” I shout.

Suddenly a rolled up copy of The New York Times comes flying at me, narrowly missing my head and hitting the front door behind me. I look up just in time to catch the death stare Gerard’s directing at me before he once again disappears.

Venturing upstairs to put my bag in my room doesn’t seem like a wise idea right now, so I drop it from my shoulder to the floor. There’s bound to be some kind of cartoon on one of Gerard’s million television channels; I head into the living room. Lucky for me, Fox is showing a double episode of The Simpsons. I settle into the couch.

I watch on in glee as I realise the episode I’m watching is the one where Bart falls in love with Laura Powers when she moves in next door. It would have to be my favourite episode ever. Who doesn’t love a story of unrequited love? This story is especially awesome. Laura is the unattainable; she’s older, quick-witted, rebellious... actually she’s a lot like Gerard.

Suddenly I don’t feel like watching this episode any more.

I flick to the morning news and watch it intently. My problems seem far more insignificant when I’m hearing about wars and terrorists and fires and governmental breakdowns and sex offenders lurking in the online shadows. The news may be about to replace my religious cartoon watching – it’s a good distraction.

I hear Gerard stomp down the marble stairs. He walks along the hallway and into my office, his footsteps then silenced by the soft carpet. Part of me thought he was lying about coming back early to do work, and perhaps he was up until our argument, but either way he is obviously working now. I only half listen to the remainder of the news broadcast; the rest of my attention is firmly focused on listening for Gerard’s movements.

Twenty minutes later I hear him leave the office. He sounds like he’s heading for the stairs, but there’s a pause in his footsteps. I keep my eyes tightly locked on the television, my ears trained on him. I count the seconds of silence in my head one... two... three... Then his shoes click on the marble, the sound getting closer instead of further away.

“You’re watching the news...” he comments. “Perhaps it’ll inject some intelligence in you and make it possible for you to hold a mature conversation.”

I jump to my feet and swivel to face him. “Excuse me?” I demand. “I wasn’t the one slamming doors in people’s faces and throwing newspapers like a child.”

“And I wasn’t the one banging on hotel room doors while throwing around ridiculous accusations,” he counters, folding his arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes at me.

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t flirted with me at the reception I wouldn’t have had to go banging on your door!”

“I did not flirt with you,” he seethes.

I scoff. “You could have fooled me.”

He walks around the couch and comes to stand in front of me with a complete disregard for the boundaries of personal space. I attempt to step away, but the back of my knees hit the couch and I end up falling to the cushions.

“Trust me, Frank,” he snarls, “if I was flirting with you, you would have been on your knees and fumbling with my fly in a second.”

My mouth goes dry, not just because of the comment, but the fact that my face is now level with his crotch. He... I – what?

Seemingly satisfied, he turns on his heel and walks away in the direction of the kitchen. I’m not sure what to make of this...
♠ ♠ ♠
Hello my lovelies!
I have a request for any of you artistic creatures: Create some fan art for this story. Pick your favourite moment thus far, draw it (whatever style you like!), and then send it to me. You could send it via Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/rachel.ferrett.5) or upload it to deviantArt or something similar and post the link on Mibba. There will be a prize of some sort for the best - I'm just not 100% certain what that'll be yet...perhaps a series of sneak peeks, or getting the next chapter earlier than everyone else.
So, get drawing - I really want to see what everyone can do :)

Coming up in Frank Iero: P.A....

"Do you honestly think it's possible?"

"No, but I think we should try anyway," he replies softly, looking at me for the first time since he sat down.