A/N: Yeah I'm kinda shooting these stories straight out my fingers haha :'D But I just keep getting all these ideas and aaaaaa the fanbase needs more fics! So I kinda wanna steer away from all the romance and take another path for a fanfic. Enjoy 3
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Stacee gripped the bottle of scotch in his hands tighter than before, letting out a short breath.
"Fuck" he thought aloud to himself as he took a swig. "Fuck me."
He cupped his head in his hands and he remained seated at the foot of his bed. Hey Man was sitting down next to him, looking at his companion curiously. Stacee looked down at him and nudged him away, for now he needed to be completely alone now. The monkey seemed to almost frown at Stacee before he jumped off the bed and scurried into the next room. Stacee got up to close his door and he sat back down on the bed, groaning to himself.
The interview for Rolling Stones was a disaster before, that reporter; what was her name? Cinderella? Something with a C. But she threw questions at him that he hasn't thought of in all the while. She was a fiery one alright, and Stacee was still in shock from what happened earlier on that day. And what they experienced together; it made him feel alive again. He found himself, as well as his music. And like the idiot he was, he scared her away with that. Ugh! Who did she think she was? Who did he think HE was!? He threw down his scotch bottle on the floor in rage, watching it crack into pieces. His breath went jagged and growled, cupping his head into his hands and shuddered in his rage.
He hated to admit it to himself but, she was right. Everything she said, it was the truth. She was the only person who was able to drill the cold hard truth into Stacee's brain and he didn't want to have to believe it. And he hated to admit that what they shared afterward was better than anything he'd ever experienced. The mere fact that she continuously gave him a challenge by resisting filled him with a special joy he hasn't felt in much too long. Every action that she did, every facial expression was burned into his brain and he enjoyed the memories far too much. There was something about her that made him feel better about himself but it was so vague to him as to what it was, he just couldn't figure it out.
So, the million dollar question is, what was he doing wrong? Where did his passion go? Why out of all people was that reporter? How come she gave him all of his passion back within only a few minutes when he hasn't felt that same passion for so long? What made her so special and unlocked the missing feelings that he kept locked away from the public? He angrily shook his head in disgust at his thoughts and grabbed at his hair. He had it all, the fame, the fortune, the women; but then why did he feel so empty, emptier than before? And why did it take that Rolling Stones reporter to make him realize how downhill he was going? These ghastly questions waltzed in Stacee's mind. They cackled and laughed and never let him alone for once in his own thoughts. They haunted him, especially since he couldn't answer a single one.
He knew he couldn't let his career turn into what it was becoming, the blond reporter was right. Paul at any moment could drive his career downhill and Stacee was practically letting him. He knew he had to get his life back together but how? How would he do it?
Stacee sat like that; his hands buried deep in his hair and his eyes fixed on the broken glass of his scotch bottle, as if piecing them back together would help him solve all of his problems. I'm gonna find that reporter. I'm gonna find her and I'm gonna make her help me understand these feelings she gave me today. But where, where do I start looking?
He furrowed his brows and thought, thought with all he could. What about that strip club, that Venus place? He continued to think. She's a reporter, not a stripper; get your head out of your ass and think, Stacee! But as he thought, his brain told him to try and look at that club. He sighed to himself and got up from his bed. Fine, I'll go, but I won't get anything there to help me.
And as he used these thoughts to manipulate his brain to think he would look at a strip club for the reporter instead of blowing off some steam, he got up and put on his coat, grabbed the keys to his motorcycle and left his bedroom before his thoughts told him to do otherwise.
A/N: Sorry it's a bit short but I was listening to some old Linkin Park stuff and well, this story happened. Hope you enjoyed and this'll probably be my last submission for the night.