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Here In My Room	By : neogenesis Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > The Strokes Views: 1270 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of The Strokes. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Here In My Room
- 1
Disclaimer: I don’t own or know The Strokes or the other famous people associated with them. This story, it’s original characters, and scenarios are strictly products of my muses. So please don’t get upset and sue us, we would really like to got to college this fall.

Here In My Room
Chapter 1

I ain’t got no money
Honey, I’m rich on personality…

If there was one thing that truly annoyed her, it was probably people staring. Which was ironic for two reasons. One, she had a bad habit of staring at people herself. And two, considering her profession she didn’t have a choice but to have people stare at her, or else she wouldn’t have a job. The thing was she didn’t mind it when she was on stage or, recently, on camera. It wasn’t the real her that people were staring at, but a character. Someone that she had become for an extended period of time. Her paycheck depended on someone wanting to look at her. That in itself made it tolerable.

Outside of work things were different. It was just uncomfortable.

Luckily, she wasn’t known enough to have people harassing her in public. She was still able to catch a train, or sit in a local coffee shop and not worry about people bugging for autographs or pictures. There was a community of theatre related people that knew of her, and occasionally someone who’d seen one of her plays would stop and talk. But that usually was the extent of it. And she liked it that way.

There was always the exception, though. And right now her exception was sitting across from the crowded bar nursing a beer and a lit cigarette. She picked up a discarded napkin and touched the edge of it to the tip of her own burning cigarette, trying her best to ignore him. But it was getting harder. The combination of alcohol and sleep deprivation wasn’t helping her internal battle either. The longer she sat there, the more she wanted to go over there and do something to throw him off. Something to unnerve him. She couldn’t understand why her personal boredom interested him so much. All of her friends had deserted her, and she wanted nothing more then to stretch out on the booth seat and pass out. But then their whole trip would have been a failure, and she invested way too much time and money (mostly money) to be the one to ruin it. So she sat there, burning napkins and sipping a screwdriver while mister celebrity bore holes into the side of her head with his eyes.

Maybe he recognized her.

She rolled her eyes and stubbed her cigarette out in a spilled puddle of beer, suddenly not interested. It seemed that nothing really held her attention these days. Not that it really mattered, though. She never stayed around long enough to become bored with something. There had been a point in her past when she decided that it wasn’t worth doing something if she was going to be bored. Life was too fucking sort, and she had a lot to do. Dullness was not on her agenda. Which is exactly why something needed to be done about her current sta

A quick glance around the cloudy room gave her the locations of her friends. The boys were currently being entertained by a group of Japanese girls, dressed in the traditional schoolgirl uniform, of all things. They were obviously too old to be wearing the uniforms. If they weren’t, then the bar had some serious issues as far as the age requirement went. In the end, the boys didn’t care if they were 16 or 36; as long as they were hot and Asian they were happy, schoolgirl uniforms and all. Which reminded her, she’d bought a pair of baggy socks that keep sliding down her legs and she needed to get them returned somehow. The language barrier wasn’t going to help any.

Sighing, she downed the rest of her drink and stood, intending to locate the female participants of their group and discuss the possibility of getting out of there. She had her fill of bars for the moment, and the staring had gone beyond the point of annoyance. It was making her feel vulnerable, and she didn’t fly all the way to Japan to feel vulnerable.

In fact, she no longer wanted to join Aleysha and her conversation with the DJ they had meet at a club hours earlier. She wanted to go over to that bar and find out what his deal was. It only took her a second to grab her empty glass and abandoned the booth, heading for her new destination, where her guy was bordering on visual molestation. He didn’t seem at all surprised that she was heading over there. If anything, he looked satisfied, like he knew she was going to come over there all along. Like she fit some kind of pattern that hundreds of other girls had. She tried to think of all the girls that would fall into that category. They really couldn’t be considered groupies, because she felt in order to be a groupie one had to actually be interested in the band and what they did. No, whore was the only way to classify them; the one’s willing to screw anyone as long as they had a big checkbook and a celebrity status to go with it.

She wasn’t one of those girls by far. It had taken her 19 years to build up the courage to lose her virginity, and at 23 she was still hesitant about whom she messed around with. The fame thing didn’t faze Whe When it came down to it, a prick was still a prick and a dick was still a dick either way it went. The only difference was the thrill that came with people like him, and that was usually short lived.

Of course he didn’t know this, and probably didn’t want to know it, and that was just fine. It gave her an incentive, something to play with. It didn’t matter how he saw her because she would be forgotten in a week’s time, even days if the alcohol and green was heavy, and that was just fine also. As long as she got her conversation, something to bring back home to the states where she can pull it out at a party, something and show around like the head liner it could be. ‘My Run In With The Stroke And The (Provocative) Chaos That Ensued’, emphases on 'the', because he was the Stroke, right?

And on that conflicted thought she stopped in front of him, dropped her glass off to his left, and placed both hands on his thighs. He leaned back a little, allowing her better access as her hands slipped further and she bent over more so that they were cheek to cheek. He reeked of smoke and booze, but it didn’t matter because she probably smelt as bad, and the heat the was coming from under her hands and the hand that was currently resting on her waist made up for it. There was a rip in his jeans that was dangerously close to the junction of his legs, and she felt him tense as she caressed the skin that was revealed there, but he said nothing. And that was fine.

She turned her head a bit, licking her lips before speaking, “I always wanted to know what it would be like to make it with a rock star.”

He turned, those woe-begotten eyes on her again, their faces close, noses barely touching, and smirked. It was contagious, and she found herself smirking back, breathing in his air that smelled strongly of beer and tobacco.

“You wanna find out?”

She pulled back a little to see him better, to see the satisfaction still there and she smiled.

“No, not really,” she replied and moved away from him completely, standing to the side where her still empty glass sat. The bartender came with a quick raise of her hand and she pointed to a brown bottle that was on display upon a self,

“Red Stripe,” she told her, and she nodded before walking away. An arm came into view on her left, olive colored with a pick bandana tied around the wrist. He was holding a cigarette, and it suddenly reminded her of her own pack forgotten at the booth. She cursed under her breath and looked over her shoulder at the now occupied space.

“Something the matter?” She turned to him and shrugged. The bar tender was back with her beer and she took a small sip before answering.

“Not if you have another one of those,” she said, looking down at his hand. He fished around in his back pocket for a second before pulling out a beat up box of Marlboro’s and tossing in down in front of her.

“Thanks,” she muttered as she shook one out and lit it. He grabbed the pack back as she turned around to lean against the counter with her smoke in one hand and her drink in the other. And he was staring at her again. After a few seconds he spoke,

“Lena, right?” She turned to him and smiled.

“Something like that.” She replied. And that was just fine.
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Here In My Room