Serena Vox
ONE love, blood, life
So...I have finally gotten the courage to post my first chaptered fic on here.
I'd like to thank dianepm for betaing this for me and giving me the much needed push to post this!
I don't own U2, I don't make any money from this, this never happened.
It is set during the making of ATYCLB and Bono is not married.
---
The young woman sighed, looking in the mirror at her own, tired reflection. She picks up a brush, sliding it through the previous night's tangle of blonde hair and pulling it back behind her head. With a scrunchie, she ties it up and sits down in front of the dresser, sighing. She hadn’t slept nearly enough for her liking and not nearly enough to avoid another lunchbreak nap as she’d done the last three work days at the radio station. Not that her boss minds at all. She is the one who minds. One couldn’t help wonder how tacky it looks to fall asleep every day at work like that. In fact, it was much worse when she attended college, as she recalls from time to time. Best years of your life, my arse, she muses to herself.
Originally, she’d actually wanted to be a musician. Her fascination with music, the instruments used and even a singing voice inspired her very much in that direction early on in adolescence. Far enough to collaborate with fellow students at her high school. Many potentials had come and gone--the wheels just didn't seem to turn. As the later years came, the dream faded. She’d become a weather girl for the radio and sometimes filled in for DJs. Everyone at the station liked her a lot, perhaps a little too much for her liking. There always seemed to be that one clingy guy who never gets what the word ‘no’ means. This said guy always annoyed and irked her; every single day that he was there. Asking questions, making passes or bluntly asking to take her out were usual aspects to her encounters with him. And a hint never sufficed, much less blatantly turning him down.
“Grace? Are you up yet?” Her father’s voice echoes up the stairs and muffles a tad through her bedroom door, interrupting her train of thought.
An annoyed sigh escapes her lips. “Yes father, I’ll be down in a few!” She glances back up at her reflection once more and pulls the light hoodie off the back of her chair. She makes her way down the stairs, seeing her father sitting in the dining area with a newspaper concealing most of his face, save for the bridge of his nose and his spectacle covered eyes. He peers over the paper briefly at his daughter and then focuses on whatever column seemed to have captured his attention. She walks by him into the kitchen, preparing a salad to take with her. She rolls her eyes upon feeling his gaze follow her almost every movement. Over protective much? She gathers all the necessary greens and vegetables, mixing them together in a sealable container. She puts everything away and rummages the bowl containing all of their fast food condiments acquired recently and stashed away for home use. Once she finds the dressing she wants, she nudges the refrigerator door closed with her hip and shoves the packet into the mix of vegetables, sealing it shut and stuffing it into her bag.
“You’re in a hurry,” He notes, “someone call off short notice again?”
Grace shuffles back into the dining room with her bag over her shoulder. “Of course,” She replies, rolling her eyes. Same burnout who always calls off. “Got the damn text, it woke me up.” She holds up her cell phone, wriggling it a little.
“I wouldn’t complain much...more hours,” He remarks with a small shrug.
Easy for you to say, you’re not the one falling asleep at the damn mic by lunchtime. She doesn’t dignify his response verbally, she just smiles and nods, stuffing her cellphone into the front pouch of her bag. “Well, I gotta get going, dad. I’ll see you when I get off work, later.”
“Be back before dinner, you know the drill,” He replies, sternly.
She nods and exits the front door promptly. It was a lucky thing that her local radio station wasn’t but a few blocks down from her residence. She lived with her father to help him in his aging state. Or at least that’s what she supposed. However much of a stubborn shit he could be and how clingy he was of her. It was the same routine every day, leave home thirty minutes before air time, get to work with twenty to spare, chat up the co-workers, have some coffee, go on the air. Lunchtime rolls around, eat, fend off John, give the weather updates through to the afternoon, stop by the coffee shop, go home. Anything before, in between or after varied, but the schedule remained fairly the same.
The walk through the cool, crisp morning air is short, peaceful. Despite living in New York, there indeed does exist a quietness to it--the buttcrack of dawn. The roads are never totally dead at any given time in the city, it’s just a matter of how many or few people are around at that time frame. Dawn was always the most quiet and peaceful. Anyone raising any kind of drunken hell during the night has already gone to sleep off their stupor and many haven’t even risen for work yet. The morning rush hour has yet a couple more hours before it even begins. Random pedestrians pass by, some familiar faces who greet her daily, others, random strangers that don’t bat an eye.
She heads into the studio, greeting some of the staff on her way in. She puts her lunch into the little refrigerator where everyone else kept theirs too and heads off into the main room. She sits her bag down on the floor next to her seat and sits down, sorting through her notebooks. She leans back over, digging through each of the pouches on her backpack for a pencil, however she can’t seem to locate one in any of them. With a small huff, she eases back into her chair, letting the notebook drop next to all of the keys for the sound equipment with a flop.
“Something wrong?” Great, annoying assistant, enter stage left...
“Nothing, John. I’m just frustrated.”
“Wanna talk about what’s wrong?” He asks, “I can be all therapist-like, you know.” He gesticulates wildly with his hands.
“No, it’s just a damn pencil. I hardly think that warrants the need for a therapist.”
“Hey, hey, just checking. Always willing to help a damsel in distress!”
“Oh, are you a knight in shining armor, now?”
“Heh, maybe.”
Grace turns to face the keys now, rolling her eyes skyward. It’s going to be a long day already. John scurries off to the sound effects booth, giving her a thumbs up through the plexi-glass. One of the staff notifies her through countdown that they’ll be on the air soon. She thumbs through her notes for the introduction and sets it down in front of her, then they go on the air and she begins the usual morning reel, announcing she’s standing in for Frank, then assumes her normal role for the weather. Time feels as though it drags on for her. She begins yawning by the time 9 am rolls around, her co-worker taking note of it. And once lunch rolls around, she’s exhausted, again. She lays her head down on the table and John comes into the booth. “Are you feeling okay? You look like hell.”
“Do I? Thanks for noticing.” She waves him away but he doesn’t move.
“No, I’m being serious. Dad being hard on you?”
“Eh, same old.” She shrugs. Her dad had always been the workaholic type, ever since she'd known him. Save when she was little, but that was a different story in itself. He believed today is better than tomorrow. Or something like that. She always had to do chores for him, pick up this or that, cook, clean around the house and all. It was why she hardly had time to herself, it seemed. Free time seemed to be a little indulged occurrence, hardly worth anything. She felt more like a housewife than a daughter to the man at times and it surely was frustrating to different extents, depending on the day.
“Try going to bed earlier,” He finally says, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“No problem, Grace.” He turns around and walks back out of the booth. He looks up long enough to spot Frank walking by. “Oh hey, I thought you called off today.”
He turns to face the eager assistant and rolls his eyes. “I told them I had a doctor’s appointment. Tell Grace to head off.” He peers through the glass, seeing the ambitious weather girl nodding off in his spot. John nods, filing back into the booth. He startles her with his entrance and leans against the frame, motioning out the glass at the regular DJ who normally doesn’t bother showing when he ‘calls off’ work. He tells her that she can go home and she lifts her head off the table, looking up at the would-be ‘sweetheart’ with an odd stare. She pulls her weight from the chair and grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. She nods, walking past John and he gains her attention one more time. “Hey, I was wondering--”
“I don’t know.” She cuts him off. He never goes a day without asking her out. Today would be no different it seemed. She shook her head, making her way back down and out of the studio, onto New York’s busy, lunchtime streets. Coffee sounds good right about now. She opted for a nice, noon cup of coffee, rather than heading back home so soon. She makes her way over to the coffee shop, random people greeting her along the way. She stops just short of the shop and purchases a newspaper to take home to her dad, then heads for the glass doors.
A average sized man comes out, right as she reaches for the door and their bodies collide, warm coffee spilling all over her white shirt. He bumps back against the second door with a grunt and looks down at the ensued mess. She stands back up straight, groaning at the mess all over her shirt and hoodie. It looked to be your typical cup of joe, turned clothing accessory. She tries to wring out her shirt, without flashing the man watching her. He suddenly apologizes, his voice a thick, Irish lilt. She doesn’t even grant him a glance yet, apologizing to him as well, her head hung down. She eventually tears her eyes off the mess on her shirt and trails them up black pants to a leather jacket and a shirt littered with military symbols on it. Her gaze meets his face, an all too familiar one, expensive looking, blue tinted sunglasses wrapped around glittering, sapphire eyes. Oh he was familiar alright.
“You’re--”
“I’m sorry, love, I should’ve watched where I was puttin’ me feet!” He says again, looking her over. Her white shirt, now caramel coloured from the spilt drink, sticking to her every curve, she wore jeans that made for a rather tight fit and plain tennis shoes. His eyes travel back up to her face now, watching the medium length golden locks of hair whip in the breeze.
“No-no, it’s okay, I’m sorry.” She tilts her head to the side, letting out a small sigh and taking in the image before her. She wills herself to look back down at the coffee stained shirt she wore. He doesn’t budge yet except to offer her napkins to clean what she could off herself. She would have to bleach the shirt for sure to get the soon-to-be stains out. She moves her arm outwards, inspecting the spotless newspaper and laughs a little. “That figures.” She shakes her head, bringing her other hand to her face. Her index finger and thumb massaged each side of the bridge of her nose, her eyes becoming a little heavy. This is not happening, you just did not make Bono spill his coffee all over you. Stupid, stupid! Watch where you’re going!
“It’s fine, just a cup of coffee,” He replies with a shrug, looking himself over. Nothing seemed to have got on him except for a few stray drops. Nowhere near enough to soak or stain the dark shirt or ruin his leather for that matter. The outfit he sported looked fairly new to her, in fact and smelled it past the smell of coffee everywhere.
“Is that new?”
“My clothes? Yeah, just got them yesterday, over that way.” He flails his arms about a little as he speaks, reminding her a lot of him. She laughs a little, assuming he meant the rather expensive shopping plaza towards the heart of the city. That was where most people who had a lot of money shopped, especially celebrities who were either residents of New York or frequent visitors. “Don’t worry...you didn’t ruin them.
“Oh, I know. I was just curious. Listen, I’m sorry again, I’ll watch where I’m going next time.”
“It’s fine, you’re fine.”
She nods, lowering her head again. The man doesn’t move yet except aside to allow people the sufficient room to go in and out of the café. He simply watches with interest at the young looking woman, wondering if she’s going to go her own way now, knowing she is probably wondering the same of him. She finally musters the courage to look him in the eyes again, surprised he hasn’t budged yet. “I...don’t let me keep you.”
“No, I was planning on going for a walk...” He trails off, clearing his throat to pick back up, “would you like to tag along?”
“M-me? Oh, I shouldn’t really...I’ve...things to do.”
“Sure? I won’t keep ya long,” He winked. Then he threw away the empty cup that once held his coffee. He didn’t need it anyway since he wasn’t really supposed to have coffee to begin with. A story he wasn’t about to bore her with right off the bat.
“Okay.”
“First of all...” He steps forward, stripping his jacket off and nudges her bag. She sets it down and he puts the jacket over her shoulders, “it is chilly, you know.” He drapes the expensive leather over her, trying to will her arms into the article but she refuses several times. Eventually, through some limb flailing, she gives in and slides her arms into the warm jacket. A faint scent wafts up her nose, a mix of some kind of cologne, cigars and a musky scent that could only be called his own. She takes it all in, avoiding eye contact with him at first. He simply watches, admiring her curiosity. He asks if the jacket is warm and she laughs with a barely audible ‘of course’ in reply. She pulls the lapels of the jacket and crosses them so that it covers the messy stain on her shirt, noticing that her her breasts are sticky from the sugar in the coffee and the shirt sticks to her like wet paper. Damn. I need to wash up.
She picks up her bag now and tries to tell him that she really should get going, not knowing why on earth someone of such a high status would bother wasting his time with trying to convince her to take a walk with him. He doesn’t hear of it, however. He simply smiles, offering to buy her a cup of coffee. She is stunned at the entire exchange taking place, barely able to look him in the eyes and then away for the fear of it just being some kind of crazy, low blood sugar trip. After much debate amongst the two, she gives in and lets him take her inside and order the drink for her but does not get one for himself.
She gives him a strange look as she shoves the newspaper into one of the pockets in his coat. “You don’t want a replacement?”
“Nah. I’m not supposed to have it anyway.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Caffeine is rough on the throat. It affects my singin’.”
Grace muses to herself quietly, attempting to get one of his songs stuck in her head for comparison to his speaking voice but fails with too much on her mind. She makes a move to sit down, but he suddenly ushers her back up, reminding her of the walk he wanted to go on. Leading her out of the café and onto the busy sidewalks of New York, he tells her about his music, the writing, how he comes up with his lyrics and such things of relating matter. She doesn’t say anything, instead she opts to listen, finding his rambles to be quite fascinating. She discovered he did his best when either on his own or with the company of another non-band related person. More specifically, on walks is how he’s come up with some of his most genius lyrical inventions. She begins to feel more at ease in his presence, knowing she’s not disrupting his thoughts now. He asks on several occasions if he’s boring her, but she shakes her head in response, truthfully not bored at all. Neither of them were really sure how long they’d been walking and talking.
Nobody pays either of them any mind. It was surprising to see people going about their day with such a celebrity roaming their streets. She thought of back home, knowing everyone would stop and stare if Bono went strolling down the street. She laughs inwardly at the thought and continues to listen to him. “Hey,” She pipes up and his first reaction is to apologize and tell her he’s sorry for rambling, but she shakes her head and continues, “I just remembered. I have this awesome spot where I like to go think. Wanna see?”
“Oh! I’d love to,” He beamed.
She grinned, tugging at his shirt and pointing off into the distance. She explains precisely what that ‘spot’ is. He listens intently, not once interrupting or cutting in with his own commentary. Polite and sweet were the only terms that came to mind of that. She runs ahead of him, taking off up to the hill and looks back, jumping a bit, her inner child coming out briefly. “C’mon slow-poke!” She teases and he laughs, walking up the hill at a much slower pace than she had darted up like a track star, eagerly making his way to the finish line. He shakes his head and takes the last step to the top, looking at his surroundings. It was an old railroad track, still functional, that goes over the beautiful river. The hilltop seemed the ideal location for a great view on the clear waters and passing trains. His decision to flop right down on his rear is immediate and he pats the ground next to him. She eases down next to him, pulling her legs up to her chest, watching the sights all around her. Trees whisking in the wind, birds flying here and there, fish feeding down in the shallow area of the river and the water rippling with the breeze.
The two sit on the beautiful hilltop for what seems like a few mere moments as well as an eternity, all at the same time. They converse about anything and everything. From favourites and hobbies to world issues and politics, finding such a common ground. She sighed contently, on this quiet hilltop with none other than the ever famous Bono Vox, rambling her ears off about whatever he deems fit. He was so down to earth and polite, nothing like the media had portrayed him to be, or any other activists for that matter. Activists always being a scapegoat to blame for the world’s problems, this man, this very sweet man, was not capable of harming a fly, she thought.
He looks down at his watch and exhales, a disappointed sigh rattling out of his chest. “I really should get going.”
“I understand. I had fun, thank you so much.”
“No, thank you,” He replied, lifting so that he was kneeling next to her and pressing a small kiss to her temple. “I’ll be in town for a while. Will I see you again?”
Her heart nearly stopped, pounding frantically with such a volume that it resonated in her ear drums as the blood coursed through her body. Seriously? If you’re willing to come back...
“Why I--Yes, I live near the radio station I work at and I frequent this town quite a lot.”
“I’m glad to hear that, will you be alright walking by yourself?” He asked, tousling her hair affectionately.
“Yes, it’s not far. I will be fine. Thank you.”
He rustles a bit next to her, an arm going around her carefully as he placed the light blue sunglasses on her face gently. She turned her head slowly, looking him in the eyes, the ever present obstruction of his sunglasses gone now. They sparkled, beautiful blue sapphire orbs with a warm glint - caring and kind. A smile tugged his lips and he stood up straight, offering his hand to help her up. The young woman pulls herself up with his greater weight, watching him intently as he combed his hair back with his fingers, looking down at the ground.
“I’ll be back for those, love,” He said, patting her shoulder as he skipped off down the hill, taking care not to fall. An unfamiliar tune echoed from his lips up the hilltop, filling her ears and filling her eyes with the faintest glint of tears. “Tell me, tell me...what do you see? Tell me, tell me...what’s wrong with me?”
And like that, he disappeared into the late afternoon bustle.
I'd like to thank dianepm for betaing this for me and giving me the much needed push to post this!
I don't own U2, I don't make any money from this, this never happened.
It is set during the making of ATYCLB and Bono is not married.
---
The young woman sighed, looking in the mirror at her own, tired reflection. She picks up a brush, sliding it through the previous night's tangle of blonde hair and pulling it back behind her head. With a scrunchie, she ties it up and sits down in front of the dresser, sighing. She hadn’t slept nearly enough for her liking and not nearly enough to avoid another lunchbreak nap as she’d done the last three work days at the radio station. Not that her boss minds at all. She is the one who minds. One couldn’t help wonder how tacky it looks to fall asleep every day at work like that. In fact, it was much worse when she attended college, as she recalls from time to time. Best years of your life, my arse, she muses to herself.
Originally, she’d actually wanted to be a musician. Her fascination with music, the instruments used and even a singing voice inspired her very much in that direction early on in adolescence. Far enough to collaborate with fellow students at her high school. Many potentials had come and gone--the wheels just didn't seem to turn. As the later years came, the dream faded. She’d become a weather girl for the radio and sometimes filled in for DJs. Everyone at the station liked her a lot, perhaps a little too much for her liking. There always seemed to be that one clingy guy who never gets what the word ‘no’ means. This said guy always annoyed and irked her; every single day that he was there. Asking questions, making passes or bluntly asking to take her out were usual aspects to her encounters with him. And a hint never sufficed, much less blatantly turning him down.
“Grace? Are you up yet?” Her father’s voice echoes up the stairs and muffles a tad through her bedroom door, interrupting her train of thought.
An annoyed sigh escapes her lips. “Yes father, I’ll be down in a few!” She glances back up at her reflection once more and pulls the light hoodie off the back of her chair. She makes her way down the stairs, seeing her father sitting in the dining area with a newspaper concealing most of his face, save for the bridge of his nose and his spectacle covered eyes. He peers over the paper briefly at his daughter and then focuses on whatever column seemed to have captured his attention. She walks by him into the kitchen, preparing a salad to take with her. She rolls her eyes upon feeling his gaze follow her almost every movement. Over protective much? She gathers all the necessary greens and vegetables, mixing them together in a sealable container. She puts everything away and rummages the bowl containing all of their fast food condiments acquired recently and stashed away for home use. Once she finds the dressing she wants, she nudges the refrigerator door closed with her hip and shoves the packet into the mix of vegetables, sealing it shut and stuffing it into her bag.
“You’re in a hurry,” He notes, “someone call off short notice again?”
Grace shuffles back into the dining room with her bag over her shoulder. “Of course,” She replies, rolling her eyes. Same burnout who always calls off. “Got the damn text, it woke me up.” She holds up her cell phone, wriggling it a little.
“I wouldn’t complain much...more hours,” He remarks with a small shrug.
Easy for you to say, you’re not the one falling asleep at the damn mic by lunchtime. She doesn’t dignify his response verbally, she just smiles and nods, stuffing her cellphone into the front pouch of her bag. “Well, I gotta get going, dad. I’ll see you when I get off work, later.”
“Be back before dinner, you know the drill,” He replies, sternly.
She nods and exits the front door promptly. It was a lucky thing that her local radio station wasn’t but a few blocks down from her residence. She lived with her father to help him in his aging state. Or at least that’s what she supposed. However much of a stubborn shit he could be and how clingy he was of her. It was the same routine every day, leave home thirty minutes before air time, get to work with twenty to spare, chat up the co-workers, have some coffee, go on the air. Lunchtime rolls around, eat, fend off John, give the weather updates through to the afternoon, stop by the coffee shop, go home. Anything before, in between or after varied, but the schedule remained fairly the same.
The walk through the cool, crisp morning air is short, peaceful. Despite living in New York, there indeed does exist a quietness to it--the buttcrack of dawn. The roads are never totally dead at any given time in the city, it’s just a matter of how many or few people are around at that time frame. Dawn was always the most quiet and peaceful. Anyone raising any kind of drunken hell during the night has already gone to sleep off their stupor and many haven’t even risen for work yet. The morning rush hour has yet a couple more hours before it even begins. Random pedestrians pass by, some familiar faces who greet her daily, others, random strangers that don’t bat an eye.
She heads into the studio, greeting some of the staff on her way in. She puts her lunch into the little refrigerator where everyone else kept theirs too and heads off into the main room. She sits her bag down on the floor next to her seat and sits down, sorting through her notebooks. She leans back over, digging through each of the pouches on her backpack for a pencil, however she can’t seem to locate one in any of them. With a small huff, she eases back into her chair, letting the notebook drop next to all of the keys for the sound equipment with a flop.
“Something wrong?” Great, annoying assistant, enter stage left...
“Nothing, John. I’m just frustrated.”
“Wanna talk about what’s wrong?” He asks, “I can be all therapist-like, you know.” He gesticulates wildly with his hands.
“No, it’s just a damn pencil. I hardly think that warrants the need for a therapist.”
“Hey, hey, just checking. Always willing to help a damsel in distress!”
“Oh, are you a knight in shining armor, now?”
“Heh, maybe.”
Grace turns to face the keys now, rolling her eyes skyward. It’s going to be a long day already. John scurries off to the sound effects booth, giving her a thumbs up through the plexi-glass. One of the staff notifies her through countdown that they’ll be on the air soon. She thumbs through her notes for the introduction and sets it down in front of her, then they go on the air and she begins the usual morning reel, announcing she’s standing in for Frank, then assumes her normal role for the weather. Time feels as though it drags on for her. She begins yawning by the time 9 am rolls around, her co-worker taking note of it. And once lunch rolls around, she’s exhausted, again. She lays her head down on the table and John comes into the booth. “Are you feeling okay? You look like hell.”
“Do I? Thanks for noticing.” She waves him away but he doesn’t move.
“No, I’m being serious. Dad being hard on you?”
“Eh, same old.” She shrugs. Her dad had always been the workaholic type, ever since she'd known him. Save when she was little, but that was a different story in itself. He believed today is better than tomorrow. Or something like that. She always had to do chores for him, pick up this or that, cook, clean around the house and all. It was why she hardly had time to herself, it seemed. Free time seemed to be a little indulged occurrence, hardly worth anything. She felt more like a housewife than a daughter to the man at times and it surely was frustrating to different extents, depending on the day.
“Try going to bed earlier,” He finally says, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“No problem, Grace.” He turns around and walks back out of the booth. He looks up long enough to spot Frank walking by. “Oh hey, I thought you called off today.”
He turns to face the eager assistant and rolls his eyes. “I told them I had a doctor’s appointment. Tell Grace to head off.” He peers through the glass, seeing the ambitious weather girl nodding off in his spot. John nods, filing back into the booth. He startles her with his entrance and leans against the frame, motioning out the glass at the regular DJ who normally doesn’t bother showing when he ‘calls off’ work. He tells her that she can go home and she lifts her head off the table, looking up at the would-be ‘sweetheart’ with an odd stare. She pulls her weight from the chair and grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. She nods, walking past John and he gains her attention one more time. “Hey, I was wondering--”
“I don’t know.” She cuts him off. He never goes a day without asking her out. Today would be no different it seemed. She shook her head, making her way back down and out of the studio, onto New York’s busy, lunchtime streets. Coffee sounds good right about now. She opted for a nice, noon cup of coffee, rather than heading back home so soon. She makes her way over to the coffee shop, random people greeting her along the way. She stops just short of the shop and purchases a newspaper to take home to her dad, then heads for the glass doors.
A average sized man comes out, right as she reaches for the door and their bodies collide, warm coffee spilling all over her white shirt. He bumps back against the second door with a grunt and looks down at the ensued mess. She stands back up straight, groaning at the mess all over her shirt and hoodie. It looked to be your typical cup of joe, turned clothing accessory. She tries to wring out her shirt, without flashing the man watching her. He suddenly apologizes, his voice a thick, Irish lilt. She doesn’t even grant him a glance yet, apologizing to him as well, her head hung down. She eventually tears her eyes off the mess on her shirt and trails them up black pants to a leather jacket and a shirt littered with military symbols on it. Her gaze meets his face, an all too familiar one, expensive looking, blue tinted sunglasses wrapped around glittering, sapphire eyes. Oh he was familiar alright.
“You’re--”
“I’m sorry, love, I should’ve watched where I was puttin’ me feet!” He says again, looking her over. Her white shirt, now caramel coloured from the spilt drink, sticking to her every curve, she wore jeans that made for a rather tight fit and plain tennis shoes. His eyes travel back up to her face now, watching the medium length golden locks of hair whip in the breeze.
“No-no, it’s okay, I’m sorry.” She tilts her head to the side, letting out a small sigh and taking in the image before her. She wills herself to look back down at the coffee stained shirt she wore. He doesn’t budge yet except to offer her napkins to clean what she could off herself. She would have to bleach the shirt for sure to get the soon-to-be stains out. She moves her arm outwards, inspecting the spotless newspaper and laughs a little. “That figures.” She shakes her head, bringing her other hand to her face. Her index finger and thumb massaged each side of the bridge of her nose, her eyes becoming a little heavy. This is not happening, you just did not make Bono spill his coffee all over you. Stupid, stupid! Watch where you’re going!
“It’s fine, just a cup of coffee,” He replies with a shrug, looking himself over. Nothing seemed to have got on him except for a few stray drops. Nowhere near enough to soak or stain the dark shirt or ruin his leather for that matter. The outfit he sported looked fairly new to her, in fact and smelled it past the smell of coffee everywhere.
“Is that new?”
“My clothes? Yeah, just got them yesterday, over that way.” He flails his arms about a little as he speaks, reminding her a lot of him. She laughs a little, assuming he meant the rather expensive shopping plaza towards the heart of the city. That was where most people who had a lot of money shopped, especially celebrities who were either residents of New York or frequent visitors. “Don’t worry...you didn’t ruin them.
“Oh, I know. I was just curious. Listen, I’m sorry again, I’ll watch where I’m going next time.”
“It’s fine, you’re fine.”
She nods, lowering her head again. The man doesn’t move yet except aside to allow people the sufficient room to go in and out of the café. He simply watches with interest at the young looking woman, wondering if she’s going to go her own way now, knowing she is probably wondering the same of him. She finally musters the courage to look him in the eyes again, surprised he hasn’t budged yet. “I...don’t let me keep you.”
“No, I was planning on going for a walk...” He trails off, clearing his throat to pick back up, “would you like to tag along?”
“M-me? Oh, I shouldn’t really...I’ve...things to do.”
“Sure? I won’t keep ya long,” He winked. Then he threw away the empty cup that once held his coffee. He didn’t need it anyway since he wasn’t really supposed to have coffee to begin with. A story he wasn’t about to bore her with right off the bat.
“Okay.”
“First of all...” He steps forward, stripping his jacket off and nudges her bag. She sets it down and he puts the jacket over her shoulders, “it is chilly, you know.” He drapes the expensive leather over her, trying to will her arms into the article but she refuses several times. Eventually, through some limb flailing, she gives in and slides her arms into the warm jacket. A faint scent wafts up her nose, a mix of some kind of cologne, cigars and a musky scent that could only be called his own. She takes it all in, avoiding eye contact with him at first. He simply watches, admiring her curiosity. He asks if the jacket is warm and she laughs with a barely audible ‘of course’ in reply. She pulls the lapels of the jacket and crosses them so that it covers the messy stain on her shirt, noticing that her her breasts are sticky from the sugar in the coffee and the shirt sticks to her like wet paper. Damn. I need to wash up.
She picks up her bag now and tries to tell him that she really should get going, not knowing why on earth someone of such a high status would bother wasting his time with trying to convince her to take a walk with him. He doesn’t hear of it, however. He simply smiles, offering to buy her a cup of coffee. She is stunned at the entire exchange taking place, barely able to look him in the eyes and then away for the fear of it just being some kind of crazy, low blood sugar trip. After much debate amongst the two, she gives in and lets him take her inside and order the drink for her but does not get one for himself.
She gives him a strange look as she shoves the newspaper into one of the pockets in his coat. “You don’t want a replacement?”
“Nah. I’m not supposed to have it anyway.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Caffeine is rough on the throat. It affects my singin’.”
Grace muses to herself quietly, attempting to get one of his songs stuck in her head for comparison to his speaking voice but fails with too much on her mind. She makes a move to sit down, but he suddenly ushers her back up, reminding her of the walk he wanted to go on. Leading her out of the café and onto the busy sidewalks of New York, he tells her about his music, the writing, how he comes up with his lyrics and such things of relating matter. She doesn’t say anything, instead she opts to listen, finding his rambles to be quite fascinating. She discovered he did his best when either on his own or with the company of another non-band related person. More specifically, on walks is how he’s come up with some of his most genius lyrical inventions. She begins to feel more at ease in his presence, knowing she’s not disrupting his thoughts now. He asks on several occasions if he’s boring her, but she shakes her head in response, truthfully not bored at all. Neither of them were really sure how long they’d been walking and talking.
Nobody pays either of them any mind. It was surprising to see people going about their day with such a celebrity roaming their streets. She thought of back home, knowing everyone would stop and stare if Bono went strolling down the street. She laughs inwardly at the thought and continues to listen to him. “Hey,” She pipes up and his first reaction is to apologize and tell her he’s sorry for rambling, but she shakes her head and continues, “I just remembered. I have this awesome spot where I like to go think. Wanna see?”
“Oh! I’d love to,” He beamed.
She grinned, tugging at his shirt and pointing off into the distance. She explains precisely what that ‘spot’ is. He listens intently, not once interrupting or cutting in with his own commentary. Polite and sweet were the only terms that came to mind of that. She runs ahead of him, taking off up to the hill and looks back, jumping a bit, her inner child coming out briefly. “C’mon slow-poke!” She teases and he laughs, walking up the hill at a much slower pace than she had darted up like a track star, eagerly making his way to the finish line. He shakes his head and takes the last step to the top, looking at his surroundings. It was an old railroad track, still functional, that goes over the beautiful river. The hilltop seemed the ideal location for a great view on the clear waters and passing trains. His decision to flop right down on his rear is immediate and he pats the ground next to him. She eases down next to him, pulling her legs up to her chest, watching the sights all around her. Trees whisking in the wind, birds flying here and there, fish feeding down in the shallow area of the river and the water rippling with the breeze.
The two sit on the beautiful hilltop for what seems like a few mere moments as well as an eternity, all at the same time. They converse about anything and everything. From favourites and hobbies to world issues and politics, finding such a common ground. She sighed contently, on this quiet hilltop with none other than the ever famous Bono Vox, rambling her ears off about whatever he deems fit. He was so down to earth and polite, nothing like the media had portrayed him to be, or any other activists for that matter. Activists always being a scapegoat to blame for the world’s problems, this man, this very sweet man, was not capable of harming a fly, she thought.
He looks down at his watch and exhales, a disappointed sigh rattling out of his chest. “I really should get going.”
“I understand. I had fun, thank you so much.”
“No, thank you,” He replied, lifting so that he was kneeling next to her and pressing a small kiss to her temple. “I’ll be in town for a while. Will I see you again?”
Her heart nearly stopped, pounding frantically with such a volume that it resonated in her ear drums as the blood coursed through her body. Seriously? If you’re willing to come back...
“Why I--Yes, I live near the radio station I work at and I frequent this town quite a lot.”
“I’m glad to hear that, will you be alright walking by yourself?” He asked, tousling her hair affectionately.
“Yes, it’s not far. I will be fine. Thank you.”
He rustles a bit next to her, an arm going around her carefully as he placed the light blue sunglasses on her face gently. She turned her head slowly, looking him in the eyes, the ever present obstruction of his sunglasses gone now. They sparkled, beautiful blue sapphire orbs with a warm glint - caring and kind. A smile tugged his lips and he stood up straight, offering his hand to help her up. The young woman pulls herself up with his greater weight, watching him intently as he combed his hair back with his fingers, looking down at the ground.
“I’ll be back for those, love,” He said, patting her shoulder as he skipped off down the hill, taking care not to fall. An unfamiliar tune echoed from his lips up the hilltop, filling her ears and filling her eyes with the faintest glint of tears. “Tell me, tell me...what do you see? Tell me, tell me...what’s wrong with me?”
And like that, he disappeared into the late afternoon bustle.
Feel special, dammit. 
wow this is fantastic! i really hope there is going to be more!
Looking forward to the next chapter!
