Normality
Sometimes normal just doesn't happen...
(A/N: I wrote this a year ago, an outline and all, but I never posted it because I take so long to finish a story. Here goes. Hope you like it. R&R)
Summary: The hectic life of David Cook
Disclaimer: I do not own David Cook, any brands mentioned, or any celebrities or products mentioned. I mean it's a fanfic.
chapter 1
He stood in a throng of screaming girls throwing objects at him. He smiled like he always did. He loved fans and bared in mind the lecture from his publicist that his fans are the reason that he is here. Here, he chuckled to himself as he moved the Sharpie in his left hand and signed a piece of paper. He glanced up and in between the shrieking heads he caught a glimpse of a girl across the street. She wasn't screaming or freaking out and just as if she felt him look at her, she turned her head and looked right into his eyes.
His brain took a picture of her, black hair, hazel eyes, button nose, and pink lips. He easily recalled what she wore: a black top, blue jeans, black flats, and a handbag made of orange, yellow, brown, green, and white horizontal stripes sat on her shoulder.
As quickly as she looked in his direction, she looked away and continued on, in the opposite direction he was heading.
A piercing scream brought him back to the crowd. He blinked a few times and realized his smile had vanished. He curled his lips like he always did and returned to his fans.
He sat on an empty tour bus, alone in the back. He scanned the gray seats of the bus as it zipped past buildings leaving everything in a blur. He closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, there stood the girl with the black hair, hazel eyes, a button nose, and her pink lips. She had a slender build, accented with black satin fabric that sat on her hips and hugged her curves. Her hand slid along the seats as her naked feet moved towards him silently, seductively. She smiled playfully with a hint of mischief in her eyes. When she reached him, she draped herself across his lap, so that she sat facing him. His legs were pushed together with her legs on either side. She continued smiling and began moving her hips against his. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "Mr. Cook."
"Mr. Cook!" was yelled into his ear and a slap went across his face.
He yelled and opened his eyes, moving a hand to his cheek.
"Sir, I came to wake you as your manager requested. You slapped yourself."
"Yes. Thank you, Rita."
Rita was his housekeep. His manager hired one, even though he didn't initially want one.
Lying on his back he looked up at the ceiling not focusing on anything in particular. He had a bit of a headache due to the lack of decent sleep. Either he didn't have time to sleep or dreamt all his sleep away.
A loud blaring sound came from his alarm clock. Rita really didn't have to wake him. He got out of bed, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs. He stripped them off and stepped into the shower. Turning the handle, water began drizzling out of the showerhead danced on his skin. He squirted face cleanser into his palm and massaged it into his skin. Programmed into his brain by his makeup artist. His makeup artist complained about his skin, which seems ridiculous, but apparently mattered a lot on camera. He toweled off, pulled a printed-T over his head and slipped into Calvin Klein boxer briefs (upgrading from Gap) and a pair of jeans. He looked at himself in the mirror. His damp brown hair was ruffled and bags were under his eyes. He massaged moisturizer into his face (something his makeup artist also told him to do). He grabbed the jar of clay that sat next to his sink. Dipping his fingers into the jar, he obtained a small blob onto his fingers and ran it through his hair.
He walked into his dining room, an open kitchen concept and was welcomed by the smell of breakfast.
David Cook had moved to the noisy, bustling city of New York. His recording studio was only a few blocks from his newly acquired penthouse (courtesy of his label).
Why NYC? He didn't care much for the city; it was a 19-hour drive from his family. It was noisy and everyone rushed everywhere. He liked the buzz of the city, it did have good food, and his studio was there. Everything was close, more downtown.
He sat down to his few slices of toast, soft cooked eggs, and a couple sausages. He picked up the toast just as the phone rang. Darn it. Dropping his toast he answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Morning, David! You have a meeting with Our Lady Peace today at 9, a recording session at 11, meeting with your interior designer for lunch, since you can't seem to decide what you want to put into your new penthouse. You also have an interview on the radio today, talking about your second album at 3, a commercial to film at 5, and I signed you up for that yoga place. You know, where all the celebs go, at 6. You need to relax and do something trendy. Also, you need to make an appearance at some party. You got that? It's alright it's on your iPhone."
It buzzed in agreement as it received the schedule for the day. Before he could object his manager hung up.
His day went by fairly fast. Moving from place to place, meeting with different people. He persuaded his interior designer that he wanted minimalist decorations with a sense of warmth; he liked his apartment homier, less cold, nothing extravagant.
Then he attended his yoga class, a peaceful slow down, time not to think. He forgot his stress for 60 minutes, the duration of the class and inspired him to think of a new song about the image of the black-haired girl that lingered in his mind.
He was then redressed for the night and whisked away by a limo to numerous evening social events, where bodyguards and cameras escorted him from the red carpet to the VIP room.
He stumbled back into his penthouse at about 2 a.m. Dublin, his little black dog, woke as he heard the front door open. His little paws scurried across the floor, make little scratching sounds as he ran to jump at David's feet.
David smiled, picking up the little dog with one hand and carried him to the coach. He slumped himself on the coach, Dublin laid across his chest, mindlessly scratching the dog's head.