Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

Götterfunken	By : SolusNemo Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Good Charlotte Views: 846 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Good Charlotte. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 2
- 3
- 4
Chapter Three

Angelina had skipped half of her usual rounds just to be at her usual deli stop by five O’clock that evening. It was highly disappointing because she counted on seeing the same people every day, noticing any changes in their attitudes or daily routines. She guessed that she could have went about her day as she normally would, but she’d miss her appointment at 6:30. If that happened heads would roll.

She had been looking forward to this day for weeks, telling anyone in ear-shot about her great idea that would no doubt give her a lot of backlash. Angelina was praying for the backlash because, after all, no one’s truly made it unless there’s a small group waiting to burn you alive – at least that’s how she saw it.

So, like every day of the week, Angelina was sitting at a table in a Slice of Italy, her usual spot by the front windows. More than most, she felt comfortable in routine – valued it and knew its worth. Without routine she would have no career and without her career she’d be completely miserable. It’s not that she didn’t like change, she just felt comfortable in dealing with the same people she dealt with every day.

Mikey del Rossi, one of Angelina’s friends since grade school, wiped off a nearby table with a moist rag. He had been working in the shop for little over a year, though he still wasn’t at the rung in the ladder he wished to be at. Looking at Angelina’s meal he stopped what he was doing and walked over to her, spinning the damp cloth in the air.

“You order the same sandwich every day,” he stated the obvious. “When are you gonna try something new, huh, Angie? I swear one of these days you’re gonna come into this shop looking like a giant hunk of Martodella!”

“On rye,” Angelina corrected.

Mikey looked over at the glass booths housing choice selections of meat, checking to see if the manager was anywhere nearby, and sat down. “Try some nice Prosciutto? Or better yet have some Veal Parmigiana, something not in-between bread for once? You’re too thin, Angie, we need to put more meat on your bones.”

“I like what I like,” she responded.

The man shook his head, long strands of black hair swishing back and forth. “One of these days a nice man’s gonna come along and shake your world right up. Then you start eating more.”

Angelina took a sip of her soda. “That’s already happened, but he wasn’t nice.”

“Want I should smash his face in?”

She laughed and leaned across the table, kissed Mikey’s cheek and sat back down. “No, don’t do that. You’ll ruin those good-looks of his.”

“But who’s this guy to treat you so badly?” Mikey asked, only half concentrating on a stubborn spot on the edge of the table.

“Joel Madden, that’s who.”

Mikey’s brow knitted in confusion. “That pasty fella you’re always whining about? The one who writes bad lyrics and sings in an equally bad band?”

“The very same,” Angelina confirmed.

Mikey nodded, his attention now at something on the other side of the picture window. “You mean the one with a laziness problem because he never seems to stay on top of trimming his hair or beard? The one with the weird walk and almost permanent scowl?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” the woman asked, turning to look behind her at whatever had piqued Mikey’s interest so. She sighed.

Joel Madden had just gotten out of the town car he had slipped into after their conversation, walking right toward the main door of a Slice of Italy. He looked like he was dying of thirst, visually distressed by the dryness in his throat. Angelina watched as Joel hopped up the steps of the front stoop and opened the door, the bells hanging from the frame jingling when they were stirred.

Thankfully he didn’t notice anyone else in the deli as he made a b-line to the front counter, rapping the glass with his knuckles in impatience.

Robert Esposito, the owner and manager of the store, came forward from cutting up some ham and smiled at his customer. “How can I help you today, sir?” He was from the Bronx, born and raised, and it showed when he spoke; the accent was thick even though he spent the time to not rush and chop up words like he did when he was younger.

“Something to drink would be nice. Maybe a sub too,” Joel said after glancing at the menu hanging across the wall above the meat counter.

Robert nodded his head and waved his hand over the glass cases. “We’ve got everything fine under the great Italian sun.”

Joel shrugged, rushed out of the urgency to quench his thirst. “Whatever’s been the most popular today without the meat.” He frowned before Robert had the chance to. “I guess this isn’t the best place to say I’m a vegitarian.”

After a warm laugh, Robert merely snapped his fingers and motioned for Mikey to get up from his seat and get back to work. “It’s all right. Just don’t say you’re on one of those Atkins diets like eighty-percent of the people that walk through that door. I’m just itching for the day people start dropping like flies from all that protein and low carbs. Just because it’s very good for business doesn’t mean I’m for it.”

The singer nodded in agreement, his temperament not nearly as awful as it was earlier in the day much to Angelina’s surprise.

“I’ll get right on your sandwich, help yourself to the cooler.” Robert smiled before turning his back to Joel, starting on the man’s late lunch.

Angelina watched nonchalantly as Joel walked across the room to the line of coolers resting against the south wall. He stood in front of them, looking through the glass doors at the many beverages stocked on the metal shelves. Several seconds went by before the rock star opened one of the doors and pulled out a chocolate Yoo-Hoo.

The cap of the glass bottle put up some fight, but eventually the woman witnessed Joel gain accessibility to the drink. Gulping feverishly, liquid heaven cascaded down his dry throat – that would be the last time he ever ate a box of Famous Amos cookies without a refreshment just because he could.

Angelina couldn’t help thinking that he was adorable.

Someone slap her and quickly.

When Joel turned around, Angelina went back to her sandwich. She shot Mikey a panicked looked, trying to urge him with her expression to move his concentration back to his work because he was just standing at the table he had been cleaning up before he went over to Angela’s table, blatantly staring at Joel.

“Fermare!” she whispered. It didn’t work. In fact, it only made Joel notice her faster.

He stopped chugging his chocolate drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching her intently for a few moments. Finally gaining the nerve to walk over to her and strike up a small conversation, he did just that.

“I’m sorry,” Joel said softly.

Angelina turned around in her chair, met his gaze. “About what?”

“Earlier. I’m sorry about earlier, being such a prick to you,” he elaborated. “It’s just that I’ve been having a really crappy week and thought you were snap-a-razzi, only working me up more.”

The woman smiled softly. “I forgive you, it’s understandable.”

Joel returned the smile. “Okay, then…. You can use the pictures. I don’t think the answer I gave you back there was a clear one.” The poor thing was speaking in such a hushed tone. Angelina wondered if he was like this around all women.

“No, it was clear all right, but thank you for telling me again,” Angelina replied. She stood up and fished for something in one of her deep coat pockets, handing the item to Joel when she found it. “My business card, cell phone number on the bottom.”

“Why do I need this?” Joel asked, staring at the piece of card stock like it was about to explode.

“Just in case you change your mind,” she replied as she sat back down. “I’d rather not get sued again.”

The male of the species let out a nervous laugh. “Again?”

Angelina shrugged and muttered something in her mother’s tongue. “How was I suppose to know that the guy was vying for a spot on the PTA? I did him a favor, if you ask me; let the parents know what they were letting into the school or weren’t once they got done with him. Let me tell you something: never look at a little girl like she’s the Holy Virgin just waiting for you to take her.”

Joel nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

“You’re a little far out of your way, aren’t you?” Angelina had looked out of the window, at the car waiting at the curb.

“We have some free time before going over to the Late Show studio.” Joel sighed. “I was hungry and the driver told me they had good food here. But what about you? You’ve gone far since the last time we met.”

Angelina made a hand movement in the direction of Central Park. “I went through the park.”

“Great scenery, I guess.”

“That and the people,” Angelina agreed.

Someone rang the bell sitting by the cash register. Both Angelina and Joel turned their heads to see Robert cleaning his hands on his white apron. “About time,” he said. “I’ve only been trying to get your attention for the past two minutes!”

Face going a deep shade of red, Joel said his apologies to Robert and waved meekly at Angelina. He walked back to the counter and paid for his meal when he was told the price. For a while Joel stood there with his drink in one hand and submarine sandwich in the other, toasted in the oven and smelling like something only a god could make, and debating whether to say anything more to the photographer sitting peacefully at her table by the front windows.

“Angelina,” Robert’s voice penetrated Joel’s thoughts, “Rapidamente, bambina, questa è la vostra occasione grande.” He was pointing to the wall clock, apparently telling her that she was going to be late for something if she didn’t hurry.

As if fire was kissing her heels, Angelina rose to her feet and started toward the front door of the deli, holding onto her camera like it was surgically attached to her neck and the sudden rush she was in pulled at the ghost stitches painfully.

“Arrivederci, Mikey, Roberto!” she called, heading out of the door. “‘Bye, Joel,” she added soon after.

Both Mikey and Robert yelled after her reseeding image: “Buona fortuna!”

Her home being only a few blocks away, Angelina jogged there. She wasn’t going to be that late, but known for being early to almost everything by at least a half hour and then showing up at her meeting with ten minutes to spare didn’t rest well with her.

Normally Angelina didn’t use models for her photographs. On a usual day she’d stay a good deal away in the distance and watch, steal moments in time when the person wasn’t aware it was happening: guaranteed pure emotion and reactions to the world around the subject.

She simply didn’t want to fool around with chances to ruin the moment, so she always created a box around herself and what she was observing, telling herself there were four lines she absolutely could not cross. Altering the potential perfect piece was against the rules, though she had no idea what the punishment for breaking the rules was – most likely the feeling of screwing up something huge which she was going to do if she didn’t get home soon.

Angelina Marino’s home was a loft on the West Side, 173rd Street to be exact. She hated all the money she had, but it was burning holes in all her pockets and bursting out of her savings account. She needed something to lighten up the load a little and her apartment was just that.

The building was being renovated when she first walked by it seven years ago, but now it was a lovely place to live. It was modest in appearance, just like the woman who lived on the fifth floor, with a 24 hour doorman – the man who took most of the shifts was Angelina’s favorite, Willie Goren, who was there on duty now and told her that her models had arrived a few minutes ago – and brick walls. Inside, the treatments to the building put to rest the homely impression one got on first glance.

White marble covered the floors of the lobby, beautiful area rugs placed here and there to reduce the cold rising from the floor. The mail boxes were in the north wall by the front doors, not as many as some other buildings because there was only one loft on each of the ten floors. The elevator was on the west wall, muted steel doors distorting the mirrored reflection in the metal, leading up to the apartments or down to the laundry room and basement. The stairs were on either side of the lobby on the east and west sides.

With the building being only an infant in most of the city’s eyes, the tenants had a chance to be as close as their private personalities allowed. Angelina knew all of them save the new resident that moved in the day before, was dear friends with a few. She didn’t see any of them on her way up to her loft.

Unlike some other people in the building, Angelina’s apartment had no touch of the contemporary style of decoration, fairly apparent given her way of dress. It was filled to the brim with warm colors, soft lines, photographs and paintings by her favorite artists showing off her own manner of work, things to calm the mind and make a person feel safe and relaxed – contemporary furnishings didn’t do that.

Like she had expected the three women she had picked up on her travels were mulling about the hallway of the fifth floor, talking quietly about a play that was being shown in the city with rave reviews.

Three women.

Three drastically different appearances when it came down to the ideal of beauty.

Angelina had had this idea in her mind since she was small and first witnessed the heart-break of a man telling her she was too too for his picture of what a woman should look like, what beauty was. Today was the day she was finally able to put it on a roll of film.

Monica Cain was leaning up against the 5th apartment door, arms crossed over her near flat chest and left leg bent at the hinge, foot planted firmly on the dark green door. This woman had long, brunette hair just like the other two, styled in a loose ponytail. She was laughing at something one of the other female’s had said, her straight white teeth framed by bee stung lips. Monica was feet feet, ten inches tall and teetered on the brink of dying from her weight or lack thereof – or at least it looked like she harbored an eating disorder, for in reality she ate more than a horse.

Francis Oosterhouse, the second model, was standing next to Monica, her green eyes close to blinding. Angelina had never seen Francis’s hair up and today was no different, her brown locks flowed down around her shoulders. Though she was the same height as the women on either side of her, she was in the preferred weight zone.

Last, but not least, Weezie Porter stood with her hands on her hips, her usual way of standing. She completed the picture, at the obese end of the rainbow. With a heart as large as her bulk, Angelina had taken an instant liking to the woman and begged her to help her form this project. Weezie had agreed.

It wasn’t Angelina’s goal to cause any of the women any discomfort with themselves by doing this sitting. She had stated many times that if they didn’t want to do it or even felt the smallest amount of self-esteem drop, Angelina would call it off and never ask them to something like this again. Much to her great shock and joy, the women had no doubts about doing the sitting and had urged Angelina to move up the date. They had also come up with the layout.

They were to stand in line, left to right, lightest to heaviest and wear the same deep red, one-piece bathing suit sized to fit the girls’ needs. Red. The color of passion. All beaming from ear to ear, proud to show off their own unique beauty and damning any man who said they weren’t good enough.

Though this moment made Angelina very happy and shaking with anticipation, Weezie obviously noticed another cause for the photographer’s smile.

“Looks like someone here found herself a man,” she said in her loud yet warm tone of voice. “One she really likes too, only explanation for a grin like that.”

“No, no,” Angelina protested. “I’m just thrilled about today, doing this.”

Weezie laughed, no sign of the breathing that unfortunately shared the name as the alternate version of her birth name. “You tell yourself that, hon, but you’re not fooling me.”
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Götterfunken