This chapter contains mild sexual content and discussions of sex but one flippantly casual reference to past suicidal ideation.

"That's hilarious," he sneered. "You. Miss me. I was unaware you had invited me here to perform your stand up routine for your future career in comedy."

The two of them sat in a very private booth at the upscale diner in Beverly Hills, tucked firmly away from the prying eyes of the general public. They were here together after she had made that first fateful phone call to him post-rehab. He had come to the meeting unmasked–as if out of spite for the woman who had so cruelly revealed him to the public through a platform as frivolous as instagram–and wearing a T-shirt featuring a vintage porno graphic of a woman, sporting a full 70's bush, exposing herself spread eagle–for the express purpose of making the diva uncomfortable.

"I was incredibly jealous when you got with that Persian nobody," she curtly replied, fiddling with the handle of her coffee mug with long, tapered artificial nails painted fire engine red. "Surely you must have heard that."

"You're just angry that I didn't spend the rest of my life licking a wound you think you created. Leaving you was the best thing that ever happened to me." He replied dryly. "And he's not a nobody. He was in 8 of the 15 Quick and Angry films, AND he was the star of Detective Daroga."

She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Oh, please," she replied snarkily. "You and I both know they should have never made a second Quick and Angry flick. And Detective Daroga? It's worse than that show Psych where the guy pretends to be a psychic–a knock off Mentalist. He can sniff out crime? Are you kidding me? What a stupid fucking concept."

He gritted his teeth. "Are we done then? Did you bring me here to insult my fiance?" He punctuated his statement by raising his Long Island Iced Tea–which he was consuming at the late hour 10:00 am–to his thin lips.

"Ex fiance," she corrected calmly, almost professionally. "And no. I think we should get back together."

He began to cough and sputter on the drink that went down the wrong pipe in his shock. Burning liquor dribbled from his nose hole just a bit which he frantically dabbed away with a cloth.

"I'm sorry," he replied in a very WTF tone, his eyes narrowed in disgust, "What?"

"I've missed you, baby." She pouted. Under the table she had removed her over-priced designer high heel and was playing footsie with his crotch.

"You can't use my foot thing to get into my good graces," he groaned. His finger hit the call button attached to the table. "I am immune to your charm."

"I just had a pedicure," she purred, wiggling her toes in a very specific spot. "Aren't you a bit curious what color? I'll give you a hint…it's your favorite."

"You are evil," he gritted out. At that precise moment, the waiter appeared like salvation, and the foot disappeared from where it had already created its intended effect. Erik turned to the server, "I'll have another of these," he shook his glass, empty of everything but ice. "But replace the coca-cola with whiskey."

"But that's just a glass of alcohol, no mixer," the server stuttered.

"Precisely," Erik replied. "I need it in the company of this succubus." At that he tilted his head sharply in Christine's direction who squinted her eyes in irritation.

The waiter shuffled off, flustered, and uncomfortable by what he saw tenting the pants of the disheveled rockstar's track pants. Maybe he could use the same drink the famous musician just ordered–but at any rate, he couldn't wait until a studio finally discovered the screenplay he wrote–a disaster film about the moon coming to life and swallowing earth like Johan and the Whale–so he could stop serving assholes like that.

"Let me guess, " Erik said, leaning back in his seat, "Black, like your sad, bitter little heart?"

She huffed.

"Royal Purple, Erik, can't you take a moment to appreciate that I mismatched my fingers and toes for you?"

"Oh, what great personal sacrifice, allow my gratitude to give you a standing ovation," he wryly replied. "Is this because you lost the Grammy to Megg? You may have the best voice in the biz, but you know who wrote all your hit songs–a pretty voice is nothing without a good hook."

"No," she said through clenched teeth. "I truly miss you."

"When did that happen, I wonder. Was it after you exposed me to all of your odious little followers? Or after you became second rate to fresh blood? Did you see yourself growing irrelevant when Megg got on that stage to accept her award? Did you see your fate–losing radio airtime until your songs were old enough to be played on the oldies station?" he mused as the server arrived and placed an overly decorated glass of booze before him. With his fashionably skeletal fingers, Erik removed the tacky paper umbrella and pineapple slice, but he threw the stemmed maraschino cherry which hit squarely between Christine Daae's eyes. "Can you still tie a cherry stem in three knots? I'd like to know that you have that particular tongue skill before I make my decision. It may come in handy…if you catch my drift," he winked lasciviously.

"What do you want me to say, Erik? I made a mistake and I was wrong." She crossed her arms tightly across her chest which only pushed her breast closer together, which drew his eyes, hungry and glassy from alcohol. "I've been missing you throughout my entire relationship with Rob."

He snickered.

"Ah, yes," he replied after three large gulps of his drink, "The fair-haired fuckboy who can swing a bat. Does he swing other things for you, Christine?"

She blew the bangs out of her face in frustration.

"He doesn't do that thing you do," she reluctantly confessed, reaching across the table to yank the glass from his drip. In four large swallows, she had downed the rest of the drink. Her face contorted–as much as possible with as much botox as she had in it. "God, that is vile," she gasped with her tongue out in disgust as she tried not to gag.

"What thing?" he demanded, leaning forward in his chair.

She sighed. "You know…the thing."

"You'll need to enlighten me, my dear," he raised a brow in amusement. "I do many things."

"The thing…the back door thing," she muttered low behind a napkin.

"The butt thing?" he practically yelled.

"SHH!"

"Why are you being so precious? Everyone has a butthole," he chuckled with genuine joy, "Like opinions…you know the saying…"

"Not according to Rob "Da Chase". He says women aren't supposed to talk about their buttholes. He can't get it up if he even knows I've taken a shit that day–I had to go to the guest house to poop when he stayed over so he wouldn't know. Stop laughing," she barked. He couldn't stop, though. He was nearly falling out of his chair from the violence of his mirth. Christine was hitting the call button frantically at this point, her fingernails clicking with every hurried press of it. The server was there in less than a minute, running in with an ambiguous expression on his face. "I'll take what he just had," she ordered primly. "But I want mine in a bigger glass."

Erik was staring at her wide eyed, a joker's grin forming on his death-metal aesthetic face.

"I'll have the same," he replied, his eyes fixated upon the diva like she was some kind of sexual jackpot.

A half hour later, Christine was one full drink in and already drunk because she ate like a sparrow.

"He took longer to get ready than I did," she said, her words slurring together. "He was always hogging the mirror. And he has the worst table manners, oh my god, Erik, he's worse than you! He never even tried to use the right fork–at least you TRIED."

"Mmm," he purred, "Do continue to tell me how much better I am than him."

"He thinks Smashmouth is the greatest band to have existed," she lamented.

"What a philistine," he cooed, his fingers stroking the back of her hand suggestively.

She huffed. "You were hanging out with Mark Mcgrath, Erik. Loser shit right there."

"An unfortunate consequence of drugs," he smiled drunkenly. "We all have our bottoms, Christy. Though I will admit, his eyes dipped lower as though he could see her seat through the table with X-ray vision. "You have the most famous bottom of all. I will confess," he sighed wistfully, "I have missed that ass of yours."

"Poetry," she laughed, but she was swooning a bit. "You never were a great lyricist."

"Three platinum albums would disagree," he was interlacing his fingers with hers now and she didn't pull away.

"You never wrote love songs," she chuckled.

"Ah, dear, but something tells me it's not love you're chasing–what is it, sex? Music?" And at this he started to hum a melody which was briefly interrupted by a gross belch, which she didn't notice because her curiosity was greater than her repulsion.

"What is that?" She insisted excitedly.

"Oh that?" He asked coyly, "Just a little thing I've been working on that requires a female vocalist."

"You've been writing for a woman?" She smirked as she continued fondling him under the table with her foot. "For anyone? Or for me?"

"Stop," he gasped as her toes traced the outline of him through the polyester material of the joggers. "It's been too long since I've seen those little piggies of yours, my tolerance is weak—and I haven't had enough alcohol."

"Then drink up," she smiled sweetly, but there was an artificiality behind it. Hitting the call button, she quickly ordered two more drinks.

The reader may, at this point have done some basic math in their head and come to the conclusion that one Long Island Iced Tea is sufficient to get a person drunk—it is, after all, the best drink to order if you're a cheap fuck out on the town—but four or five—because I, myself, admit I have lost count—is outrageous! So it won't surprise the reader to discover that the pair somehow managed to find themselves married. Don't ask me about the logistics, but somehow the two managed to disguise themselves in what I can only describe as the world's cheapest Halloween costumes and hopped on a private jet to Las Vegas where a similarly drunk Elvis impersonator performed the ceremony. He chuckled at their names, and asked, "Like the celebrities? What are the odds" to which Erik belched, and replied, "Astronomical."

So here they were married–LOL, I'm only kidding! But you believed me for a second, right? You knew that these two idiots were crazy enough to do something so stupid. No, they did not get married–yet, because they do actually go through with marriage at some point–and SOBER, no less– but that comes later. Instead, they managed to get into a car, driven by Christine's chauffeur–because apparently driving is beneath her–and managed to get to her mansion undetected where they promptly tumbled into bed together.

The next afternoon–because one needs many hours to sleep off that much mixed booze–Christine Daae woke, mortified, to discover the skeletal face of a rockstar between her thighs doing his favorite thing–to which, she squealed in revulsion and excitement.

"Oh," she moaned, something between ecstasy and dismay, "I can't believe you talked me into sleeping with you."

He pulled his head from the task he was performing and wiped his mouth.

"I'm sorry. If I'm not mistaken, you were the one doing the convincing, or was that the waiter's foot on my dick all morning, I admit, I was a couple drinks in by that time."

She huffed.

"It's fine," he continued, "We can play this game of yours."

"Did we at least use protection?" she asked briskly as she climbed out of bed, while his amused gaze followed her movements. "I don't want any of your groupie cooties."

"Groupie Cooties," he mused, "Will be the title of my next album.

"You're a fan fucker," she explained unnecessarily.

"If a fan is so very eager—and I find them to my tastes—who am I to deny them that sublime opportunity? It really is just the easiest thing in the world, you should try it sometime," he smoothly replied.

"You're disgusting," she spat as she snatched her silk robe from its hanger in the closet, the force of her action causing the neighboring garments to slip from their own hangers and tumble to the floor, which she promptly ignored in her bitter state. "And what tastes? You're undiscerning, you'll take any little fan that tosses you a piece."

He shrugged without showing any signs of care.

"I suppose that would be an accurate assessment," he yawned. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have fucked you."

"Oh, please, I'm the best lay you're ever had," she volleyed, uninjured by his remarks.

"So, this was your plan? Lure me to your place so you could fuck me and insult my very successful pick up skills?" He hummed drowsily while adjusting his package under the sheets. "Because you have succeeded admirably."

She stopped her pacing, to look at him, stretched out like a very skinny but contented feline on her top-of-the line mattress and her silk sheets.

"I think we should get back together," she insisted softly. "I really do. I think we were good together."

He began to laugh almost hysterically.

"We were terrible together, Christine, but I agree to this strange proposition of yours. After all, I tried to kill myself last year, this is the next best thing."

And with that, Eristine became a thing again. I apologize to the reader for everything that happens after this, but you really did ask for it when you started this thing.