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Better Days	By : fitzsns Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 2553 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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CHAPTER TWO: ORLANDO
Los Angeles, California

Sunday, March 30, 2003
I had that dream again last night. The one where me and Faye are walking down the red carpet at some random premier and she is so fucking beautiful and she’s looking at me with an expression of ‘oh god save me from the evil cameras’ and I squeeze her hand to let her know I’m there and thinking of her and as soon as we get inside we duck out the back door and make love in the limo on the way home to make love the rest of the night. I am infatuated and it’s not fucking fair.
I barely know this girl. I know that she likes watermelon martinis and smokes menthol cigarettes. She’s not impressed by fame or she knows how to play it mighty cool. She hates clubs and would rather play darts in some hole in the wall bar. She’s a college student from New Jersey and gets annoyed when I say football instead of soccer. I don’t remember much from our conversation from the bar that night because I was too concentrated on getting her into bed.
It’s scary that I can admit that to myself and maybe I’ve become a bit jaded. I told her the truth, though. I don’t take physical relationships lightly. But I wanted her from the moment I spotted her on the balcony of that club. It was like some ancient mating instinct took over. That was lame. I don’t know how to say it any other way, though. And when I saw that she was in the suite next to me and Lij, I rationalized that fate wanted me to have sex with her. Why else would she be staying in the room next door? Shut up. Don’t take this away from me.
I didn’t count on the fact that she’d be so fucking incredible that I wouldn’t want to let her go. It wasn’t just the sex. I mean, don’t get me wrong, a good 75% of what I think about when I think about her every ten minutes is the way her hair felt sweeping against my hips or how amazing her mouth felt wrapped around me or how incredibly intoxicating she tasted or how I seemed to fit perfectly between her thighs or… Jesus, someone stop me. Okay, I’m done.
It’s that other 25% that keeps me from forgetting her, though. How she laughed at all my stupid jokes or teased me when conversation got too serious or the way she seemed so sad when she thought I wasn’t looking. I want to keep making her laugh. I want her to tease me with that sharp and honest wit of hers. I want to know what made her so sad and I want to make it better.
I have her cell phone number but I can’t bring myself to dial it. I’m crazy. I can’t try and turn her life upside down because I’m insane and think I can make a relationship work with a college student from New Jersey when I’m going to be doing promotion for Pirates all over the fucking place and shooting Troy all over the fucking place. I’ve seen what she looks like when she’s sad. I don’t want to cause that look.
I care too much about this. It’s fucking scaring me and if I have one more dream about this girl who wouldn’t even tell me her last name I’m going to check myself into some clinic that deals specifically with unreasonable infatuations. Note to self: Find a clinic that deals specifically with unreasonable infatuations. Wouldn’t that make a great headline?

Bloomin’ Crazy: What Orlando Bloom is Doing at the Morning After Clinic for One-Night-Stand Hangers-On
What if I called her just once? Ya know, just to say ‘How’s it going… since you left and took away the best sex I’ve ever had in my life?’. Okay. Definitely couldn’t say that. It was true though. As I’ve said, I’m sick. I actually find myself blaming her for going home. I know it’s ridiculous. But once in a while, I catch myself thinking, “That bitch actually went home instead of staying and having more sex with me.” Cus it’s not like she has a life or anything. What can I say? I know nothing about her life. If I don’t know about, it doesn’t exist. She obviously has nothing better to do than hang around in bed waiting for me to fuck her. I am a dick head.
I refuse to become this person. This drooling obsessed crazyman who has nothing better to do but imagine what a life with a girl he doesn’t know would be like. Pretty soon I’ll be collecting hair and toenail clippings and talking to my new pet bunny about my imaginary girlfriend who is nothing more than a composite of facial features I’ve cut out of magazines and glued to my basement wall in order to recreate the face of a girl I had sex with in South Padre once back in 2003… Fucking hell, the fact that I just thought all of that makes me nervous that I’m already a drooling, obsessed crazyman.
Maybe if I call her, I can get past this. I’ll hear her voice, we’ll make small talk until I realize she’s really not all that special, and then I can get on with my fucking life. Okay, I have a plan. It’s not much of a plan but it’s a plan all the same.
I’m going to call her. This is me calling her. Orlando get up off your ass and call her. Do it! Okay, yelling at myself isn’t the answer.
I hear a shrill ring and nearly jump out of my skin. But I didn’t jump out of my skin. I just fell out of bed. Ow. It’s the phone. My phone is ringing. She’s calling me. I bet you a million dollars Faye is calling me. She’s been driving herself crazy too and we both developed the same plan at the same time. But when she yelled at herself, her body listened. I wish I was more like Faye. Okay, I should probably go get the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Orli!”
FUCKING ELIJAH! Why is he calling me? Doesn’t he realize I have to keep my phone line open in case the girl I had sex with in South Padre calls me? By the way… we never shook on that bet and you’re never going to see that money. “Hey, mate.”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
Why would I be excited Lij? Would you be excited if you thought amazing sex girl was calling you and it turned out to be you!? That made no sense. Oh shit, I better answer him. “What’s up?”
“I thought you might want to catch some waves while it’s early. I’m going out on location in few days. Gotta get it in while I can.”
Surfing. There’s nothing like almost smashing your head against a rock to take your mind off a girl. “I’m in.”
“Great I’m in the car. I’ll be there in five.”
He hangs up and I think maybe I should confide a bit of this shit running around my brain in my good friend Lij. I mean, he saw her. He knows what happened already. He’d understand better than anyone. But do I really want anyone to know the depths of my insanity? No. Decidedly, I do not want that. I better get my ass in gear. When Lij says ‘be there in five’ he usually means ‘I’m already driving around your block and I’m going to do it for another five minutes so you don’t know I’m already driving around your block’. I guess we’re all a bit crazy.
*~*~*~*~*
Tuesday, April 1, 2003
I’m going to be in New York the day after tomorrow. You know. That State RIGHT NEXT TO NEW JERSEY. Okay, logically I know that if I don’t want to see or talk to her, there are a couple million people to buffer me in my desire not to be “run in to”. The only thing is that the first thing that popped into my head when Fiona told me to be on a plane Thursday morning was that I could be fucking Faye Thursday night. Oh don’t look at me like that. Were you not paying attention before? Don’t look so bloody shocked.
Okay, I’ve never made a ‘booty call’ in my life. If I feel like an asshole now, I’m going to feel like even more of an asshole if I call her when I get in on Thursday and suggest we “get together” and “catch up”. You and I both know what catching up entails. I should call her now. I should let her know that I’m going to be in the area and I should take her out on an actual date... and then “catch up” with her.
Wait. That’s dangerous. What if I take her out on a date and I find out that she’s this amazing person in real life and then I fall even deeper into my stupor of obsession? That wouldn’t help either of us. Booty call is sounding more appealing right now. But what if we just sleep together and I get to live out all the fantasies I’ve been having about her for the past week… and then I fall even deeper into my stupor of obsession?
Why can’t I win? What have I done to deserve this? Why do I have the sudden urge to listen to the Pet Shop Boys?
I’m going to call her. I’m going to call her. I’m going to call her. I’m going to… get a new mantra. Thursday. I’ll call her on Thursday, we’ll get a drink, and if something happens, so be it. I’m not going to deny myself because of something minor like my all-consuming desire to possess this women and the insanity it is causing my life. Hey, I’m Orlando Bloom. If it turns out that I can’t walk away from her a second time, I’ll just have to bring her with me when I go. I’m sure she’ll drop everything to run away with me and if she doesn’t, I’ll… I’ll… I’ll just have to bash her over the head with a club and drag her back to my cave. I really am an asshole.
*~*~*~*~*
New York City

Thursday, April 3, 2003
My fingernails are gnawed to the nubs. I’m sitting in back of a chauffeured Lincoln Continental, which is parked on some random side street near the Holland Tunnel. I know very little about navigating this country but I do know that the Holland Tunnel goes to New Jersey. I know this because my chauffeur told me so. Now he’s looking at me through the rear-view mirror as I gnaw at my nubs and stare at my cell phone.
He thinks I am crazy. He is right.
I have programmed Faye’s number into my cell phone. It’s under Wong’s Szechwan Palace. I thought I was being all stealthy since I know my friends are likely to snoop and play with my phone… It worked. Until Dom wanted Chinese the other night and I almost had a brain aneurysm when he reached for my phone. Don’t ask how I covered that one up. It’s all too shocking.
All I have to do is push send. She may not even pick up. That possibility makes me panic slightly since that means she’ll see that I called whether I leave a message or not so I’ll have to leave a message. I know I’ll babble like an idiot and if I never get to see her again I’d really rather her remember me as the charming man I managed to be those couple of days in South Padre.
I take a deep breath and hit send. I think my heart may explode. Literally.
“Kat’s pickles and penis pumps.”
What? Did I hear that right?
“Hello?” The voice speaks again and I know it’s not Faye.
“Uh, I’m sorry I think I have the wrong num-”
“Oh my God. Is this who I think it is?”
Oh holy fuck. What’s going on? “Um… I don’t-”
“Oh God, it’s Orlando Bloom.” This girl is hyperventilating, I’m pretty sure. “We met in South Padre! You gave me your autograph? Kat? I’m a friend of Faye’s.”
“Oh right, right,” I say but I really don’t want to believe this is happening to me. She gave me her crazy friend’s phone number? What the fuck is this all about?
“Chill out Faye,” I hear her say, though she’s obviously trying to speak away from the phone. My hope is restored. Faye is with her. Maybe she just picked up Faye’s phone. “Sorry, Orlando, Faye’s trying to take her phone back. How rude, right?”
“What?” I say it more harshly than I intend but dammit, give the girl her phone!
“Okay fine, here.” Again, this is said away from the phone and I know that it’s being passed to the object of my desire… did I just say that?
“Hello?”
Wow. Her voice is breathy but in a nervous way. When I hear that simple word, I’m bowled over by my first hit of the drug I’ve been craving since my last fix. I feel a bit like my old self- not so shaky and needy. I know it’s because she’s giving me a fix just by letting me hear her voice. I may be obsessed but God damn, I can do this. “Faye, love. I’m in New York.”
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Better Days