August 30th, 1986. Hotel in Venice. 9:37. A.M
I skimmed over this morning's newspaper, the heading 'Spandau Ballet opener slashed by crazy fan!' caught my eye. I wondered how the journalist found out about all this information, my name was even mentioned twice.
I take a sip of coffee. Tony wandered over to me with a plate of food, he sits across from me, "Hello again." he says, eyeing over the paper, "I see we've made the paper again."
"Again?" I say raising my eyebrows. He shrugs his shoulders, "You know-" he takes a bite of toast, wipes his mouth, "-Usual concert, gossip, drama, award winning sort of stuff but nothing like this." I gulp, shifting in my seat, his eyes could burn through me. "Would you like to tell me the truth?" he asked, knowing somehow, I've been lying about the whole thing.
I don't say anything. "Hmm." he noises, "Whatever is happening, either way, stay safe and uh, don't forget to say hi to Roland for me. Where ever he's hiding."
My mouth drops open, as he leaves the table. How the hell could he have found out about it? I'm dead. I'm dead meat. I stare down at my uneaten cereal, I raise the spoon half way before dropping it back down again. Roland entered the kitchen, began rummaging through the fridge like nothing happened, I slammed my hands on the table and pushed myself up, ready to rip his damn head off, I marched straight over to him.
Luckily nobody was in the room when I shove his chest back, causing the yogurt to fly out of his hands and onto the floor below, "Where the hell have you been?"
"What the fuck?" he says, disgustedly looking at the ground, "You're a real bitch." He snarks, wiping his jacket with his hands. "Where were you?" I yelled again, as he tried to walk off. I kept blocking him, "Get out of my face." He growled.
I move away, "This isn't a game Roland." I grit through my teeth. He swings around violently, "I know it's not a damn game! Do you think I want to be in this situation right now!?" his voice raised.
In that moment, an employee walked into the room. Roland grabbed my forearm and pulled me into a closet. I furrowed my eyebrows hard as he closed the door, "Don't yell at me!" I spat. "I feel like you're just using me for sex." I rolled my eyes.
He's taken back for a moment, "Wouldn't you love that." he says sarcastically. I lean my back against the door, and crossed my arms, "Fine be like that!" I screamed, not caring who heard. "Fine!" he snapped. "Fine!" I say again, leaving the closet and slamming the door hard behind me.
A/N: I might have spelling mistakes
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Damn, He Can't Compare
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