I'm Fine

Chapter 6 – Who Do I Think I'm Fooling?

A/N: Well, I decided to up the rating of this story to M (R). Nothing is really R-worthy in this chapter, but things will get there pretty soon, so I thought I'd go on and change it. Thanks and please review!

Joanne was greeted warmly by the smell of coffee the next morning. She rolled around smilingly, wondering why Maureen had gotten up before she had...She opened her eyes and glanced around, her surroundings quickly reminding her of the previous night's events. She slowly sat up, rubbing her face and trying in vain to take away her memories of Maureen with Ally...

She adjusted her wrinkled clothes from the night before walking into the kitchen where she joined Mark.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, handing her a cup of steaming coffee.

"Been better," she replied, gratefully sipping down the hot liquid. "What time is it?"

"10 o'clock," he replied.

"I'm sorry I barged in like this, Mark," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "I just needed to get away from it all...you know?"

"I know, Joanne. Don't worry about it."

She smiled briefly. "I really do appreciate it. But Mark...honestly, I'm not entirely sure that I'm..."

"That you're not ready to go back to your apartment yet?"

She grinned sheepishly. "I hate to ask it, but can I stay here? It will only be a few days, tops..."

"You don't have to ask, Jo. Of course you can."

"Thank you," she said, grateful at his compassion. "Oh and Mark, can I use your shower?"

He tossed her a towel. "Go ahead."

"Umm...Mark?"

Mark looked up from his camera, his eyes instantly widening and his jaw going slightly slack. Standing in the doorway of his bedroom was Joanne, clad only in a maroon towel, small beads of water still sparkling on her shoulders, her arms, her thighs...

"...could I borrow some clothes?"

"O...of course you can," he stammered, blushing a deep crimson. He turned away quickly, trying to regain his composure. She was a beautiful woman, that was for sure. "He fumbled around in his drawers, searching for his smallest articles of clothing and handed her a striped button down shirt, a pair of his jeans, and a belt.

"These will probably be huge on you," he said, staring intently at a crack in the ceiling as he handed her the clothes.

"Thanks...I can make do," she answered, taking the pile and darting out of sight.

He stood still for a moment, unable to move until his room was once more invaded, this time by Roger, who looked quite confused.

"I come home and the first thing I see is a half-naked Joanne running into the bathroom...what exactly did I miss?"

Mark laughed nervously. "Well, Joanne came over last night...Maureen was cheating on her, Rog, and she needed somewhere to go to get away from it all, so she's staying here for a few days. She just got out of the shower and came in here to borrow some clothes..."

Roger was smirking. "Wow...get a grip, Mark," he said, an eyebrow cocked on his forehead. "You realize that Joanne is a lesbian, don't you?"

"What the fuck do you mean, Roger...I have a perfectly fine grip...It's not like...it's not like I...I mean, of course I know she's a lesbian, what do you mean?"

Roger shook his head. "Jesus, Mark, you always fall for the unattainable ones, don't you?" And with that, he started to go to his room.

"It's not like I have a thing for Joanne, Roger...she's just a friend..." He shook his head as his room mate disappeared. "Who the hell do I think I'm fooling?"

Joanne sat uncomfortably on the old couch, clad in Mark's loose clothes. Mark was out filming, as usual, and Roger could be heard in his room, strumming chords on his guitar in a gentle, soothing song. She looked around the bare loft, searching for something to take her mind off of Maureen...

On the table in the middle of the loft was a plain, black notebook. Curious, she picked it up and opened it. The first ten or so pages were written on with black ink. The handwriting was minuscule and cramped – very neat but excited and hurried. Intrigued, Joanne began to read the script of sorts.

(First shot is a wide view of a graveyard on a cool, autumn day. Pan through the yard, past different graves, until stopping and zooming in on a headstone – close on the name, Laura Lawson. We fade to black, and the words, "Without You" appear on the screen. We fade in to Laura – a young black woman in her mid to late 20s. She is terribly thin, but apart from that, she is stunningly beautiful. Her voice over begins as she...)

"I should tell you," said Roger, who was standing over her shoulder, "that Mark doesn't let anybody read his scripts."

Joanne jumped, putting the notebook down guiltily. "Hello, Roger," she said uncomfortably.

"Hey," he replied, jumping up and sitting on the table. "I hear you're crashing here for a while?"

"If you're all right with that...I don't want to impose on you in any way."

"Of course...it's fine."

An awkward silence filled the air. "So, Mark's writing scripts again? Last I heard, he was shooting improvised scenes."

Roger shrugged. "He usually does. He only starts writing scripts when he's upset about something, or confused. It's his weird form of stress relief or something."

Joanne was biting her lip, staring at the notebook – how recently had he begun it?

As if reading her mind, the songwriter grinned and rolled his eyes. "Go on and check the date."

She quickly picked up the notebook and looked at the inside cover. "January 11, 1991? But that's..."

"Today," Roger said, nodding, his brow slightly furrowed. "He probably woke up at 4 or 5 this morning and wrote it...he's always doing things like that."

"But what would he be upset or confused about?" Joanne mused.

"Well, it could be a million different things," said the guitarist, a slight mischievous gleam entering his green eyes. "Did the main character happen to be a young black woman, with big brown eyes and a small frame, and so on?"

She raised her eyebrows skeptically. "What exactly are you saying, Mr. Davis?"

"That you're a bright, observant woman, Joanne, but for someone so perceptive, you sure are blind to things that are right before your eyes." He hopped down off the table and began walking back to his room. "Not that it's any of my business, of course," he added, with a cheeky grin, before closing himself in his bedroom with his guitar.